My first trip to Lagos was way back in 2001 and I vividly remember boarding a Kenya Airways flight from JKIA early on a cold Sunday morning. I was quite anxious and didn't know what to expect of Lagos. I looked forward to shopping and maybe even to visiting Fela Kuti's shrine.

The flight was like no other I had been on, and right from the boarding hall into the plane, the air was chirping with excitement. Nigerians, unlike our more placid selves, are an expressive, gregarious and on occassion abrasive lot. And there I was, ready to embark on a four hour flight across Uganda, Congo, Cameroon and into Africa's most populous country.

The plane touched down at around 12:30pm and no sooner had we touched the tarmac than the strangest thing happened. With the plane still moving, a number of passengers suddenly rose up and reached for the overhead lockers. 

Immediately the captain relayed a message urging the passengers to wait a while, that the plane hadn't come to a stop yet. The message fell on deaf ears and most passengers proceeded to get their hand laggage and made gestures suggesting they could not wait to leave the plane. The commotion of pulling luggage from the lockers was abruptly interrupted by a lady passenger who shouted at the top of her voice that someone had stolen her ticket.

Welcome to Nigeria! I told myself, as I noticed that her shouts went unheeded and no one, not even the flight crew paid her the least attention.

After a few more minutes, we were all streaming across the airport hallway proceeding to the immigration desks. I was struck by the magnificence and beauty of Murtala Mohammed airport and I convinced myself that what laid ahead was even greater. Approaching the immigration desks, I was met by mean-looking immigration officials who looked harassed, even outrightly unwelcoming.

What struck me immediately was their odd accents and physiognomy, starkly different from that of the Nigerians of my previous acquaintance. Later on, I discovered that most of the immigration officials were northern Nigerian.

A colleague had fore-warned me; told me that Nigerian Immigration and Customs could be a nightmare and that I needed to approach them well prepared to offer a lubricating bribe. I asked myself why on earth I should bribe to enter any country. With a feeling of anxiety and some uneasiness, I handed over my passport, which document was then passed on to a second official. My eyes were firmly fixed on the passport and I didn't want to take any chances lest it get lost in the process.  My vigilance was not without reason, the dossier of warnings I had received, also  informed me that is was not unusual for a passport to "get lost" in the hands of the immigration officials.

Nothing so dramatic here. Without the utterance of a single word, the passport was stamped and handed back to me.

Except for the commotion in the plane, much of the theatrics my dossier promised was not getting to stage and I was warming up to sunny Lagos, and to Nigeria.  I was determined to hit the road and survey the land. Too fast, too soon perhaps? Right before me was an immigration policeman demanding to see my passport, and firing off a battery of  questions. 'What brought me to Nigeria? How long did I intend to stay? And where?' Thankfully,  Mentioning the company I was working for saved my day and I was let go of without further questions.

My next stop was the baggage area where I was amazed at just how much luggage Nigerians carry when they travel. Bags, on bags and suitcases of of all sizes, shapes and colours came popping up from the carousel opening. It was not until an hour later that I got hold of my bag. As I proceeded to the arrival hall, my head shot up and did a quick scan looking for any signs of a James Muritu placard or my company's logo.

It didn't take me long to spot a fellow wearing a khaki kaunda coat donning my company's logo and colours. Next to him stood a tall, burly, mean looking policeman in a black uniform. I waved my hand and the fellow walked my way shaking my hand vigorously and expressing his hope that I was alright and his apologies for the long wait he had endured. The policeman led the way and ushered me back right to a waiting Peugeot 504. Why police escort? I wondered aloud. It was a good feeling anyway and didn't mind at all being escorted out of an airport by a policeman.

In Nigeria, that's an indication that a very important person is about and nobody dares delay you. As the car made it's way past the airport, I couldn't help but notice the commotion, noise and human traffic mingling around the airport. "Welcome to Nigeria!", my driver yelled out. "First time here?". I responded in the affirmative.  The car left the airport precincts and proceeded into the heart of Lagos. My senses were assaulted by the whirlwind about me, continuous hooting and tooting, cars zooming in, screeching, braking, swerving sharply away, a loud din and a big hurry. In other words, typical of any large African city.

And Lagos is large, with informal traders adornng the streets with their bright wares and the local matatu equivalent plying the various roads. Traffic was heavy all the way and the cop once in a while popped his head out of the window shouting to the drivers ahead of us to move on. That didn't help much anyway and we ended up spending almost two hours on the road.

I checked into Sheraton Hotel at almost four o'clock in the afternoon. Dead tired, exhausted. As I was given my room card, it hit me that I was being charged $250 a night for the room. A hotel rate is commensurable with the services granted and I imagined that I was about to have my best stay in a hotel ever! That was not to be and my grudgingly positive image of Lagos didn't take long to change from good to bad. 

To be continued