We arrive at Aden Adde International Airport at 9am, perfectly on time. I follow the passenger to the passport control area and distractedly join a queue. Only half-way through it, I realise one queue is for somali citizens (Muwaddin) and the other for foreigners, and I’m obviously on the wrong one. I exit the queue to joing the one for those who hold a foreign passport, but a policeman stops me:
“Where are you going?”
“I think I’m in the wrong queue, I’m don’t have a somali passport”, I ezplain.
He waves his hand to dismiss the issue. “Iska joog meeshaada, stay where you are. You’re somali, aren’t you?”
I nod, and he goes: “Then you can stay, it’s fine.”
But I’m not convinced. I check the other side, where the visa counter is.
“But there is no visa counter here. Won’t they just send me to the other queue to get one anyway?”
“Waxaas ma jiro, there’s no such thing.” he says. He tells me his name and, pointing towards a corner in the hall where other policemen are sitting, he adds: “I’m there. If anyone says anything to you, call me.”
So I stay, forgetting his name almost immediately – but not his face. I briefly wonder if he’s bending the rules for me because I’m the only woman in the queue. Then I wonder if he knows how welcomed it made me feel with his rethoric question: “Soomali ma tihidoo? Aren’t you somali?”. Silly, right? Such a small thing can make you feel like you belong.
Shortly after, a woman with a child joins the queue. Then an elderly woman.
The elderly woman asks me if she can skip the queue because she can’t keep standing. I let her pass, and so do the men in front of me. Then they notice the mother and her child, and they let them go first too. Then they look at me, the only woman left in the queue, and tell me to go ahead as well.
I refuse cordially but they adamantly insist, then I insist more but they keep insisting. I know I shouldn’t accept (I’m not old, nor with children – why would a perfectly healthy person jump the queue?) but the sudden attention embarasses me and so I follow the ladies towards the counter.
A man at the front of the queue sees me and says: “I understand the elderly woman and the mother, but what about tan, this one?”.
Before I can answer, another man says: “C’mon, what are you complaining for? Let the women go first, man!”.
I feel even guiltier, but then the angry guy adds: “I understand one, but three?! This isn’t Europe, there is no such thing as ladies first here”.
I hold back a chuckle. Who will tell this man that no one lets women jump the queue in Europe? I ask him if he’d like me to return to the end of the queue – but that seems to irk him even more. He tells me to stay where I am, as if to say that the damage is done.
Suit yourself then, I think.
I hear him grumbling to his friend with a lower voice but soon after the drama is cut short when it’s my turn.
After passing the passport check, I find myself in the baggage hall, which apparently is also the entrance to the Arrival area of the airport. Those waiting for people and those waiting for their bags are all packed in the dimly lit space – four walls and a high ceiling filled with the background buzz of voices laughing and shouting orders.
I’m about to ask my father how they ensure that the baggages don’t get stolen, but I soon find out at the entrance: to leave with a baggage you need to show its tag. Where is my tag? Moments of panic follow, then I find it.
Once outside the airport, the light is so bright I have to squint my eyes. On our way to where I’m lodging, it feels strangely surreal that my flight has already ended – it felt strangely short.
As we drive, it’s 9:40am and all around us the city is buzzing with energy – a chaotic mix of people, cars, bajajs, cattle, donkeys and waste… A lot of waste.
Something has to be done about all this waste and dust/sand, I think, then I realise it’s a deja-vu. I had this his exact same thought three years ago.
Fast forward to 2020 – it doesn’t seem like much has changed in that sense, does it? I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
We drive a few more minutes before reaching our destination – but the journey has just begun.
abba mutinta. 