“Akwaaba,” read the beautiful signs hanging throughout the room, welcoming us to day one of the Ghanian study abroad orientation. It was morning, twelve hours since my arrival. I dragged myself to meet my new colleagues from across the world. The diversity of the group energized the jetlag out of me. The thrill wore off after lunch. Dozing in and out of the monotonous safety lecture, I heard our coordinator claim, “students have been robbed with a machete.” Her words mimicked an alarm; my body jolted forward. The drowsy room silently awaited the punchline. Teetering between sleep and consciousness, convincing me I was dreaming. Suddenly the entire room exploded in laughter. “That’s absurd,” I thought. We’d never heard anything more ridiculous. The comic relief sustained my alertness. Immediately following, I ran to my bed, envisioning a “finish line” banner hanging above. To inaugurate our experience abroad, by nightfall, all 30 of us decided to patronize an on-campus bar. Following protocol, we used the buddy system. We all set out on our first adventure. Our coordinator’s words were still ringing in my ears; I only brought what I could conceal. With classes not yet in session, the campus was dark and desolate. The route to the bar was treacherous. It seemed we’d never arrive. Trudging through grasses taller than us, I imagined an intrepid safari trek. We finally made it through the tall brush. On the other side, an oasis. The shabby bar awaited us. The local staple, tattooed with graffiti, embraced us affectionately. All thirty of us wouldn’t fit the modest 15x15 tin structure. Avoiding the stench of beer and cigarette smoke, a handful of us wandered outside. Eager to immerse, we engaged a man sitting alone with a melancholy disposition. He buried his mother earlier that day. As heart-wrenching, his divulgence was, we listened generously, intoxicated by his vulnerability. The cultural nuances were riveting. He painted our imaginations with rituals, bright colors, and compelling reunions. I understood her transition to be a celebration of life rather than mourning her death. As he expressed his love and adoration, my empathic heart wouldn’t mute his broken-heartedness. Feeling his pain, I was overcome with grief; I kindly dismissed myself. Meanwhile, I noticed some of the group heading back. I could vaguely see them as they began disappearing into the bush. Contemplating staying or leaving, I decided to retire. Swiftly attempting to catch up, I ran towards them. Suddenly, I saw eyes peering out of darkness, rendering me paralyzed. I decided it was safer to wait for the others. After three more rounds, inebriation was rampant, and the consensus was to call it a night. Reentering the safari, “Stop!,” someone shouted. The group’s drunken giddiness prompted their refusal to adhere. Alert and sober, I scanned our surroundings. Precisely what I tried to avoid was becoming reality. The hidden eyes I saw before were now coming closer, two sets. Attached to two figures, one of which was uncomfortably close. “Give me your bags!” one demanded. As I turn to look, I see the glimmer of the moon reflected in the machete being held above me. For a millisecond, time froze as I marveled at the moon’s brilliance. I quickly snapped out of it, “Run! They have a machete!” I commanded the group. Heeding my sobering words, everyone scattered—running dormitory bound. All escaped, mostly unscathed, excluding the defiant few who were robbed of their belongings. Scrambling from danger, once everyone arrived, we took time to console one another. Processing over the next few days and weeks was terrorizing, reliving the moment repeatedly. Never had I slow danced with my demise. This travesty bonded us for life. Group therapy saved me from returning home prematurely. Every week it became slightly more manageable. The experience began to redeem itself. It took months to retrieve fragments of security. By the second semester, my sanity was reclaimed. Fleeing my room one morning, late for class, I tripped over a bag. A tucked note read, “Never say never.” Bewildered, I opened the pouch, realizing the stolen belongings were inside. As if waking from a nightmare, I stood incredulously, my jaw practically touching the ground. I was marked absent that day.