First Gentleman with Wilson Orhiunu
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When I walked into the plane, I knew it was going to be one of those days. My mind was alert and going all over the place. The first class passengers were all seated in their opulent surroundings as the economy class passengers trooped in. Some were reading the papers and sipping wine. Some didn’t bother to look up to find out who was walking past; just like the occupants of luxury cars never look at the people walking the streets as they drive past.
It felt like we were taking a short cut to hell using a road that went through heaven. A woman had three children in first class. What gives slim little ones the right to sit on thrones fit for kings? They should have just let us all march in through the ‘servants’ entrance’ at the back of the plane. As I approached my seat 34C I began to say a silent prayer of supplication. I should have held my breath. A sumo wrestler kind-of-a-guy stood up to let me in. On the other side was a weight lifter type. Between them they took the arm rests on either side making an island out of me, but unlike Victoria Island I was surrounded by men with a soap and water phobia. I was forced to lean forward with both my elbows almost in contact. There was no way I could survive in this position for the next five hours. I looked at my knees and shoes the way perplexed people did. I looked up and around and suddenly noticed that only two people sat in the four seat row behind me. I talked to the air hostess and soon obtained my emancipation from curse of the middle man.
In the new seat I could breathe and no longer had anxiety at the thought of eating in a confined space (It is really hard to use a fork and knife with both elbows touching). Like me, the petite lady on my right and the big guy two seats away on my left were all Nigerians. The lady could not read or write while the gentleman spoke fluent German. I had started my first leg of the journey in Birmingham and switched planes in Frankfurt. The lady had travelled in from New York while our German-Igbo guy started his journey here in Frankfurt. I couldn’t call it racism for obvious reasons but when every air hostess walked past our row they saved their biggest smiles for the tri-lingual Igbo guy on my left. They showered him with beer, wine and sandwiches to the point that his abdomen began to touch the seat in front of him. Maybe this was tribalism? Discriminating favourably towards someone with whom you share the same tongue. I was not jealous as I don’t drink wine and don’t aspire to a big stomach.
As the flight progressed we all swapped stories like they do with shirts in the big football games. The guy, like me, was going for a funeral. We exchanged condolences and then joked covertly about my narrow escape from the big guys sitting in the row in front. I went to use the loo and peeped through the curtains that divided passengers into their various classes. Many were working on their tablets and reading. On the way back to my seat I noticed that chewing gum was a popular sport in economy as was sleeping, watching movies and scratching at hair extensions. No one was reading. This was economy land where it is customary to weigh lighter than your hand luggage. You just need to see how passengers attempt to stuff elephants in rabbit’s cages.
I took my seat next to the petite lady and I noticed she promptly put her seat belt on. I explained to her that she could remove the seat belt now till the lights came on for us to wear our belts. She was very appreciative of the information. She reaped the rewards of her humility when the immigration and health questionnaire forms were distributed. Since she could neither read nor write I became her interpreter. She brought out her passport and I proceeded to interview her with dramatic consequences.
“What country did you set off from?”
“Dallas sir”.
“What is your name?”
For confidentiality reasons I wouldn’t mention the ‘hybrid name’ on her passport but be rest assured that in true federal character every geo-political zone was represented in her names.
“Have you had a fever or been in contact with anyone with a fever?”
“I don’t have malaria”
“They are just trying to screen for Ebola”.
“God forbid. Jeezus!” she exclaimed looking at me suspiciously as if she had noticed a resemblance between an evil spirit and I.
“History of participation in a funeral in the last month?”
“Why sir? God forbid an evil thing,” she answered.
When I moved to the cash declaration form and asked if she had thousands of Dollars on her possession to declare she responded with a brisk, “who dash monkey?”
I went to the loo after filing out the forms and peeped into first class. These ones were travelling in real luxury. My mental flight took me to ‘luxurious buses’ in Nigeria. I wondered how those no frills coaches got their name. Those coaches even had a sub-economy sitting plan called ‘attachment’. These were wooden stools that the conductor placed along the aisle for passengers who could not afford a full seat. This represented a side hustle for the bus conductor and the driver. Occupants of the sub-economy seats could not sleep and had no seat belts.
Feeding time convinced me that a rumour had spread that the whole of economy was on a diet. I was hungrier after my meal! I was shocked at the end of the flight when both the first class and economy passengers all landed at the exact same time.
