CHAPTER ONE
From Accra to Lagos
The Kotoka International Airport departure hall still smelt of roasted plantain and last-minute tears when Raymond Benson Jameson hugged his auntie for the final time.
"Be a good boy for your papa," Auntie Grace whispered into his ear, squeezing him so tight he could feel her heart beating against his chest. "And call me when you land, eh? Promise me."
"I promise," Raymond muttered, voice already cracking. Seventeen years in Ghana, and now everything was ending in one afternoon.
He pulled away, adjusted the strap of the new backpack his father had couriered from Nigeria two weeks ago (real leather, the kind that made his classmates in Accra Academy jealous), and walked towards the departure gate without looking back. If he looked back, he would cry, and boys from East Legon did not cry in public.
The Air Peace flight to Lagos was half-empty. Raymond took a window seat, pressed his forehead against the cold glass, and watched Accra shrink beneath him: the red earth, the blue Atlantic, the yellow tro-tros fighting like soldier ants. Seventeen years of his life are disappearing under the clouds.
By the time the plane touched down at Murtala Muhammed International Airport, the sun had already started its angry Lagos descent. The heat hit him the moment the cabin doors opened (thick, sticky, and smelling of jet fuel mixed with suya smoke).
He rolled his suitcase through arrivals, eyes scanning the crowd of drivers holding cardboard signs. Then he saw it:
MASTER RAYMOND JAMESON
The man holding the sign was tall, skin the colour of burnt coconut, wearing a neat white kaftan and a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Mr. Eyipada, his father's driver.
"Welcome to Nigeria, small oga," the man said, taking the suitcase with one hand and touching his cap with the other. "Your papa dey wait outside."
Raymond followed him through the chaos (hawkers shouting, policemen eyeing travellers for "something small", okadas weaving dangerously between cars) until they reached a black Toyota Land Cruiser with tinted windows and a government plate. The back door opened before they even reached it.
Mr. Benson Jameson stepped out.
Raymond had not seen his father in the flesh for almost nine years. The man on TV looked smaller, but this one in real life was huge: broad shoulders under a crisp navy-blue senator suit, gold wristwatch catching the sun, and a smile now wide enough to swallow the whole airport.
"My son!" Mr. Benson's voice boomed. He pulled Raymond into a bear hug, the kind that squeezed the air out of your lungs. "Look at you! You are now a man!"
Raymond stood stiff at first, then let himself be hugged. The scent of expensive perfume mixed with a faint trace of the Ankara his father used to wear when he visited Ghana years ago.
When they finally pulled apart, Mr. Benson held him at arm's length. "You look like your mother," he said softly, and for a second the politician's mask slipped. Pain flashed across his face, raw and real.
The mention of his mother made Raymond's throat tight again. She had died eight months ago (breast cancer that came fast and took faster). The funeral in Accra had been big, but empty without this man who was now holding his shoulders like he was afraid he would disappear.
"Come inside the motor," Mr. Benson said, clearing his throat. "Lagos traffic does not respect anybody."
Inside the cool, leather-scented SUV, Mr. Eyipada started the engine and eased into the madness of Airport Road. Raymond stared out the window as Lagos unfolded like a fever dream: danfos painted with dizzy colours, women balancing trays of pure water on their heads, boys chasing tyres with sticks, and everywhere dust and noise and life.
"You will love it here," his father said beside him, placing a heavy hand on his knee. "I have arranged everything. Crown Atlantic University, one of the best private universities in Lagos. Your admission letter came last week. You start next month."
Raymond nodded. University. The word still felt too big, like clothes he hadn't grown into yet.
"I know it's not easy," his father continued, voice softer now. "Leaving Ghana, leaving your friends, leaving… everything you know. But I lost your mother. I cannot lose you too. I want you close to me now. I want to be your father again, Raymond. For real this time."
Raymond turned to look at him. The man's eyes were wet.
"I should have brought you earlier," Mr. Benson added, almost to himself. "I was too busy chasing contracts and seats in Abuja. God punished me."
The car crawled past a massive billboard that read: WELCOME TO EKO, THE CENTRE OF EXCELLENCE.
Raymond felt the weight of a new country pressing against the windows. Ghana already felt like a dream fading fast.
He didn't know it yet, but the Lagos that swallowed him that hot October evening was about to teach him lessons no father, no university, and no amount of money could buy.
And some of those lessons would nearly kill him.