Ken was even more surprised to see me.
But due to the heavy substances in his stomach, he didn’t have enough energy to show his surprises.
I didn’t know if he even swallowed anything or not but i could easily tell that he did.
I also didn’t know if he knew whether i had something with me or not.
“What are you doing here sweetie?” He asked.
“Going back to Europe” I answered.
“Wow, i didn’t know you are using the route. I would have called you” He said.
“Me too, but we are here now. I guess you are going to Brussels” I continued.
Ken said he was going to Brussels.
He didn’t tell me where he would be going from Brussels but my guess was that he was also heading to Amsterdam.
The city of Amsterdam is the the drug capital of Europe. Due to Its strategic position, people came into Amsterdam from Belgium, Luxembourg, France and Mostly the Federal Republic of Germany. There were also the sea borders with the United Kingdom.
I didn’t know why but the government seemed to be too relaxed on drug dealers.
Weeds were sold in the open market all over the country.
It could have been because of the huge presence of South Americans in the Country.
Holland boasted a massive presence of Suriname and Antilles and even the Colombians.
Nobody knew who was who but in Bijlmer where most of the foreigners lived, it was easy to spot the South Americans.
They usually had dread locks and moved in groups too.
After spending an hour at the Rabat Airport, our flight left for Belgium.
Ken and I were on the same flight but unfortunately, our seats were separated by about 7 rows.
There was no way we could hear each other.
I attempted to approach the man sitting beside me to see if he could change seats with Ken so that he would come over to where i was but the man didn’t say anything to me.
It was either he didn’t understand English or he didn’t care to speak or listen to me.
He just kept reading his Novel which was written in a strange language that i couldn’t decipher. I believed it was German or one of the Nordic Countries.
Like we did from Ivory Coast, we flew non stop to Brussels Airport.
At the airport, i followed everyone else out of the flight and into the arrival hall.
We walked on a single file as we were checked one after the other.
I saw them, the sniff dogs.
Two police officers were holding them.
They stood on our way as people walked past them one after the other.
“Where are you going?” The Police officer asked me as he inspected my documents. It was only the Grace of God that stopped me from fainting right there.
“Italy” I said.
I was prepared on how to answer such questions.
My documents says i was from Italy.
It would have been very suspicious if i had told them that i was going to Amsterdam.
An Italian Resident permit, returning from Africa and heading to Amsterdam would have been very suspicions.
After checking the documents, the Police officer asked me to follow him.
That was it.
I was going to be captured finally.
Every other person was being allowed to walk through except me.
Since Ken was ahead of me, i didn’t know what became of him.
I prayed that He succeeded in clearing the airport because it was the last dangerous line to pass but my prayers were not answered because as soon as i entered the small room in the police post inside the airport in Brussels, I saw Ken sitting down and being questioned by a white lady.
Of course i was supposed to pretend that i didn’t know who he was.
The war we were fighting was an individual one.
“Sit down here” The Police officer said to me.
I was with a Green Passport, with ‘Nigeria’ boldly written at the cover.
Ken had the same Passport.
It seemed the authorities were more interested in Nigerian Passports because the third person who was being questioned inside the room was also with green Nigerian Passport.
I wondered why it had to be that way.
Did it mean that we had no good government back home?
I thought about that because there were other Africans in the flight, yet nobody stopped them.
“What did you go to do in Abidjan?” the Police man asked again.
“Holiday” I said.
Piece of cake.
“Holiday? What do you do in Italy?” He asked.
That was a tricky question.
Holidays and vacations were not meant for everyone.
It was meant especially for those who worked in an organised groups.
Someone who just got her residence permit had no business going down for Holiday in Ivory Coast.
A Nigerian who was traveling with a Nigerian Passport, an Italian resident permit, and a flight ticket to Amsterdam, was a major suspect.
That was one of the mistakes the Nigerians made all over Europe.
The European security operatives were not idiots, they were trained to investigate such movements.
I was returning from Ivory Coast with a Nigerian Passport and Belgium ticket.
If not for the human rights factor, i had no business going for my vacation in Ivory Coast when there was nothing like a Nigerian Airport Stamp on my Passport.
Africans were not programmed to behave that way.
The system, together with poverty, configured us in a way that if i got a resident permit as a Nigerian with Nigerian Passport, i was required to go to Nigeria for Holidays if there was anything like that in a Nigerian Immigrant’s calendar.
“I work at McDonalds in Milan” I said.
As the Police officer nodded, i watched Ken with the corner of my eye.
Two other Police men has arrived and was asking him to follow them.
It seemed he was going to be search for drugs.
I didn’t know where he told them he was going but he was also with a Nigerian Passport and a German Resident Permit.
Unlike Alitalia that belonged to Italy, Lufthansa, the German Carrier frequented Accra.
It was logical that he flew from Accra to Germany straight rather than stopping in Rabat and Brussels. Not that it was not legal or allowed but it was simply suspicious.
Apparently, they didn’t buy into whatever he told them and he was led away to a place where i believed he would be searched.
I would have felt so sorry for him but at that moment, i was also in trouble and didn’t yet know how i was going to turn out.
“How?” long have you lived in Italy?” The Cute Police Officer asked again.
Was that his business?