Places-&-Travel

The flight into London was uneventful, the only thing breaking my ear-phones-plugged-in-music-playing routine being an exceptionally friendly gentleman and his wife who I had the misfortune of sitting next to, on one of three adjoining seats. After tossing my knapsack into the overhead locker, I motion for them to make some space for me. He smiles, far too easily and obliges me, as I slither into the seat, somehow managing to do it without entangling my ear phone wires on the various odds and ends he has left on the seat. He is dressed simply; a North Face jacket from which a bland, grey shirt peeks through a half done zipper. I can’t help but notice that the woman on the other hand is much better dressed, the highlight being an eye catching, flowery, brown dress that stops well shy of her knees as she sits, and a full mane of blonde hair. I settle in, toss a mirthless, slit lip grin in their direction and proceed to detangle my ear phone wires. ...

On the morning of the day I am due to fly westward, I wake up late - late being a few minutes before 9.00 am - on a day on which I have an 11.35 am flight to catch with neither a packed bag nor sorted transport for comfort. When I finally pull myself out of my bed, I call a cab for 9.30 am, and beginning tossing clothes, books and my laptop into the grab bag I use for these quick across-the-pond jaunts. ...

It was supposed to be the weekend that banished my 2011 troubles from memory and got me to let my hair down - something I admittedly do not do often enough. There was the small matter of needing to send in my passport to Mama Charlie’s lackeys for an extension to my residence permit, as well as navigating a week of water survival training (given my well documented aversion for large water bodies). ...

Each day - for the past two months and some - when I get off my bus and walk the couple hundred metres to the hole office I work at, I take a left turn off Union, down the dingy stairs via the back roads on to Guild street and then into work. Most days I am plugged into my iPod, listening to whatever catches my fancy on that day, hands in my pocket deep in thought. Nine days out of ten, just before I take the turn I see her - a lone black face bobbing in a sea of browns and whites, wrapped up to the nines waiting for her bus. She can’t be more than 5’-2", usually rocks a ‘fro and dangles her little bag in the tell-tale Nigerian chic ninety-degree arm pose. At first all there was were a couple of furtive glances, followed by the straight face pretending-I-never-took-a-peek look. And then with time, and the familiarity of a shared routine, there was the almost imperceptible nod and the odd mouthed greeting. ...

My memories of previous encounters with Indian cuisine are not exactly fond. The last time - an impromptu appearance at a leaving do for an Indian expat from work - I ended up tossing and turning through the night, tormented both bodily and mentally by masala dosa. Thanks to that, and my well documented lack of adventure when it comes to food, it was my last attempt at eating anything Indian- a full five years ago. ...

… when after finally finding a seat on the packed bus, some odd smell hits your nostrils like a Mike Tyson left hook. It is an odd mix of stale sweat, putrid urine and beer. You look around, wondering what the source might be. When the portly gentleman seated right next to you moves, a fresh salvo assaults your nostrils identifying him as the culprit. Unfortunately, the next stop is a full fifteen minutes away, so you are stuck with ‘savouring’ the smells. ...

I finally went on that road trip. I packed my bags, booked my flights and went on a jaunt to America. America for me was two cities - a flying stop in Chicago and a couple of weeks spent vegetating in Houston. The America I saw was a welcome relief from the biting cold that was my home city; 17 degree temperatures were Lagos-esque when juxtaposed with the near Arctic conditions I had fled from. ...

I never celebrated turning thirty. The significance of achieving that chronological milestone was lost in the hustle of every life - a barely discernible peak in the flat line that had become a monotonous existence. I had just lost a cast iron guarantee to return to my old job in Nigeria followed quickly by the petering out of what I thought was a nice, strong girl connection. One day I fell asleep, the next I awoke to being thirty plus. ...