6am after snatched sleep on the plane, trying to keep my wits about me as I go through immigration with my new visa. Why do I have an Igbo surname? The guards are happy with my answer, pleased with the idea I have a Nigerian husband - 'welcome to your home, you are home now!'
There's a buzz of activity around the luggage trolleys, payment is required. I only have dollars, 'pay with what you have' they say. Any change for my 5 dollars? No of course not, it's miraculously the amount that is required (not true, it's more than double I work out later - but hey, I really needed a trolley).
The luggage is out on the carousel, I can just about see it going round through the three person deep ring of passengers around the belt. 'Be brave and wade in' says a voice in my ear, the man who had been sitting next to me on the flight. Spotting my bags I take a deep breath, stop thinking about it and pull out my best West African phrase 'sorry sorry' as I push through the crowd. In some Herculean show of strength I manage to pluck all three of my bags off in one go. What are the odds of them all being on the belt in a line, when one of the bags had been dropped off at the out-sized luggage point?
Getting out, politely declining all offers of help to push my trolley, I spot my driver. 'I was expecting a black lady' he laughs, and off we go.
