By Segun Odegbami

I am writing this on our way to Freetown from Lagos, on board Air Cote D’Ivoire. We are half way through the first 1hour 15 minutes flight time to Abidjan, our first port of call according to the dark, very handsome, gray-haired pilot, who comes to speak to the few of us in the Business Class section of this clean A310 Airbus aircraft, shortly before takeoff.

He tells us there will be some slight turbulence en route, nothing to worry about, weather in Abidjan is good, and to enjoy the trip. Then, he turns back and disappears into the cockpit!

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Breakfast on board is good, but nothing special.

My seat is by the window. I look out at the view below. I can see clearly that underneath the drifting white clouds around our plane is the West African coastline that Obafemi Awolowo, Kwame Nkrumah of Ghana, Siaka Steven’s of Dierra Leone, Senghor of Senegal, all dreamt in the 1950s would have a superhighway running parallel to the coastline from Dakar in the East to Lagos in the West, to create the biggest economic, social and cultural environment of some 200 million people in Africa. That dream remains unfulfilled in almost 70 years.

The beautiful coastline, clearly visible from our plane, is washed by the sea in frosty white waves of the Atlantic Ocean that stretches to the left as far as the eyes can see into the distance where it blends seamlessly with the grey-blue sky. Pure magic – there is no horizon, the sky and the sea have morphed.

To the right of the coastline as I look from my window, below the plane and to the other side as the plane banks a little, is land, a vast landscape of dense forest of trees, with little oasis of rooftops here and there punctuating the green vegetation.

“You can see now Accra to your right”. That is the pilot’s voice continuing with his commentary on the aircraft speakers in his French-accented English.

Since returning to his seat after takeoff, the pilot has kept us informed about the distance to, and time in, Abidjan; that we are flying at 38000 ft; and that we shall soon start our descent into Abidjan.

His voice is very reassuring – cool, confident, calming.

I am thinking of Abidjan as we descend into it. It is a city where I played some difficult matches and scored one of the most beautiful goals in my career, a goal that Patrick Ekeji attested to somewhere (I do not know what interview or publication now) ranks with Maradona’s 1986 goal against England. Patrick rated it as one of the greatest he had ever seen. Ask him when you ever meet him to confirm.

I am thinking that I shall go back to Abidjan one day soon in search of footage of that match and that goal. I shall visit their national television house and find out if they still have a recording of the match in their film library. Nigeria has no such film library. What a country.

Adokie Amiesimaka also scored a second similar goal during the same match. His own goal broke the back of the Ivoriens. I think (I am not sure – age is surely taking its toll on my memory) that they needed to score 3 unreplied goals to cancel their 2 goal-deficit from the first match in Lagos. They got 2 and were pressing for the third when I struck, followed shortly by Adokie in their confusion. It was Adokie that did the final ‘nailing’ with a solo run like mine half way down the length of the field to score against the run of play.

So, I remember Abidjan for that match. There were a few others, of course, as well.

Cote D’Ivoire have always been a difficult team to beat for Nigeria, even till now. They churn out good players all the time but, unlike Nigeria, have their colonial ‘masters’, France, to thank for their football development after domestic football that is run well enough to have attracted some of Nigeria’s great players in the past – Rashidi Yekin, Stephen Keshi, etc.

Abidjan to Freetown

So, we land in Abidjan following a great experience so far from Lagos.

I must have ‘spoken’ too soon. We are asked to disembark and go to the lounge inside the airport terminal to wait for our connecting flight.

We all disembark along with those whose final destination is Abidjan. We go through immigration quickly, ready to enter the departure lounge where we are to wait.

Suddenly, we are back to our old ways.

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My excitement up to this point with the flight evaporates in a plume of our usual African disorder. We are all lumped together into several long queues leading to only two security check points at the entrance to the lounge.

We are packed like prisoners in a cage looking out at the beautiful lounge beyond the security checkpoints, waiting for our turn to be screened. The line is shifting in the slowest trickle like jelly through the narrowest orifice.

Well, a prison may be an exaggeration of the situation, but bottom line is that we spend almost one hour on our feet in this human hold-up in Abidjan, an unnecessary experience that almost destroys what has been a beautiful experience till then.

We finally get through the security point having had to take off everything – belt, coat, ring, shoes, laptop, watch. I am thinking they will ask us to remove our shirts and shorts…haba.. we are only on transit for God’s sake. We have no business with Abidjan or the airport protocols. We are not entering the country.

