So I spent the summer in Edinburgh with my family. I had a blast, recharged my (metaphorical) batteries and made some beautiful memories with my nearest and dearest. After about six weeks of unemployment, stuffing my face with food, drinking cocktails and beer by the gallon and living in my Dad's house I was, unbelievably, just about ready to resume my residency in Lagos. I was in fact even a little excited about starting my second year. The preparations began and I shopped ridiculously; spending my hard earned cash on everything, from my favourite foods to outfits for every eventuality. I ended up with four bulging cases! I collected more of my favourite books and films. I stocked up on toiletries, candles, bedsheets, towels, shower curtains, washing baskets . . . . . . . the list goes on. I got carried away.
The time came to leave my folks and friends. Instead of the huge entourage I usually have at the airport, this time it was just my Dad and his partner Sylvia. They are truly the sweetest people. My Dad lugged all my cases about the airport, Sylvia waited in the line with me, they 'helped' me check in (because apparently I can't do it myself) and then milled about until it was time for goodbyes. I hate goodbyes. They feel so sad. Even though I'm an old hand at this now I still feel the lump forming in my throat and the aching feeling at the back of my jaw. I managed through security with no tears even though I know my Dad finds it hard and hangs around for a while just in case I change my mind and come running back through the gates, Hollywood style.
Arriving in Lagos and making it through the airport without too much hastle is not an easy thing to achieve. You have to make it down the escalator which doesn't work, you have to wait in a looooooong line of people to have your passport checked by officials, you have to listen to the female personnel shouting at and man handling Nigerians who aren't doing exactly as they're told. You also have to show your passport to many people who are all scanning your papers for the slightest error in the hope they can extort a little cash from you in exchange for not giving you any wahala. If you get through the first lot of security unscathed you then have to face the luggage belts. No signs tell you which belt to stand at so it's really a matter of luck. I find that hovering in the middle of the room and then pouncing from afar is a good strategy. After finding your luggage you have to run the gauntlet of 'security officials' waiting by the exits. They are hungry for fresh meat and home in on expats like flies to shit. Luckily I have not had to open my cases yet (lucky for me as they are usually full of black pudding, haggis and tattie scones). Show a yellow fever card, zoom through the doors your home safe - ish.
This time round I was not lucky. I managed to get through passport control and waited on my luggage as usual but two hours later I was still there, alone and unhappy waiting for my four suitcases filled with my oh so precious belongings. No one helped me. I was told my name wasn't on any magic list from BA to say they had my things and the realisation fell on my head and pushed me to the ground. I wept then, just slightly. One salty trickle of water escaped from my eye and made its way down my face and neck. I was mourning my shower curtains and my outfits and my tattie scones. Horribly it occurred to me how much money I had wasted on it all and how ridiculous I had been to buy a lot of junk that I truly don't need. If I never saw those cases again my life wouldn't end. I wouldn't die just because I had to wear the same pair of pants for a week. My life wouldn't change. I would still be me. I would still be healthy. Poor and smelly but healthy. I realised I am not my possessions I am more than the things I own. I am Laura with or without seventeen pairs of shoes.
So I gave the BA rep my details and left the airport considerably lighter than expected. What a start!
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