Flight 109

"Good evening, this is your captain speaking. Welcome aboard Nigerian Air Flight 109. The no-smoking sign is now finally off, so feel free to light cigarettes in the designated smoking areas and we apologize for any inconveniences the delay has caused. The delay was due to bad weather, but everything should be fine now. We will be cruising at an altitude of 37 000 feet and should be making our first stop in Cairo in five hours. After a refueling stop there, our destination, Syria, will be only three hours away."

"What?!" "What?!"

The passengers began to mumble and grumble, some began shouting. Flight 109 was scheduled to go to Rome so what was this pilot talking about Syria?

"Abeg stop dis plane make I comot here!" the lady next to me suggested, "I go walk back go airport." It would have been rather odd to drop her off there since we had been flying for almost thirty minutes already, and over water, no less. I was rather perturbed myself. I rang the bell for a stewardess so I could find out what the hell was going on. The stewardess arrived. She looked like a plump crayon. It was the effect of over-bleaching her skin. Her skin was really orange, but her slight beard, dark in color (with an underlying bluish hue), contrasted sharply.

"Can I 'elp yoew?" she asked in a British cockney accent. Wanting to show that I, too, had visited London, I retorted: "Yes, plyse, oi waws jawst wowndering woahw 'appened. Oi waws uwnder the impresh'n that this floight woulwd be gawing to Rawme."

She was not to be outdone. "Well, the floight's bahyn rerouw'ehd toow Saiy-rya caws weey coow-oont get permish'n toow lahynd in Rawme. Weey're rayly sawry fowr the ayncownvynience sir" and with that she left, feeling triumphant in her stupidity.

I was aghast and would have been beside myself if the lady at my side wasn't already there. She seemed a feisty one, this lady. I watched her as she shuffled her feet uneasily and tied/untied her wrapper. Somebody should warn her that Europe was not Kongi, and it was cold there. For some reason she refused to use the overhead compartments to store her hand-luggage. This made it really annoying and inconvenient for there was a certain smell coming from her large, white bag.

"Shet men! Gard dem it! I don noh worris strong wit dees peeps men. Shet! I mean. If dey was gonna gorra go to Siria, den dey shour have telled us men, shet! Dis is just silly men. Shet!"

I looked behind me at the man shouting. He had sleek Jeri curls and was wearing loads of gold. He looked the type who lived in America and came back home to Nigeria every two months on some dubious mission. I got the impression he thought he sounded equally American. He continued. "Tek me to de pilot, men, shet! I gorra talk to him men. He gorra know whas hup, dawg."

The lady beside me wasn't having that. "Plis, sit down, Mista Maikeh Jahsin. Dis is not hamerica o! Look if you distob di plane driver and we crash, is me and you today." That set it off with the man. Oh yes. Michael Jackson of Ayakoroma wouldn't allow any third-worlder to have the last word. He blew up: "Hey shurrup men. I wasn't talking to you, men, silly bitch."

She might not have left Kongi before, but she knew what "bitch" meant to her. "Ehn? Bish? Me? Bish? Who are you calling bish? I wi show you today." With that she stood up and removed her wrapper, tying it over her head, simultaneously revealing what I will politely describe as rainbow-colored zebs. While these zebs ("underwear" to those who don’t know) were the kind that were given away freely with packets of Omo detergent, these particular zebs were unlike any underwear I had seen before. They seemed to magnify the lady's hips for some reason, and I could swear that it was impossible, proportion-wise, for her to be as big as that if you understand what I’m saying to you.

I tried to mediate. "Madam, please, don't mind him. He's just angry, please madam." The other passengers were discontented with me. "I beg leave dem! Leave dem alone make dem fight!" The lady, buoyed by the fan-support, pushed me to my chair and took to the aisle ready to battle. Michael Jackson’s ego would not allow him to back off and so he too took to the aisle. The audience roared its approval. "Gi am!" "Punch am!" "Nack am one!" "Oya! Gi am jare!" they shouted. Your-captain-speaking came to the rescue with an announcement that would change all our lives in a few split seconds.

"Er...this is your captain speaking. I would like you all to please listen carefully to what I have to say." The lady stopped in mid stride whereupon Michael of Ayakoroma sat down promptly, seeing an avenue for escape. Your-captain-speaking continued: "I would like all of you to stay calm. This plane has been hijacked." The people stayed calm. The people started screaming. I had never heard so many different things at once:

"Oh Jesus of Nazareth! Ye who created the world in seven days. Alpha and Omega!"

"Ahhh...won ti pa wa! We have all die! They have kill us! Ahhh! Ahhh! We have die!"

"Kai! Wala-hi talai!"

And to finish the chorus was our British-speaking air hostess whom I heard hiss under her breath "Nna, ehn? Abeg, whish wan be dis na."

After a considerable length of time the captain spoke again. "I would request that each passenger sit down and not move. The hijackers are four in number and are armed. Three of them will now come from the cockpit to give instructions. Please do as they say and we will all live."

