The air inside the departure terminal at Murtala Muhammed International Airport was a physical weight—thicker, sharper than the humid, food-and-sweat-laced heat of the danfo bus heading to Ikeja just days ago. This density was laced with the high-octane scent of jet fuel, expensive perfume masking desperate anxieties, and the vibrating energy of thousands of people trying to leave, arrive, or just to escape the dire fate the country had placed on them.
Femi stood near the BA check-in counter, his two large suitcases looking like monoliths beside him. Inside his backpack, his phone and headset—the tools that had secured his future—were packed away, perhaps for the last time in a long while.
His parents were standing close, his mother dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, his father standing tall, emitting a silent, proud radiation that felt warmer than the Lagos sun. But it wasn't just family today.
The "Gbagada Titans" had come to see their 'IGL' off.
They looked out of place amidst the business travelers and diaspora families returning abroad.
The crew that helped him secure his future.
Even though they looked out of place, Femi was surprisingly happy to see them one last time.
"Harvard boy," Bayo grinned, tilting his fake Gucci cap back on his head. He was chewing on a fresh toothpick, not yet chewed into splinters like it had been before the finals. "Don't forget us when you are rubbing shoulders with senators and astronauts, eh? You'll send me designer clothing when you finally become a big man o."
"I won't forget," Femi said. It felt inadequate. How could he forget the boys who had followed his every command into the virtual fire? Tunde, who had worried about the opponents having iPads while they played on Tecno, looked distressed.
"Who is going to call the strats now, Femi?" Tunde asked, wringing his hands. "If we try to enter another tournament, we will just be running around like headless chickens. I don't think this team of ours can survive without you."
"You know the meta now," Femi said, shifting his weight. He felt the familiar itch of imposter syndrome, the fear that he was abandoning them, but he pushed it down with cold logic. "Bayo has the aggression. Chi-chi is the anchor. Tunde, just… stop throwing healing circles on enemies." Femi said, laughing at Tunde.
Tunde managed a watery smile. "It was one time, guy. Won't you let me breathe?"
"Never, guy," Femi said, laughing.
Femi looked down at little Chi-chi. The boy was in his school uniform again. He hadn't said a word since they arrived at the airport. He just looked up at Femi, his eyes intense, his fingers tapping a silent rhythm on his thigh. Tap, tap, tap. Still practicing.
"You were the key to all this, you know..." Femi said softly to the boy, repeating the thought he'd had on the bus ride to the finals. "Keep training. Don't let them slow down."
Chi-chi gave a single, sharp nod.
The overhead speakers crackled with a final boarding call for British Airways flight BA074 to London Heathrow. It was time.
Femi turned to his parents. His mother pulled him into an embrace so tight he could barely breathe. "Eat well. Don't walk alone at night. Don't join bad gang o. Call us when you land. Pray, Femi. Always pray. God will bless you and see you through."
"I will, amen, Ma."
He faced his father. The man who had spent years skeptically watching Femi hunch over screens was now looking at him with profound respect. He extended a hand, and Femi shook it. The grip was iron.
"Go and conquer, Adefemi," his father said, his voice rough. "Show them what a Nigerian is made of. You know we don't carry last at anything we do."
"Yes, Sir."
Femi grabbed the handle of his carry-on. He turned toward the immigration gates, the threshold between his past and his future. He looked back one last time. His team—his Entry, his Support, his Sniper—were waving. His parents were holding onto each other.
Behind them, through the glass walls of the terminal, the chaotic sprawl of Lagos stretched out under a hazy sky. The lagoon, the traffic, the madness. It was the only world he had ever known.
He took a deep breath, turned away, and walked toward the security checkpoint. He had achieved escape velocity.
\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*
The flight was a liminal space, a pressurized tube suspended between realities. Eighteen hours of travel. Lagos to London. London to Boston.
Femi didn't sleep. He sat in the window seat, watching the geography below shift from the ochre dust of the Sahara to the deep, terrifying blue of the Atlantic, and finally to the neat, organized green squares of New England.
He replayed the finals in his head. He saw the moment he borrowed Bayo's phone, the sudden clarity of 120 frames per second that allowed him to stop reacting and start predicting. He saw K-Dash's arrogance crumble. He saw the N3,000,000 prize money that was currently paying for the fuel burning outside his window.
It felt unreal. He was the same boy who had sat cramped in the back of a danfo bus, knees knocking against his teammates, just days ago. Yet, everything had changed.
The pilot announced their descent into Boston. The plane banked, and Femi saw the city rising out of the water. It looked neat. Organized. Efficient. Almost autonomous to a fault.
