The Gateway to Africa
From JFK to Accra
Before Malcolm, Victor, and I checked in our bags with Arik Air (Nigeria’s national airline), we were warned that having car parts in our checked luggage would not be permissible. So if you’re trying to sneak a few mufflers into Nigeria, putting them in your carry-on is the way to go. And apparently, car-part smuggling is a major issue there.
For us, a more pressing concern was the number of screaming babies on our 10-hour flight. Don’t get me wrong—being an older brother to two unbelievably cute sisters has taught me to love young children, but spending four years at Princeton has taught me to love sleep more. Of particular note was a pair of three-year-old twin boys traveling with their mother and uncle, who I had initially assumed was the father. The two twins must have noticed my ignorance, because they would periodically remind us of their relation to him by shouting out “Uncle!” repeatedly at the top of their little lungs. I admired the kids, really, because they were absolutely relentless in their quest to escape the confines of their seat. It really takes a lot of coordination for a toddler to maneuver Houdini-like out of his seat belt while also wailing at the top of his lungs.
This whole thing would have been dealt with swiftly by any other family, but in our case, the mother was always nowhere to be found when the little tykes were their loudest. To add insult to injury, Victor claimed that the mother had also unabashedly cut him in the bathroom line. It’s no surprise that while I saw the kids as being energetic and overflowing with curiosity, Victor simply remarked that they needed a solid spanking.
When our flight from JFK finally touched down in Nigeria, the plane exploded in applause. One particularly joyful lady cried out, “Thank you Jesus!” presumably because she was sitting right behind the terrible twins. I was ready to lift my hands in praise too, but that was before I learned that the twins would be with us for our connecting flight to Accra.
Lagos, the most populous city in Nigeria, is pronounced LAY-goes, like a Texan talking about miniature plastic bricks. And the Lagos airport, named after Murtala Muhammed, a revered former military head of state, is spectacularly small and dingy, especially at five o’clock in the morning. The entire international terminal consists of one very dimly lit corridor, with a departure gate situated every 20 feet. The sides of the short hallway are lined with yellow metal seats (blue cushions for padding), and the entire place has just one item of decoration, a small metal wall sculpture. The last time Victor had passed through the airport, it was completely flooded.
Our wonderfully successful voyage to Accra was made possible by two aeronautical heroes. They don’t quite compare to Captain Sully of Hudson River fame or the passengers who overpowered the hijackers on United Flight 93, but these two men of Arik Air Flight 300 were heroes in my book. Hero #1, a dark skinned man with a power-pink duffle and baggy cargo pants, came to the rescue when our flight out of Lagos was delayed by more than two hours without explanation. At the time, the attendants managing the flight were walking back and forth through the grimy glass doors that we were all waiting in front of. Pink-duffle man suddenly decides that he’s had enough and pushes the doors open to address the attendants. The male attendant turns to ask our hero what his concern is. Then the attendant immediately regrets asking, because pink-duffle man has started to give him a tongue-lashing.
“You have NO RESPECT. We have been standing out here for hours, and you don’t even tell us why. This is going to be on the news, is that what you want? You will be out of business before you even know it.”
At this point, the male attendant started to push back, so a female attendant joined the fray and tried a more conciliatory and apologetic approach. This did not work.
“Don’t say sorry TO ME. Say sorry to all your paying customers waiting out there! Customers who will never fly on Arik Air again.”
The flight attendant turned her head to look past her assailant into the hallway behind him. We, the supposedly angry paying customers, stared back with dead, bleary eyes. On the inside, I was cheering for the guy, but most of my energy was dedicated to maintaining my gross motors skills. Eventually, the crew ushered us past the glass doors, collected our boarding passes, and then made us wait another hour in a slightly different setting, this time with no seats. A true victory.
I am proud to say that I was very close to Hero #2, a guy in light-grey business casual with skin the color of coffee with excess cream. We didn’t have a heart-to-heart or anything, but he did sit next to me on our flight to Accra. Sitting behind us were my two new best friends, terrible twin #1 and terrible twin #2. Shortly after departing, the twins were at it again, but this time, their cries were heard by a plane full of tired, cranky passengers who were nearing the end of their patience. After a while, Hero #2 turns to the mother and barks, “Could you please quiet down your children?”
She obviously takes offense, and the uncle joins in to defend their precious offspring. “They are just children, they don’t know what they are doing. Remember that you too used to be a child who knew nothing.”
“At least when I was a child, I knew to keep my mouth shut. You need to control your children! They have been screaming non-stop for this entire flight.”
“There is nothing we can do. They are kids, and kids will do what they want to do.”
Then, Hero #2 uttered the magic line—a line that will live on forever in the refrains of epic poems and the songs of madrigals: “If you don’t know how to have children, then don’t have them at all!”
The uncle becomes livid and starts to retaliate in full force. “Just wait till we get to Accra! Then you and I can have a little talk together. Outside.”
“Oh ho ho! The son learns from the uncle. No wonder they are so spoiled and unruly.”
At this point, the grown men have started to make infinitely more noise than the twins had ever made, so the other passengers shut down the altercation. “Please,” one of them begged, “we only have 45 minutes left on this plane before we can all leave.”
Everything quieted down after that. The uncle proved to be quite capable of mollifying his nephews once he put a little effort into it, and I quickly fell asleep with a smile on my face. Ghana was indeed only 45 minutes away, and I was ready for its jollof rice and potholed streets to greet me.
