Issue 39: Fourteen Years, Lost at Sea

On the airplane, the man seated beside me had a distinct scent. I’ve carefully chosen the word ‘scent’ and not ‘smell’ because it wasn’t unpleasant, just distinct—different enough to make me guess he might be Indian. It wasn’t only the scent that led me to this conclusion; his hair was black and shiny, as though overdone with gel.

Before the flight started, when I got on the airplane, he was already seated in the middle, busy with his phone. He had to stand up to let me into my window seat.

We started the flight in silence, no fault of anyone really. After all, this was my first flight ever, and I was not only following every rule I could, but I was also self-conscious. Something made me feel as if there was a “first-time flyer” sign plastered on my forehead. The moment I walked onto the plane, it felt like everyone was watching, though I knew no one was. I took my iPad out of my backpack, along with my rather huge power bank, and placed them on my seat. Then I carefully put my backpack in the overhead compartment, making sure it didn’t fall because a sign warned, “Please place your luggage carefully in the overhead compartment to avoid a fall. Safe travels from Qatar Airways.” So I obeyed.

While doing this, all I could think about was how many times I’d seen this happen in movies. Movie characters jump on flights like we hop on buses, hurriedly throwing their luggage into the overhead compartment without a second thought, not even reading the instructions. But there I was, reading every single word. In that moment, I realised how merely seeing something over and over can make you feel like you know how it’s done—until you actually do it.

I secured my backpack above and took my seat. The man—whom I would later discover to be Indian—stood up and let me through. I settled into my window seat and looked out. I’d never been to this part of the airport before. In fact, this was only my third time ever at an airport. The first time was to say goodbye to a friend heading to Law School in Kano. The second time, another friend was travelling to Canada. That was my first time at the international section of the airport—to say goodbye.

Now, on my third visit to an airport, my second time at the international terminal, and my first time on a plane, I looked out the window and smiled quietly. This is happening.

Soon, we were up in the air. There was a lady seated at the end of our row. Halfway through the flight, while I was watching Industry on my iPad, I noticed the Indian man and the lady talking with wide smiles. She was watching a movie on the small seat TV, and they were chatting about it, laughing and pointing at the screen. A part of me felt left out. I also wanted to talk to someone, to be part of the conversation, to feel included. Whatever it was that made them smile so brightly, I wanted in. Inwardly, I screamed Choose me! But outwardly, I had my headset on and kept my eyes on Industry, watching one of the characters work themselves to death—literally.

When breakfast was being served, I had to remove my headset to hear the available options. I opted for tomato rice and some other things I can’t quite remember. The lady at the end of our row asked for a glass of red wine. My Indian seatmate did the same. Then he turned to me:

You don’t drink? he asked, more out of confusion than curiosity.

I do, but I’m not a fan of red wine. White for me.

Oh, try the red. Sweet. Trust me, he said. I nodded and then he turned to see if there was more wine left. He pointed to me and told the hostess, Red wine, please.

She looked at me, and I nodded. Then she handed me a glass of red wine.

Thank you, I said to the man.

So you drink, he said. You drink with all of us.

He tapped the lady at the end of the row, and together, we clinked glasses and said cheers.

Where are you going? I asked him, assuming his final destination couldn’t possibly be Doha.

Home, my brother, home, he replied.

Where’s that?

India. Going back after fourteen years.

You’ve been away for fourteen years?

Yes. Been here in Lagos, working.

That’s a long time.

Yes, it is. I’ve been to other countries but never back home. How many countries have you been to?

Not many. Only Togo and Benin Republic.

Neighbours, he said.

I smiled. Yes, neighbours.

You should go to Georgia.

Oh really?

Yes, yes. I’ve been to Morocco, Paris—he mentioned a few other countries I can’t remember—but Georgia, that’s the one you should go to.

I’m going to London from Doha.

Oh, good. You see, close, close.

Yes, yes. I’ll visit someday.

He smiled and turned back to his TV.

I looked at the lady and asked, Where are you going?

Doha.

Like your final destination?

Yes.

Oh, good. What do you do in Doha?

I cook. I run a business there.

I once read a tweet that said, everywhere you go in the world, you will find Nigerians.

We talked for a little while, the three of us. I mentioned that this was the farthest I’d ever be from home, and I didn’t know when I’d be going back. The Indian man told me to return often, not to wait fourteen years. We laughed at the joke. After that, everyone went back to what they were doing. The lady resumed her movie, the man started scrolling through the movies on his screen, and I picked up my phone and typed in my notes:

How do you end a conversation on a plane?

You don’t. It ends itself.

Throughout the rest of the flight from Lagos to Doha, I kept thinking about it: fourteen years. What does it look like to be away for that long? When you leave home for over a decade, what do you return to? What is waiting for you? Who is waiting for you?

And what struck me most was that he had left home for Lagos, for work. Even while based in Lagos, he had travelled to a few other countries but just couldn’t make it back home. Why? That, I may never know. It reminds me of stories of sailors lost at sea, decades away from home, with families waiting, unsure whether their loved ones would ever return. Is he alive? Is he sick? Is he lost? Some may never know.

Every day, people move—from one town to another, one city to another, one country to another, even from one continent to another. All in search of one thing: a better life. More money, more peace, more quiet, more noise. Just more. Just better.

We landed in Doha around 11 p.m. The Indian man said goodbye as he stood up from his seat. The lady with the cooking business smiled and waved. Outside the window, Doha lit up before my eyes—the first airport I’d ever landed at outside my birth country. What a sight!

As I stepped off the plane, I opened my family WhatsApp group and typed, "I’m in Doha now."

Very soon, my mother would reply, "Hallelujah. Thanks be to God."

Now, I’m about to set aside the life I’ve known for the past two decades, to build something of my own against all odds, and make sure, like the Indian man said, that I don’t let fourteen years slip by before I do what needs to be done: return home.

In the meantime, I’ll hold on to what matters now. Hallelujah. Thanks be to God.

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I’ve been away for so long. This here is one of the reasons for that. Trying to get back now because I now have a lot of long form thoughts to share and I can think of no better place to do that than here.

Drop comments let me know your thought on what it feels to be lost at sea. I want to connect with everyone again ☺️

Okay bye bye now. 🫂