Two days before departure, I started the anti-malaria drug Malarone, which as promised delivered nausea. Needs must. I didn’t want to be lunch for potentially malarial mosquitos.

Wednesday 14^th June – travel to Lagos

Our flight to Nigeria was in two stages. At 8.50am we boarded our Air France flight to Paris Charles de Gaulle. The flight was short and non-eventful. We had a three hour wait in France before our onward flight to Muhammed Murtala International Airport in Lagos which was scheduled for take-off at 15.15. Time for a café-au-lait. I wish at this point to raise a glass to French customer service. At the coffee counter there was nobody present. I saw the coffee machine which was accessible to me. It must be self-service I logically thought. The barista who’d been chatting with a friend nearby swooped in instantly yelling at me to get out. I took my cup and moved to the till to where he’d directed me. There was no cashier. It must be self-service I thought, once again, and moved in front of the screen to pay. The shriek let out by the same barista when he saw what I was doing was bloodcurdling. I have no idea why – I was only sparing him the effort he clearly didn’t want to make.

Take off was delayed by an hour because of delays in boarding the flight, meaning we set off at 16.20. I had pre-booked the ‘diabetic meal’ as my food option which Air France allows you to select when making your booking. It was a salmon dish and it tasted like disappointment. ‘Mrs. Harris goes to Paris’ was the film I watched en route.

Landing at Lagos at 21.20 we passed through a temperature check and received an ‘Entrance to the country’ form asking for names, addresses etc. Then it was on to passport control where our visas were checked by three separate government officials; our fingerprints and a photograph were taken. We were now officially in the country. I had been advised that many airport staff members would offer to assist me – not entirely out of the goodness of their heart but in exchange for financial remuneration. We walked over to the baggage carousel accompanied by four eager airport staff. All the Air France bags had been removed from the carousel and placed on the floor nearby. An airport employee wearing a ‘MySun Cleaning’ t-shirt (who told me that he was actually airport security) found my bag for me – I appreciated him with the sum of five dollars (which we’d been told by T was the going rate). My sister’s bag was nowhere to be found. We had no idea if it was there or not. The area surrounding the carousel was chaos with hundreds of passengers searching for luggage and helpful employees trying to assist. After about an hour searching we concluded it had not arrived from Paris. This was a problem. As part of a Yoruban wedding tradition the groom’s family bring gifts to the bride’s family. Thankfully we had split the gifts between us both, in both our hand and checked baggage. This was not a catastrophe but was not optimal. There was only one person manning the Air France baggage desk and about fifty passengers’ bags hadn’t arrived. Eventually she was able to get confirmation that her bag was still in Paris and would be sent on. No indication offered about when she could expect it though.

We exited the airport, turned left and walked along the footpath beside the grassy verge. Many men offered us taxis or foreign exchange. ‘No thank you’ was my friendly and repeated response. Eventually we located my brother D at the entrance to the car park. He was in company. Beside him stood a policemen in a grey camouflage uniform, and a machine gun.

‘What’s the story with the gun?’ I asked my brother nervously.

‘He’s been with me since I arrived. He was part of the S.P.U. The Special Protection Unit (S.P.U.) is a unit of the Nigerian Police Force that provides security for high-risk persons. This felt a little extreme to my mind. It wasn’t my place to judge however so I smiled at him, got into the car and we drove to the Colossus Hotel near the airport – a pleasant hotel from where we would travel north to Ibadan the next day for the festivities to begin.

Thursday 15^th June – Ibadan
After a tasty buffet breakfast we stood outside the hotel entrance waiting for our driver. We were approached by a plainclothes, well-dressed man who introduced himself as Michael. He was the leader of the team of the Department of State Services (DSS) who had been assigned to my sister and I for the duration of our stay. Beside him stood his colleague – a sullen faced woman with a machine gun. The DSS is the Nigerian Secret Service. Its main responsibilities include counter-intelligence, internal security, counter-terrorism, and surveillance, the protection of visiting heads of states and governments with their respective families. My brother is unelected. Our importance in the world of politics may have been slightly overestimated?

We boarded the SUV with the darkened windows. I watched our armed SPU bodyguard get comfortable with the driver in the front. Ours was the first in a convoy of five such vehicles to be travelling to Ibadan, tail ended by a police car. I was feeling discombobulated. It is an odd feeling to drive through red lights thanks to the police escort with the blaring sirens accompanying our convoy, clearing the way for us, for the entire journey. Traffic in Lagos (and Ibadan) is confusing.

‘This is quite dramatic?’ I said to my brother upon arrival at the Damjay Hotel in Ibadan (this was also his first time in Nigeria.)

‘Indeed’ was his deadpan response. I felt slightly faint.

Thursday was a relaxing day spent in the hotel where we received the traditional Yoruban outfits for each of the events that were to occur over the following days. A few minor adjustments made and we were ready. The beautiful garments had been locally made, based on measurements we had provided to T some months earlier. They were waiting for us in the hotel. The itinerary was packed. On Friday C and I were to be formally introduced to T’s parents. We were standing in as D’s parents as our actual parents could not travel. The introduction was to be followed by the formal engagement party, after which the wedding ceremony was to take place and finally the reception. In normal circumstances these events would take placed months apart but for logistics purposes were being combined because of time constraints.

Continued at the link https://midnightmurphy.com/2023/06/22/nigerian-wedding-chapter-2/