I’d dreamt a pageant like this met me at the airport. I’d descend from the airplane, to a drumroll. Acrobats would flip crazily in the air. Maidens would shake and gyrate in celebration. Once my feet touched the soil, the dancers would part to reveal a petal-strewn pathway. At the end of it, my father, Joseph Abiola Bello, Esquire, in full agbada regalia and royal beads arms outstretched. “My son, welcome home!”

Perhaps a bit over the top, but who’s to say? The return of the son of a prominent lawyer may call for a parade? Anyhow, I neither got the parade nor the prominent lawyer. Over a month in Nigeria, I am yet to find my father and the closest I’ve come to a welcome home parade is this street dance.

I love Lagos. You could stumble on a party by just walking down the street. This one looked like an impromptu dance session. Boy Wonder’s music was blaring from speakers in an electronics shop. In front of the shop was circle of onlookers. At its center was Afro Freeze, a major dance maestro. He’d execute some spectacular moves. The crowd would hail. Then he’d point at two or three bystanders to come into the ring to strut their stuff. It might be an audition for an artiste, I thought.

He pointed in my direction, but before I could, a kid jumped into the circle. He did some jack knifes and switched smoothly into shaku-shaku. He was good, but I could beat him. I can dance. I can really dance. In fact, I’d been in two dance videos before Mom put the brakes on my moves in Atlanta.

Afro Freeze pointed to my right and a girl in booty shorts jumped into the circle. Either a part of Freeze’s posse or she came prepared to show out. As she left, I noticed a skinny dude slip his hand into a lady’s purse and pull out her cell phone.

Without thinking, I started chasing the thief. I’d lost two cell phones to such pickpockets and knew how hurtful it is. The little felon was only a couple of steps away. He wore a bright green shirt and red shorts. I followed the neon shirt darting in and out of the crowd. He stopped between two hefty guys who looked like they might be Afro Freeze’s bodyguards.

I squeezed between the tightly packed crowd to stand right behind the boy. “Gotcha!” I laid a firm hand on the little thief’s shoulder.

“Oga, I say I no dey do? Na by force?” The boy tried to wriggle out of my hold.

“You thief. Return the cell phone you stole!” I demanded.

“I no dey steal for una again, I don born again.” The slippery thief appealed to the hefty guys. They looked at me.

“He stole a phone from a lady down there. I saw him!” I explained to them. They looked at me and then at the boy. We were creating a diversion from the dance but because of the noise from the speakers, only those close to the drama noticed. The little thief began weeping.

“I swear, I no be thief,” he sniveled. “He say make I thief for am. I say I no dey thief again. He come dey chase me o!”

“Liar! I really saw him steal that lady’s phone.” I pointed in the direction of the victim. “Check his pockets.”

The boy pulled out his clean pockets wailing, “If no to say my mama don die, who go call me thief? My mama o”!”

The goons rounded on me. I started to back off. There was no point telling the truth when no one cared. A beefy hand cuffed my head. I saw stars. At the same time, the other goon kicked me in the shins. I bowed to clutch my leg.

I stumbled, trying to escape the blows. People moved out of my way not wanting to catch my fall. Suddenly, Afro Freeze, pointed at me, “I see you can’t wait to get on the dance floor. Come on out!”

I limped out, clutching my head, and stepping gingerly. “My dance” was a cross between stanky leg and a limping lurch. I”d barely done one lap around the circle when some guys started copying my moves.

“You’re a natural star!” Freeze boomed. “Give your phone number to my manager.”