"Aaaaargh!" A shrill scream reverberated through my head. I glanced around furtively to ensure no one else heard me. I was HOT! Hot and angry. I was mad. "Aaa argh!" I screamed internally again in frustration. I just arrived back into Murtala Mohammed Airport in Lagos Nigeria, and it is boiling hot, from the finger, through the motionless escalators, down to the very long immigration lines. A line that has two to three Immigrations officers handling one traveler at a time. In between my angst, I mischievously wondered what would happen if they gave the wrong passport to the wrong person. I scanned around and observed with pity and shame, the warm pinkish red Caucasian faces, their faces glistening with sweat in the hundred degree heat, like lobsters in a tank waiting to be eaten, standing in the "Other Nationalities" line. Their eyes were glazed over, and the mouths slightly open, almost audibly panting. The bluish white lights scantily interspersed through the uneven newly constructed suspended ceiling, casting a sickly dim pallour on all who stood under its glow. We straggled through the lines moving gradually, as time stretched eternally.
