When the Journey Home Becomes the Story: My Nigerian Odyssey

They say you can’t go home again, but nobody warns you about what happens when you try to leave.

My trip to Nigeria was supposed to be a simple family visit: reconnecting with siblings, catching up with relatives, and indulging in the food I’d been craving for months. And for the most part, it delivered on those promises. The jollof rice alone made the sweltering 90-degree heat and endless Lagos traffic bearable. Spending quality time with my siblings reminded me why family matters, even when you’re melting in humidity and stuck bumper-to-bumper on Third Mainland Bridge.

The highlight was the visit to Babcock University after dropping my younger brother back to campus. He’d come home specifically for my visit, and seeing his world (his campus, his friends, the place he’s building his future) added a layer of meaning to the trip I hadn’t anticipated.

When Everything Goes Wrong

But then came the journey back to the airport. That’s when my Nigerian adventure transformed into something out of a fever dream.

It started innocently enough. The family driver was taking me to catch my flight when we were pulled over by the Nigerian police for driving on the wrong road. I figured it would be a quick interaction, maybe a fine, perhaps just a warning. Then they demanded 300,000 naira. Before I could even process that amount, what happened next still makes my heart race when I think about it.

Before I could process what was happening, someone jumped into the driver’s seat and drove off with me still in the back seat. Alone. No driver. No brother. Just me and a stranger who had essentially hijacked the car with me inside.

My survival instincts kicked in immediately. I told him in no uncertain terms that this was attempted kidnapping and that I was recording everything. His response? He scolded me for not getting out of the car with the driver and my brother when we were stopped. As if that had been obvious protocol. As if I should have known.

For ten excruciating minutes, he drove while I sat there, trying to stay calm, phone in hand, recording and praying. Finally, he turned around and drove back to where he’d left everyone else. When he dropped me off, I found myself standing on the side of the road at 8 PM with just my brother and my luggage in the middle of nowhere.

Out of the Frying Pan

Trying to get an Uber ride felt like an eternity. Thirty minutes of refreshing the app, watching cars appear and disappear, my flight departure time creeping closer. When a driver finally accepted, I whispered a silent prayer of gratitude. Thank you, Lord. Surely this is the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Ten minutes from the airport (ten minutes!), we were stopped at a military checkpoint. The reason? My brother, sitting in the passenger seat, had been on a phone call. Apparently, making calls at military checkpoints is prohibited. When I pointed out that he wasn’t the driver, they dismissed my logic entirely. Their solution was simple: pay them, or my brother stays while I go to the airport alone.

I wasn’t about to leave my brother on the side of the road with the military at night. Not in Nigeria. Not anywhere. Trust issues don’t begin to cover what I feel about these situations. So I did what I had to do: transferred money to their account, and we were finally released. By this point, I was running dangerously late for my flight.

The Final Insult

We burst into the airport, adrenaline still pumping, relieved to have made it through what felt like an obstacle course designed by someone with a cruel sense of humor. I rushed through security and found my seat on the plane, ready to collapse.

Then someone tried to take my seat, not by accident. They knew it was assigned to me. They just didn’t care. No apology. No acknowledgment. Just entitlement.

After everything I’d been through that night, I didn’t have the energy to fight. I just stared at them, exhausted, and reclaimed what was mine.

Reflections at 30,000 Feet

As the plane finally lifted off Nigerian soil, I sat back and tried to process the previous few hours. The Nigeria I love (the one with the incredible food, the warm family connections, the vibrant energy) exists alongside the Nigeria that tests your patience, your courage, and your faith in humanity.

Would I go back? Absolutely. Family is worth it. The food is worth it. The connection to my roots is worth it.

But next time, I’m budgeting extra time for the airport. And maybe investing in a good therapist for when I return.