As soon as we pass through security they ask us to proceed immediately to Gate C to board our flight to Freetown. So, the VIP lounge passes that they gave us is a ruse?

I drag my tennis bag send my laptop bag through the long walk to the plane.

The plane looks familiar. I climb the staircase, and get to the entrance. There she is, the same air hostess that bade us good bye over an hour before. I enter the plane. It is the same plane. I ask the second airhostess why we had to disembark and be taken through that gaolish and totally unnecessary airport security experience. She looks at me blankly, the gentle smile on her pursed lips the only indication she is not a robot. It is the protocol she finally says.

I take my new seat, take off my coat, put my things in the luggage compartment overhead, bring out my phone to start putting down my experience and I hear a familiar voice.

I look up. The pilot is back. It is his routine to personally come and speak to passengers in the upper class before he takes off. It is the same ageing, gray-haired, very handsome, very dark complexioned flight captain, greeting us and briefing us again about our next shuttle – slight turbulence on route, nothing to worry about, flying at 36000 ft, and 1 hour and 10 minutes to our next transit point, Monrovia! Monrovia ke?

Yepa! Mon..what?

There was no announcement about a stopover in Monrovia, Liberia. This is turning out to be a real ‘bole kaja’ trip.

We take off. Good flight again.

We land safely in Robertsville International Airport in Monrovia. I remember the airport from eons ago. Surely this is a new airport, still very small, but now modern and clean.

Some school children are on one side of the tarmac in their uniforms, obviously on an excursion. I remember doing a similar visit as a pupil in St. Theresa’s Boys School, Jos, in the early 1960s. Kai, man don old o!

We do not leave the aircraft. I continue to scribble this last bit of my story going to Freetown.

We soon commence on the final haul along the beautiful West African coastline, to the town founded for returning slaves from the fields of the Americas, descendants of our brothers and sisters across West Africa.

Many of them still bear Yoruba names and tell stories told to them by their grand and great grand parents about their ancestral home in Nigeria.

Everytime I visited Freetown, many decades ago, the architecture of the town used to remind me of Calabar and some parts of Abeokuta.

The captain does his ritual again after take off from Monrovia. It is a short hop, he says. Only 35 minutes, with possible slight turbulence along the way because we shall be flying low.

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In 35 minutes we are on ground the Freetown International Airport located in a village called Lungi. That is the bad news – we have to take a ferry to cross over to Mainland Freetown. The boat ride is a 45 minutes journey across choppy waves.

I have a phobia for water. I can’t recall how I managed it in those days when we visited Freetown several times in many years.

Finally, the boat arrives. It is small but comfortable. It can take 32 people. It is not full but we set out on the scariest boat ride of my life. The waves are ‘angry’ threatening to swallow everything in its path.

My heart is in my mouth.

With my life jacket tightly strapped to my body, I endure the longest 45 minutes boat ride of my life. Kennedy Okezie, who has come to welcome me, keeps reassuring me that it is a normal journey for them and that nothing will happen to either the boat or to me.

As we approach the jetty at the other end my heart stops pounding and starts to enjoy the last few minutes’ ride. Kennedy tells me about the boat, its owner, my namesake and a great guy. Today is the man’s birthday. I must meet him.

I eventually meet Olusegun Jaji, the owner of the boat and the jetty at the new Beach Resort in Freetown. He is a big guy, 6 ft 5 inches at least, with bulging muscles that tell you he must either a sportsman or someone from a military background. He is neither. His story is very intriguing as we meet in his VIP lounge and I listen to him.

I am inspired.

10 years ago, when he came from the United States of America and decided to start a ferry business to fill the vacuum in saw in Sierra Leone, he started with one rickety boat. It’s been a decade of hard work, dedication, patience, creativity and the winning spirit.

Still expanding, now he owns 64 boats in the country, over 20 in Lagos, Nigeria, and has established a boat building facility in Lagos where he now builds his own line of boats.

We celebrate his birthday with all his staff at the resort before I am driven to Raddison Blu hotel, not far from downtown Freetown, where I shall stay for the next 3 days.

We are about to hit town for some special food treat, I am told. Special Sierra Leone pepper soup with rice, by the beach in Freetown.

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I am looking outside my hotel window. You cant believe what is right in front of me. Some 50 or so metres away. A tennis court!

It is morning. I am about to hit the tennis court. I want to send the broadcast out first.

I hope to keep a diary of this trip.

Segun Odegbami

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