Passenger.

Photo by Sugath on Unsplash.

Murtala Mohammed International Airport greeted me with its familiar pungent odor as I returned after a year and a half.

The queue ahead seemed endless, and the air was filled with fellow travelers’, complaints, echoing my own sentiments about the airport’s conditions. However, I remained silent, lost in my thoughts.

The fight we had a month ago had pushed me to the breaking point, driving me to this airport where I had been waiting in line for over an hour.

When I informed him via text that I was coming back home, his response was a simple “okay.”

I was furious. I was about to make a significant sacrifice, leaving behind a promising career that had eluded me in Nigeria.

I vividly remembered the struggles I had faced to secure a job after NYSC, and finally landing a position at a prestigious law firm in Ikoyi, only to be overworked, underpaid, and devoid of job security or benefits.

Yet, his response showed nothing but indifference towards my decision to abandon the life I had been building there.

I wanted to call him and express my frustration, but my friend Tinu, who happened to be with me when I sent the text, took my phone away, insisting that a call would only lead to more shouting without any resolution.

“No matter how meticulously we plan, life has its own agenda. Unfortunately, that’s just how it is. Many times, I feel like a mere passenger on life’s plane, and I’m sure I’m not alone. We have this illusion of control, but that’s all it is—an illusion,” Tinu empathetically remarked while folding my black knitted sweater.

She understood the weight of love and commitment, and what they could do to a person.

“I guess life is calling you to be a passenger back to Nigeria—away from your dreams,” she concluded.

I wept bitterly as I packed my belongings.

As I stood in line, the man in front of me asked, “Where are you flying from?” as he reached for my Nigerian passport.

His question instantly infuriated me, but I suppressed my anger. It wasn’t his fault.

I was resentful because, in the few hours I had spent at the airport, regret had already started seeping into my thoughts.

It felt like I was leaving behind the life I had envisioned. Who leaves a secure job at PWC for the uncertainties of a country many are trying to leave?

“UK,” I replied, my voice tinged with frustration.

“Ah, that’s nice. You must have some of that pounds to bless us with,” he said in a thick Yoruba accent.

I took a good look at him. He was a short sturdy man with tribal marks on both sides of his light skinned face.

He looked like he was suffocating in the obviously tight cream coloured immigration uniform.

When I didn’t respond to his comment, he nudged with another one. “Tosin,” he read out my name. “We collect naira too o, so help a brother,” he continued as he handed my passport back to me.

“Oga, no vex but I no hold anything,” I said in pidgin through a forced half smile.

After what felt like an eternity, I finally retrieved my luggage, declining offers of assistance or the use of someone’s phone.

Stepping out of the air-conditioned airport, I was met with a jolt of intense heat.

Scanning the crowd, I found him, searching for me.

For a moment, I observed him, reminiscing about our last fight. The phone call had begun with him expressing how much he missed me and how alone he felt.

I assured him of my longing to be reunited, expecting a pleasant conversation to follow. Instead, he erupted like an uncontrollable explosion.

“You were supposed to get your Master’s degree and return home, Tosin. How could you expect me to leave my secure job at Chevron and start anew in the UK? This wasn’t part of the plan. If I had known about this plan, I would never have let you go,” he uttered in his deep voice—a voice I ordinarily loved but hated during arguments because it easily overpowered my softer tone.

“Let me go?” I retorted, raising my voice. “I am not your property for you to allow me to go.”

“You are my wife!” he exclaimed. “I refuse to join the millions of Nigerians that are on the Japa train.”

“Many couples live in separate locations now,” I softly replied.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, he stated, “Come home, or this marriage is over.”

That was the last time we spoke. Now, as I spotted him searching for me, a mix of emotions washed over me.

I loved him—oh, how I loved him. Yet, I couldn’t help but question, amidst these recurring fights, whether our marriage had been a mistake.

Had it confined me in ways that my independent single life never would have?

Taking a deep breath, I started walking towards him, calling out his name.

His face lit up when he saw me, and he enveloped me in a tight embrace. In that moment, all the doubts and frustrations seemed to melt away.

I felt I could find the strength to forge a new path in Nigeria. What mattered was that I had him and that was enough. I needed it to be enough.