As the hijackers ordered, we were all huddled in the back of the plane, but still the lady wouldn't let go her white bag. I wondered what would possess four men to hijack a plane, using slingshots, or "katapots" as the lady with the bag had said. "Plis, Mr. I-Jack," she had said, "doesn’t shoot me with your katapot O!" This had to be the most unrefined hijacking operation that ever was. The problem was that even if we overpowered the three sling-shot-wielding hijackers, the last one could harm the pilot in the cockpit and our lives would be in jeopardy. They all wore masks and despite their crude weapons, did look rather dangerous. One of them began to speak.

"You people should count yourselves lucky, nay, blessed to be a part of this historic occasion." He was articulate and sounded, as they would say, well-studied. "We are a group known as Movement for Military Rule and are dedicated to returning the country from it's corrupt civilian rulers who have siphoned all our money, back to military rule under strict discipline."

I was confused, or more appropriately, they were. "Excuse me," I interjected, "but don't you have this backwards? The country IS under military rule right now."

The hijackers looked at each other. "You're lying!" one of them barked at me. "No, is true sah!" someone helped me out. The hijackers seemed stunned. They huddled together and had a mini-conference amidst heated whispers and vigorous head-movements. They turned around.

"What flight is this?" one asked.

"Nigerian Air flight 109 orig.."

"Nigerian Air?! Nigerian Air?!" All three of them immediately hissed. The first one removed his mask and sighed. The other two followed suit as all of us watched in amazement. They stood there shaking their heads. "Nigerian air? How did we end up on Nigerian air?" They sat down dejectedly. "Sorry" the lady with the bag consoled them. "Sorry ehn," others joined in. Everyone seemed genuinely distraught at the turn of events. This is a trait of Nigerians if someone else has the catapult, you sympathize with them when they need the sympathy. It’s just the way things work.

A plan was forming in my head, but I was interrupted as the first of the three said "Well, I guess I'll go get the one with the pilot and we'll all leave you people alone".

"No wait!" I shouted, "You can still accomplish something." Everyone looked at me as though I was crazy, but I smiled knowingly. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

"<yawn>" When do you think they'll reply?" the first hijacker asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Probably an hour or so..." I said, looking around. The two other hijackers, Michael Jackson, the feisty lady, and a high-school kid were playing Scrabble in the lounge. This is what it looked like, a game of Scrabble. Deep down I knew that very few words on that board had ever been heard by living humans on this earth or another planet. But they seemed to be into the game.

Other passengers were generally lounging and relaxing, several getting to know each other and telling jokes. I wondered if the pilot was on to what was going on. I hoped not. The hijacker in the cockpit had not revealed anything to him. I looked at my watch, we'd been flying for three hours. We'd need to refuel in two. "Quiet! Quiet! It's the news!" someone shouted. We all rushed, our hearts beating, to the different radios in the cabin, and listened:

"This is an international world news flash. A group calling themselves the Movement for Democracy has hijacked a Nigerian airliner bound for Syria. In a radioed relay to the Nigerian authorities, the hijackers have demanded the immediate release of several Nigerian political prisoners and the immediate installment of yet another president-elect who is now in prison after an annulled election."

Everyone in the cabin cheered. I smiled. The news continued. "Reports say that among the passengers is the son of the country's Military president who is being held chief hostage." Everyone cheered. I bowed to my audience. "Presido! Presido!" some chanted, but I was not having that. I didn't want to follow in my father's footsteps. The news ended on a positive note, for us at least. "The Nigerian government is taking the hijackers demands very seriously as they are reported to be heavily armed and extremely dangerous."

I looked at the catapult. Well, it was on his arm, and somewhat dangerous--to squirrels. As soon as the news ended there was endless banter, but an air of optimism prevailed. We shook hands and hi-fived. We were doing, in a plane, something that several million people had tried to do on the ground, but failed. "Arise o compatriots..." someone started singing. We sang the rest of the anthem all standing solemnly and hoping for the best--different tribes though we were, we stood in one accord: One people bound in freedom, peace and unity.

I watched as they led the lady with the white bag away. She had been carrying a dead baby loaded with drugs in the bag as well as several parcels of heroin in her custom-made underwear. That was disgusting. The hallway was empty and I felt cold. But no one would give me a blanket. If the plane had landed in Nigeria, as opposed to Cairo, perhaps things would have been different. I have connections at home.

Here I am subject to a different law. "Step this way please sir." I stepped forward. The handcuffs hurt my wrists, but that was not the real pain. The real pain was being betrayed by the people I tried to help. They had all wanted to save themselves, and so decided to implicate me. They said I masterminded the operation. But hadn't they helped me out? Didn't they all try to seize the opportunity too? I shook my head. I was betrayed by the people I loved.

As I was escorted into the INTERPOL vehicle, the cameras attacked me with their flash. The son of the president of Nigeria. A criminal. An opportunist who turned a hijacking-gone-wrong to a hijacking-of-purpose. The son of the president of Nigeria. The son of a thief. For some I was just another news item. For millions, I was a hero. Nigeria we hail thee, our own dear mother land...

The end