It was drizzling when our flight took off from Lagos for Benin city. I was on an overnight business trip. That plan changed within a couple of hours of my landing in Benin. I was in the middle of a training session when an SOS call came from HR. The instruction was clear - to get out of Benin immediately as a riot had broken out. The riot was turning violent in double quick time. In times of riots, a captive expat is a prize catch! It can fetch a windfall. The office driver did an F1 encore to get me to the airport. The drive was more scary than the flying missiles on the streets which were strewn with spent bullet shells, hand made crude missiles, stones and burning tyres. As I wished the driver good bye, I felt relieved having made to the airport without any harm.
As I walked into the small airport it was already late afternoon. The calm look of the morning had turned into chaos, with hundreds of passengers trying to flee. I did not have a ticket, so had to first get myself booked. There were only a couple of airlines that flew between Lagos & Benin. But the airline I took in the morning had already left for Lagos with its return passengers. So I had no choice but to book with the second airline, a small operator. As I approached the booking counter, I saw a dapper looking gent, in his mid forties manning it. In a few minutes I had a ticket in hand and knew that I will be home before sundown. Little did I know what lay in store!
I was told the flight will take off in an hour and boarding pass will be issued fifteen minutes before take-off. This was Nigeria. With the bus-shelter like airport packed to the seams I tried hard to concentrate on the plot of the fiction I was reading. The sky had turned angry by the next hour when I looked up to catch a glimpse of the terminal. The persistent drizzle had turned into a downpour. As the rain abated, one by one, all the other flights took off, leaving behind us - just the twenty odd passengers who were to fly to Lagos. That left us on tenterhooks, as with Benin not having night flying facility we were in real danger of being locked down in the airport for the night. Depression started setting in, with the thought of having to use the airport bathroom!
But luck turned very soon for us. The rain slowed down to a small drizzle and visibility improved. Soon enough we were on the 'Q' to collect the boarding passes and headed straight for the security gate. I saw the same dapper gent at the check-in counter, busy issuing boarding passes to us. Minutes later, at the security gate, the same gent was frisking us to complete the security process. I had my antenna up, but let the thought pass-by thinking that the other employees would have left for the day. But when I saw him again at the boarding gate, I started having a very uneasy feeling.
But nothing prepared me for the shock I felt when I sighted the plane! As I walked out on to the tarmac to take the walk to the aircraft, my heart sank, literally. There in front was parked a plane, straight out of World War II vintage. It was one of those small propeller aircrafts. It looked more like a polka-dotted toy, than a real plane! Only that the polka-dots were made out of aluminum, riveted onto the body of the plane! There was practically no part of the airplane frame left untouched by the silver coloured rivets! If some were round, others were oval and still others rectangular. I wondered if the air-frame was air-worthy at all! Where on earth would someone fly an aircraft like this? I even contemplated staying back, but the airport staff would have none of it. The airport would be shut close once this flight leaves. No passenger was allowed to stay put in the airport, leave alone an expat. So, reluctantly, I walked back to the plane.
As I climbed up into the plane, I was jolted! The interior confirmed my worst fears! It was dark, dingy and smelly. The cockpit was separated from the rest of the plane with just a curtain! The lone air-hostess looked no happier either. As my eyes took a quick round, I saw exposed wires and flipped-out wall panels. I shut close my eyes, took a deep breath and sat down. Only to be jolted back when I saw the dapper gent on the pilot's seat! "What the hell is he doing here?", I blurted out failing to control my vocal chord. Only for the air-hostess to dart a dirty look towards me. Sheepishly, I looked around for some support, but none came by. At last, the gent seated next filled in: "These are pilot-owned aircrafts". What he meant was this: enterprising fellows would get a CPL from Russia or other such east European countries paying a fortune by Nigerian standards. The package also included a deal to buy one of the real old, possibly condemned, east European aircrafts. These single-plane airline companies were owned and piloted by the pilots themselves. They employed no check-in clerks and no ground staff to keep cost down. This enabled them to offer dirt cheap tickets. Business flourished, as there was hardly any public transport system in Nigeria. When the pilot, the dapper gent, announced take-off, I wondered if I will ever make it home!
The flight took off amidst the slight drizzle. I comforted myself with the thought that it was only a 45 minutes flight. At least I was up in the air, safe from harm's way! Or so I thought. Small turbulence was the order of the day with such weather, so when the plane started shaking, ever too often, I did not get concerned. But gradually the shaking became ever more violent. I looked through the window, only to see clouds, menacingly looking back at me. Even before I could realise what happened next, I was flown out of my seat and hit the overhead locker hard! As were many others. Baggage tumbled out of overhead bins. We were taking a deep plunge! We had hit an air pocket and we would have dropped for a good 3-4 seconds. People shrieked and shrilled. No sooner we got back to our seats, we were jolted out once more, this time for an even longer period. This time the drop lasted for a good 5-6 seconds. I was sure, we were crashing. I only wondered if my family will get my remains. "Why on earth, I had to die in Nigeria, of all places?", the question almost came naturally to my mind.
The middle aged lady in front of me was loudly praying to Jesus, with rosary in hand. The man on the next seat was offering his last prayers, asking Jesus to forgive him for all his sins. Another man seated diagonally in front was on a confession mood! If some were crying, others were shrieking. The air-hostess herself had hopelessness written all over her face! A Muslim co-passenger was trying to look towards the sky, hoping to find the Almighty. And then, the free fall ended as suddenly as it had started! The cries changed to shrieks of laughter. Clapping followed. Smiles returned. I realised those were the fastest ten seconds of my life!
As realisation dawned, embarrassment set in. No one looked at each other. Somehow, the darkest secrets come out only when one is most vulnerable. I sighed, realising that I will live to tell the tale.
We touched down to a smooth landing at the Murtala Muhammed airport in Lagos. Someone drew the curtain out and walked into the cockpit to thank the dapper pilot. He certainly looked relieved; his investment has survived one more scare. As I walked out of the plane, I turned around to give it one final look and hoped not to be back again. When I walked into the terminal I dialled my wife's number. I desperately needed to soothe my nerves.
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