# 007 – Nigeria, Ibadan. Yellow Fever and Lager Beer.

Some places let you know right away that you are not made for each other. Nigeria, in 1985, was one of those places for me. But hey, who doesn’t love a little yellow fever vaccination?

Now, this wasn’t just one jab and you're good to go. No, sir! Two separate vaccinations were required, and technically, I was supposed to wait six days after the second shot before traveling. But business doesn’t wait, and neither do I. Three days later, armed with optimism, half-incubated immunity, and a questionable sense of foresight, I boarded a flight to Lagos.

First challenge: Lagos airport immigration. I braced myself as the officer examined my yellow vaccination booklet. I expected grilling, maybe even deportation. Instead, the man broke into a grin so wide it could have lit up the entire terminal.

"Welcome to Nigeria!" he beamed, waving me through like a long-lost cousin.

Well, that was easy. Too easy.

A hotel driver was waiting for me, and as we drove through Lagos, he warned me: "No open window, sir. No open door, sir. Dangerous."

Noted. Windows up. Doors locked. Eyes peeled.

As we weaved through the dimly lit streets, I noticed something odd—people lying unnervingly close to the curbs. By the third one, I asked:

"Why are they sleeping so close to the road? Isn’t that dangerous?"

The driver barely blinked. "No sleeping, sir. They are dead."

I blinked. Then I swallowed.

"Oh. Right. Of course. That makes total sense..." I muttered, trying to process the casual nature of his response.

"They will remove after some days," he added helpfully.

Ah. So, that’s how things worked around here.

And just like that, Nigeria had given me my first, very direct cultural lesson: expect the unexpected, roll with it, and keep your doors locked.

Ibadan was still ahead of me, but I already knew—this was going to be one hell of a trip.

Lagos to Ibadan – A Road trip Like No Other

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of chaotic honking, distant shouting, and the unmistakable scent of something burning. Welcome to Lagos at sunrise.

After a breakfast of toast, eggs, and coffee that tasted like it had a personal vendetta against my taste buds, I stepped outside. My driver, the same one from the previous night, was waiting.

"Traffic bad today, sir. We go now."

When someone in Lagos says traffic is bad, you prepare for war.

The roads were a mad mix of buses, cars, motorcycles, and pedestrians who had clearly made peace with mortality. Horns were not just a tool; they were a language. At one point, we narrowly avoided a head-on collision. My driver simply muttered, "Ehn, small problem."

After what felt like an eternity, we finally left Lagos behind. The scenery transformed into lush green landscapes and small villages. Goats, chickens, and the occasional cow strolled lazily across the highway, oblivious to the speeding cars.

Halfway through, we stopped at a roadside shack where vendors sold everything from roasted plantains to suspiciously warm bottled drinks.

"You want food, sir?" my driver asked. "Better you eat now before Ibadan."

I hesitated but took my chances with a roasted plantain. It was delicious. Whether my stomach would agree later was another story.

Checkpoint after checkpoint, we finally reached Ibadan.

A Slithery Surprise at the Brewery

The first day at the brewery started as expected—introductions, asset inspections, note-taking. Until I saw something large and gray disappear into a shipping container.

I froze. "Uh… did anyone else see that?"

A worker was called over, went inside to check, and emerged moments later with a smile and a thumbs-up. "Efunra!" he declared.

I nodded. "Efunra? What’s that?"

"One that swells," he said cheerfully.

That did not sound comforting.

To be safe, we unloaded the entire container—crates, bags, boxes—carefully checking each one. We never found the snake. Meaning? It was still inside somewhere.

Not a great feeling.

The next morning, my discomfort turned to alarm when I learned what Efunra actually meant—a Puff Adder. One of Africa’s most venomous snakes, known for staying completely still when approached.

And so, work continued. And so, I assumed, did the snake.

An Unexpected Delay

As August approached, my departure date was set—August 27th. I will never forget that date.

Leaving Ibadan early, we were halfway to Lagos when we hit a military checkpoint. This time, it looked different.

A discussion ensued between my driver and the soldiers. Then my driver turned to me: "Sorry, sir. Today no go to Lagos. Go back Ibadan. Army change government."

"What?!" My flight was booked!

"No need worry, sir. Airport also closed. No plane can go."

That sinking feeling in my stomach? Unparalleled.

How long will this last? Nobody knew.

Luckily, the transition was peaceful, and after two very long days, the airport reopened. But those 48 hours were some of the longest of my life.

Nigeria had tested me from day one and was determined to keep me on my toes until the last.

The Grand Finale – Lagos Airport Hustle

Back to Ibadan. Wait. Listen to the radio. Roadblocks open. Down to Lagos. Organized a new flight. Made it to the airport. Almost there.

Passport officer takes my passport, glances at it, then at me. Then, his eyes light up as he flips to my yellow fever vaccination book. He shakes his head. “Oh, sir… not good.” Shakes his head again for extra effect. “You entered Nigeria three days too early.”

At this point, I could already hear the church bells. And I knew exactly who the new preacher in town was.

Before I could utter a word, he took my passport and yellow fever certificate, closed the immigration booth—much to the absolute delight of everyone in line behind me—and escorted me to a cozy little office. He sat down, sighed dramatically, and announced, “This is a very serious offense. Cost… 500 dollars.”

Ah, yes. We know this game.

I smiled. “100 dollars will do.”

He lit a cigarette, looked at me like I had just insulted his ancestors, and flashed his best smile. “Sir, please do not insult me.” He took a slow drag and exhaled like a man in no rush. “Okay. 200 dollars. And, of course, no need for a formal receipt.” Then he laughed, like we were old friends sharing an inside joke.

“There is no receipt for such fines, sir.”

Right. Of course not.

“Okay,” I countered. “Final offer—300.”

He gave me that look. The look you give a clueless tourist who still thinks there’s a way out. He shook his head politely. “When is your flight?”

“12:45.”

He stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and stretched like a man about to enjoy his afternoon. “I will take an early lunch now and be back after noon.”

Before I could react, the door shut, and my friendly neighborhood immigration officer was gone.

Alright. What now? I was free to leave—small detail, though: he had my passport. Not ideal. Mental prep time. Flight? Gone. A few extra days in Lagos? Swallow it. Or...

Fifteen minutes into my personal crisis, another gentleman entered. Polished suit. Spotless British accent.

“How are you this fine morning?” he asked with a warm smile. “Would you care for some tea?”

At this point, I was convinced I had stumbled into a theater production.

But tea? Sure, why not? He prepared two cups, and as we sipped, the clock in the background went tick... tick... A gentle reminder that my chances of leaving today were slipping away.

After finishing his tea, he leaned in, all business now. “I am authorized to settle this matter for 400 dollars.”

With the reflexes of a trained magician, I had the money on his desk in a flash. My passport appeared just as fast. And suddenly, I was free. Out the door. Sprinting to the gate like my life depended on it.

Final Thoughts?

1985 Nigeria: not for the short-tempered or weak-nerved. An adventure to the last second.

The best, they play the scam at the end not at the beginning, smart…..not for nothing Nigeria has a whole industry of these services nowadays.

Would I do it again?

Let’s just say, some memories are best left in the past.

Good luck!