International Love Affair

by Lauretta Alonge (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Ghana

It was my third time on a plane, and I was alone. The summer had been filled with everything I had hoped for, and now there I was, on a Boeing 737 from Ankara to Accra, my hair untamed and explosive in the humidity. On my way to meet my love. I had secured a window seat. Catching glimpses of this in-between city as the plane kissed the heavens, illuminated by the sunrise – the kind that consumed the entire sky. A symbol of the love I was travelling 3,000 miles for. Nightfall in Accra made the city seem light years away from home. I stepped off the plane and, from my experience in Nigeria that summer, I was unsurprised by the broken escalator. I lifted my cabin bag up two flights of stairs, sweat beading on my forehead, my Britain-bound body unable to adjust to the 30-degree heat in late September. I trekked through mirrored hallways; a carriage filled head-to-toe with glass that was flooded by the city lights as I travelled through this foreign land. I finally reached immigration, covered in sweat, of course, and picked up an immigration card that I had no experience of filling out. I entered my passport number and all other relevant details, until I reached the question that would define the rest of my trip. “Where will you be staying whilst in Accra?”. I flashed back to his words. “Don’t book a hotel. We’ll sort one once we get there.” I left this section blank, and approached the grey immigration officer. He appeared tired, uninterested in the joy that dilated eyes. Likely as he had seen this joy endless times before. I stared at the silver brooch that rested on his shoulder, which led me to miss his words. “Where will you be staying in Accra?” That question again. I told him I was unsure, as I would be searching for a hotel once I arrived. He looked at me with disappointment and replied; “You need to know where you’re staying.” I panicked, my inexperience in travelling had caught up with me. “We’re going to hold onto your passport. Go outside, find your boyfriend, get us an address”. I was convinced this was a scam, but I was no longer in a position of power. I left my newly disvirgined passport and proceeded to baggage claim. I picked up my bag and headed to the exit. In search of my love. The heat of the bustling city overwhelmed me, but that was nothing compared to the men that spotted my transcendent blue jacket. I was approached by a taxi driver who saw my visible distress, as my love was not waiting outside as he had promised. He asked, “Where do you need to go?”. I replied, “I don’t need to go anywhere”. He appeared friendly and asked if I needed help. I explained the situation; my passport, which was being held hostage, my boyfriend, who was incommunicado. I omitted my nationality, but my accent gave me away. As the taxi driver informed me that I had likely been duped, he invited others to approach me. Phrases like “Yahoo Boy” and “He isn’t coming” were thrown around. The advances became aggressive as they fought over who could show me the best hotels and around Accra. The tourist spots. The wonders ‘Lonely Planet’ was yet to exploit. My eyes sank as I realised that I would have to travel home alone. All that money wasted. Why had we been so disorganised? Why had I come all this way? How do I get home? As I gave up hope, looking to the airport entrance, and back out again at the highway, he caught my gaze. Broad shoulders, plump lips, kind eyes. There he was. My time in Accra sparked an international love affair and in the years that followed, I would travel through hundreds of airports, my back against economy seats to destinations I had only dreamt of. I would laugh and cry with immigration officials in a myriad of lands. But, after Accra, none would be with him.