“Welcome to Murtala Muhammed Airport,” the banner read. I joined the throng of weary passengers heading to customs clearance after our 12-hour flight from Atlanta. I was tired but energized at the same time. I couldn’t wait to explore Lagos, to find my dad, to get to know him, to be family again. But first, I needed the john. Should I pick up my suitcase first or use restroom first or pick up my suitcase?

“You’re waiting for your luggage, yeah?” a lady asked in the crisp, British accent of public school. She was dressed in a cream halter top and red slacks. She wore lipstick that matched her pants and her opal eyes were rimmed by thick lashes. How could she be so well-groomed post-flight? Perhaps her flight wasn’t the 12-hour drain mine was.

“Yes, where are you coming from, London?” I smoothed a hand over my t-shirt. I should have used the restroom before disembarking though it was already a stinking mess by midnight.

The luggage carousel powered on with a loud rattling noise. I hope it doesn’t break before my suitcase comes out. “Birmingham, really.” She keeps one eye on the luggage carousel. She moves forward to check a red suitcase with a handle festooned with different Ankara strips.  It wasn’t hers. A couple in andco tugged it off the carousel a few bodies past us. They glared back at us. I shrugged. Anyone can mistake one black suitcase for another.

“My camera’s been stolen!” A guy swore fluently. He poked at the slit at the top of his suitcase where an enterprising thief must have ferreted out his camera. The grey suitcase was untampered with including the padlock threaded through the zip ends.

“What rotten luck!” Lola commented. Rotten luck? How British, I thought, the guy had the right word for such a travesty against his personal property.

I needed to go badly but my mother had raised me to help damsels in distress. My suitcase had come; hers hadn’t. I debated whether to saunter off uncaring or to help a damsel out. Then I thought, why not come back to sort her out. “I’ll be right back.” I hurried to the bathroom to avoid major embarrassment.

Five minutes later, the carousel was still going, people were hauling their luggage, families reuniting. Lola was nowhere. Perhaps her suitcase arrived, and she backed away from the carousel, I thought looking around.

Perhaps she left my suitcase by the carousel when her family arrived to pick her up. I began checking each back both on and off the conveyor belt. “Looking for something to steal, abi? Ole!” the couple in matching ankara, snarled.

(pre-story to Adventures of Lagos Boy)