The Carousel

Why is my luggage never first?

As we all stepped out of the plane, only one thing was nearly in everyone’s mind — luggage. I tried looking across the other side of the plane as I disembarked. I could see just a little, but that little told the story of men working hard offloading bags of different sizes, weights, and shapes. I could imagine how this task would be without the aid of technology. I descended the stairs, knowing I would not meet my luggage at the carousel. The men were still busy lifting baggage from the belt loader into the baggage tug.

I noticed we would not be alone in the baggage hall as I entered. The hall was small and crowded. I wondered why it was this small, with only two carousels installed. Maybe the government was not expecting utilities to increase beyond two planes arriving at a time. But I have experienced the chaos of four planes arriving on a Friday evening. It was chaotic and typically coated with a lot of Lagos drama. Today should be better with just two planes, I prayed.

The passengers from an earlier flight were there scrabbling to pick their items from the active carousel. There was a cacophony of noise—chatting passengers complaining about the condition of the airport, others mumbling about the slow pace of baggage arrival on the carousel. Amid that, an army of men was trying to sell their trolley movement services. The mechanical noise of ageing bearings beneath the conveying slates was also obvious as they labour under the weight of excess weighted luggage. Then, the heat! Two standing air-conditioning units were working hard to keep the temperature down, but the body heat emanating from people was too much for them to handle.

I was puzzled as I observed fellow passengers trying to find space among those we met in the hall beside the active carousel. When I asked what was happening, I was told the second carousel was not working. It was at this point that I decided to write about this experience. How many times have I experienced this same scenario? It was very similar. The active carousel was already loaded with luggage, and people were all around it trying to drag their bags off at different points—bags of various sizes, shapes and colours.

As more passengers arrived in the hall, the confusion increased. People were trying their best to find their way to the carousel, but the crowd was thick. Trolleys and bags also competing for space. People who had identified their bags were fighting hard to pull them off through the crowd. It was just a chaotic mess. I stood a few feet from the crowd, watching the block of bodies around the carousel in amusement. Then, all of a sudden, the second carousel sprang to life with a mechanical clatter, drawing everyone’s attention. The conveyor belt began its slow, steady rotation.

People quickly gravitated towards that carousel—those we fly together - as if a call was made for us to move over. I could pick the faces. The chaos behind the first carousel started to diffuse and diverge into two. I decided to join the movement, so I picked up pace to get a good spot. From the entrance of the carousel into the building, the first item appeared through the rubber flaps. It was a carton — tapped all around as if the treasures of King Solomon’s mine were in it. By now, the carousel was surrounded by passengers.

The second item was a golf bag. If you have never seen one of these golf bags, you may think it is a carrier for an AK 47 shipped from Russia. I remembered the tall, handsome guy carrying this at the check-in counter; we arrived almost at the same time. As the bag continued its journey on the carousel, I turned to look for the guy. And there he was, trying to make his way to the belt. The bag was almost gone past him when he finally arrived to pick it up. He lifted it with ease and a smile. Now, more bags were on the belt on their way to their owners.

‘Hello, madam! Don't worry; I will help you hold his hand,’ I said, offering to hold her son while she descended the stairs. She was carrying her baby and a hand luggage. I gave her a lot of credit for managing these. The young man was very eager to go down the stairs and meet with his family but an elderly man had gone between us and we had to let him go down first.

‘What is your name?’ I asked him to buy some time.

‘My name is Joshua, ’ he replied excitedly as if he was waiting for me to ask. ‘And my friends call me Anthony Joshua,’ he added as we descended the stairs. The boy was cute, maybe 8 or 9 years old, with loads of energy.

‘Do you know why they call you Anthony Joshua?’

‘Oh, yes! Because of the great boxer, AJ. They believe because of my name, I will be a boxer one day.’ As he was speaking, I tried looking across the other side of the plane to see if our luggage were being offloaded already, but I couldn’t see much.