When the cabin doors opened at Logan International, the first thing that hit him was the air.
It wasn't the stifling heat mixed with food smells he was used to. It was cold. Shockingly, aggressively cold. It was September, apparently autumn, but to a boy from the tropics, it felt like deep winter. The air was thin, dry, and smelled faintly of McDonald's burgers, coffee, and sanitized floor cleaner.
He navigated customs like a zombie. The efficiency of it all was jarring. No one shouted. No one tried to carry his bags for a fee. The immigration officer scanned his passport and visa with a bored expression that was a stark contrast to the vibrant, loud energy of the broadcasters at the Battle of Lagos.
"Purpose of your visit?" he asked, not even looking up.
"Education. Harvard University."
***Stamp.***
"Welcome to the United States."
Just like that. He was in. No hassling or unnecessary questions. He kind of liked it.
He collected his luggage and stepped out of the terminal into the arrivals pick-up zone. The cold wind whipped around his thin jacket, cutting right to his bone. He shivered violently. He felt exposed. He was a master tactician in gaming, an IGL who could command a team to victory against pros with iPads, but here, standing on the curb in Boston, he felt like a day one noob in a high-level server.
A yellow taxi pulled up. The driver, a man with a thick turban and a tired expression, popped the trunk.
"Where to, boss?"
"Umm…. Cambridge?," Femi said, the word feeling foreign on his tongue. "Harvard Yard."
"You must be new here. Hop in, I'll give you a tour," the driver said to him.
\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*
The taxi ride was a blur of brick buildings, smooth roads, and trees with leaves turning colors Femi had only seen on screens, only slowing down when the driver tried to explain important landmarks and sites he needed to know.
They arrived at Harvard Yard. It was intimidatingly beautiful. Old red brick buildings stood like fortresses of knowledge, surrounded by iron gates and perfectly manicured lawns. It was quiet. A studious, heavy silence hung over the place, very different from the blaring music and sensory assault of Lagos in general.
As he got there, a welcome party was waiting for the freshmen, who helped them get a tour of the campus and showed them to their dorms. He was placed in a dorm room called Matthews Hall. He hauled his heavy suitcases up three flights of narrow wooden stairs, sweat cooling uncomfortably on his skin in the chilly air.
He found room 304. He took a deep breath, slotted the heavy metal key into the lock, and pushed the door open.
The room was smaller than he expected. Two narrow beds, two wooden desks, two wardrobes. One side of the room was already occupied. Posters of American bands Femi didn't recognize were plastered over the wall. A pile of clothes was on the floor.
Lying on the bed, wearing noise-canceling headphones and strumming an unplugged electric guitar, was a Black guy with a well-cut low taper fade.
The boy looked up as Femi wrestled his second suitcase through the doorway. He pulled his headphones off, revealing an easy, open grin that seemed entirely too relaxed for someone attending an Ivy League school.
"Whoa, heavy load," the boy said, sitting up. He had an American accent that sounded exactly like the movies. "You must be Femi. The math genius from Nigeria, right?"
Femi froze. His analytical senses immediately kicked in, scanning the new variable. *Target analysis: Male, approximately 18 years, relaxed posture, low threat level indicated. Seems inefficiently organized.*
"I am Adefemi Kehinde," Femi said stiffly, dragging his suitcase to the empty side of the room. "Yes. From Lagos."
"Nice to meet you, man. I'm Josh. Josh Miller, from New Orleans." Josh stood up and extended a hand. He didn't seem bothered by Femi's reserved nature. "Welcome to the jungle, I guess. Though, it's mostly just old books and terrible dining hall food."
Femi shook the proffered hand. Josh's grip was loose, friendly, lacking the desperate intensity of the handshakes back home.
"Thank you," Femi said. He looked around the small room that was to be his new world. His laptop bag felt heavy on his shoulder.
"You look beat, dude," Josh said, flopping back onto his bed. "Jet lag is no joke. Don't worry about unpacking right now. Just crash. We have orientation tomorrow. It's gonna be boring as hell."
Josh picked up his guitar and started strumming again, humming a tune to himself. As a fellow musician, Femi was a bit intrigued that his roommate could also play an instrument.
Femi sat on the edge of his bare mattress. He was thousands of miles from Gbagada. The silence of the room was amplified by the soft strumming of the guitar. He felt an acute, crushing wave of lo
neliness.
He had won the battle to get here. But looking at the carefree American boy across the room, and feelin
g the cold autumn air seeping through the old window frame, Femi realized the war for survival was only just beginning.