I remember my first trip to America. It was more than ten years ago, in the summer month of July. It felt like a dream, boarding the plane in Muritala Mohammed airport in Lagos, Nigeria, next stop being JFK International in New York. I kept saying to myself that this couldn’t be real. No way could it possibly be . . . yet it was real. It was happening as I boarded the plane, settled in my seat, and watched the plane taxi off the runway into the midnight sky, leaving my home and Africa behind.
I grabbed the armrest of my seat while looking out the window beside me as we soared higher and higher into the clouds. The crowd in the Economy class section of the plane broke into a cheer, like we were off to an afterparty special event. I would have preferred settling in the Business or First Class section, but you’ve got to have plenty of bread to spare to afford that luxury. In the Economy section, you had to deal with narrow seats, awful leg-room, and pray the fellow seated beside you doesn’t have a mighty elbow. Even worse is whoever that’s beside you isn’t long-legged to be digging into your backside. It was very inconvenient, which is why I prefer having a window seat than sandwiched in the centre aisle. A bad conundrum is knowing how many times you’ll need to get up and go pee in the back; double bad if it’s preoccupied and there’s a long like of folks waiting their turn. You get the picture, don’t you?
The most ingratiating moment consists of listening to children whine, cry, and grumble all through the flight. There were times when I truly contemplated suicide. The good thing was that it didn’t take long for many to start falling asleep. For me, sleep came late. I simply couldn’t force myself to nod off. This was a historic moment for me, and I wasn’t yet done cherishing it.
Our next stop was Charles DeGaulle airport, in France. We deplaned, and then made our way through the airport to another section, where he had hours to burn before boarding our scheduled flight that would take us across the Atlantic. Only then did I allow myself some hours of sleep.
It was dark again by the time we drew closer to America. All I saw was a dazzling panorama of bright, colourful lights that stretched as far as my eyes could see into the horizon. Lights, lights, and more lights. Then we began our descent, and everyone stayed quiet as we taxied down the runway. The room broke into cheering again as the plane slowed to a final stop.
Homeland Security waved me through, and I still had butterflies dancing in my gut as I followed the crowd to claim my baggage, and then I was outside the airport, setting firm foot on American soil. The ride to my friend’s home in Mount Vernon was smooth. I got to take some shots along the way.
Hard to believe that before that day, it had only been a dream I’d whispered to myself about visiting America. That dream had now become a reality. What came afterwards was beyond my imagination.
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