‘Do you like boxing?’

‘No, I don’t. It is too violent, and my mum won’t even allow us…’

‘Ah, thank you very much, sir.’ Joshua’s mother joined us. She was now wearing the hand luggage as a backpack, with the baby fully settled on her right hand, leaning on her shoulder. She reached out to Joshua with the left. She turned to Joshua, who looked sad at the interruption.

‘And what will you tell Uncle?’ she asked the young man who was reluctant to join her.

‘Thank you, Uncle!’ His voice was low and sad.

‘Excuse me, excuse me! My bag, that is my bag!’ I looked behind me. A lady was tugging through the crowd to the carousel for her bag. She was fighting hard to get space to push her trolley through simultaneously. I could hear people telling her to leave her trolley and go for the bag first, but she was hesitant to let go of it.

‘Is it the black bag?’ I asked

‘Yes, yes!’ She was almost screaming. I lifted the heavy bag off the belt and pushed it over to her. She was right behind me. She looked curiously at the luggage tag and shook her head.

‘No bi my bag.’ She said in pidgin English. I gave her a very disappointing look. Everyone around us who witnessed the drama did as well. I slowly pushed the bag back to the carousel and handed it over to the belt. The air hung heavy with anticipation as we all continued to wait for our bags. Some passengers — the lucky ones — were carrying off their luggage already. The belt was full now, and I noticed a few bags that had made the round several times and wondered where their owners were. Maybe they are unaccompanied, I concluded.

I continuously scanned the carousel for my bag, watching intensely as suitcase after suitcase passed. It was a sea of black, red, grey, and blue bags with different designs and construction. The suitcases, sometimes intercepted by packages and Ghana-Must-Go bags wrapped so profoundly to secure the content inside. A weary throng of passengers still shuffling around the belt, with their eyes clued to the slow-churring carousel as the content started reducing.

‘Uncle, uncle!’ It was Joshua, tapping my leg with his hand. His soft voice brought a smile to my face.

‘Uncle, we are leaving!’ I looked down the hall for his mother. She was there with a grin. She waved at me as I turned. Joshua must have insisted on saying his farewell, I could tell. I waved back.

‘Okay, Joshua. Have a great day, and be a good boy!’ I felt like kissing his cheek, but this was Nigeria, so I stopped. He was such a sweet child. The crowd had reduced significantly. I was anxious now and curious. I am not always lucky to be among the first to get their bags. Even the ‘mischievous’ lady who made me lift the heavy bag in error had collected hers and left. I watched as people wrestled to lift off their luggage, and one after the other had exited the hall. And just as it all started unannounced, the carousel made a chunky sound and came to a halt.

Shocked and dazed, my gaze slowly left the machinery to others still around it. There were five of us left. The lady at the adjacent corner had her hand on her mouth. We were all confused as the message began to sink in — our bags did not make it. My thoughts went everywhere! This was just the first leg of my trip. My clothes, toiletries, some documents… I didn't have the processing power to think of my next steps, so I stood and just stared at the machine. I could see the other passengers conversing on the other side, everyone confused as to what to do next.

‘Hello, hello!’ We all turned anxiously at the young man who had just entered the hall. It was relieving and reassuring to see he was an airport staff.

‘Please, the conveyor just developed a fault, so we had to stop it. Please come over here for your luggage!’

This felt like the best news I received in the year! I had a flush of hope and life restored. We all followed him like babies running after their mothers for food. As we turned the corner, from a short distance, I could see my bag—a flash of yellow and black. It was standing gallantly like a soldier who had just won a battle. Relief washed over me like a wave. And when I stood in front of it, I felt like hugging it- but it was just a bag and wouldn't understand, so I pulled the handle up, tilted it over and gave it a tug!

Hey! Thanks for reading about my lived experience at the airport. If you have been faced with a similar one, please share your experience with me in the comment section. And please show your appreciation for this article by clapping as many times as you can.