Before the plane left Lagos, the writer must have

  When I set out for London, little did I suspect that I was not on a journey to God’s own city where harmony reigned supreme. So used to the frenzied life of Lagos was I that I had come to associate that city with everything that was chaotic, and there was no doubt in my mind that Lagos was one giant symbol of our backwardness. As the plane taxied its way out of the tarmac of our national airport, of our national airport, I heaved a sigh of relief, not so much because I was leaving my own country as that I was being relieved of the tension that had possessed me during those tense hours in the untidy lounge. I had felt so uneasy, my thoughts racing from one uncertainty to another. But at least I was air-borne, moving away from the whole uncertainty, from the whole load of fear towards a place which I supposed would be El Dorado.

  Everything that happened in the plane passed through my eyes like pictures on the screen. The white air hostess who instructed me on how to use the safety belt was an angel, what with her beauty, her pretty blue dress, and her ever-smiling face. The same lady of the air served me snacks and supper. Another angel, whose queenly voice through an invisible public address system, dished out occasional information on the progress of our journey. I had never felt so relaxed, and my jolted heartbeats each time the plane took what appeared like a sudden brief descent, did not matter. When eventually we were set for landing, the anxiety that came over me was almost thrilling. What was the wonderland going to be like? So overwhelmed was I that I almost lost consciousness of what happened thereafter.

  But I would never forget the shock that greeted me when we arrived in the tube station and boarded a train to behold the sea of white faces and furtive glances from apparently indifferent co-passengers. I believe that the nostalgic feeling for Lagos which later became part of my life all my days in London began at a point.