Homecoming

I had just finished hoisting one of my two bags unto my trolley when the carousel stopped. It just stopped. I wasn't bothered at first, the last time I came back to Lagos was in December, 2008 and it just stopped then too, but started working shortly after. Same flight, same heat, same carousel, same mysterious blue boxes from Julius Berger (a construction/engineering company over here). No worries then, everything will be just fine.

It wasn't. Time in the sauna that is baggage claim in Murtala Mohammed International Airport stood still as we waited. The PA system announced another flight arriving, or maybe it was departing, it's always been so muffled anyway.

One of the airport staff saunters out smiling walking on the dead carousel. He picks his way between the suitcases and opens up the panel that houses the carousel's machinery. He looks into it half-heartedly and shuts it. Either he doesn't really give a damn about us, or the machinery is obviously banjaxed. Either way, we're screwed.

"They say they are coming out on the other Carousel," Someone In the Know says. We all start moving like sheep towards the other carousel, even though it makes no sense. Even though the British Airways passengers are unloading their stuff at the same time, and its already fairly chaotic and it makes no sense to add Lufthansa to the mix, we try as much as possible to get close to the front of the carousel.

I stand there listening to a couple of stockbrokers talk shop. It's been close to an hour since we went through immigration and the hall is still mostly full. No Lufthansa baggage has come through on the BA carousel yet. Perhaps sensible minds prevailed. We still haven't heard an official word as to what is going on, relying on information, Chinese whispered to have any inkling.

"They say they need to unload this carousel first before they move to that one." We move back to our old carousel. Baggage handlers are hauling out boxes that never made it out from the depths of the carousel. I get close enough to hear what is going on. They are planning to call the owners of the bags when they come upon them. There are still a lot of bags and it occurs to me that I could be here all night.

The thought spurs me on and I force my way to the front and there it is among the pile. My trusty blue Samsonite with it's scratches and stickers. "Mr. Blackshirt, that's my bag...excuse me, that's my bag between your legs." The random man almost straddling my suitcase looks at me, then looks at the tag. "It says Phido, it's mine," I say confidently. He nods and pushes it out under the cordon to me.

I load my trolley with a sigh of relief and push of. It is around 7.30. An hour has passed since I got my passport back from the nice lady at immigration. As I sit in the car as we inch forward in Lagos traffic, I think to myself that if anyone had gone away to recharge their batteries and de-stress, it's been all for nought as they've already lost the holiday glow by the time they drive down airport road.