“You are the only person I’ve ever met to go on holiday in Lagos. Ever.” Ansi says, flabbergasted as I run into her while attempting to retrieve my still visa-less passport from Andre’s pile in the HR office. “And I lived there for three years.”

When we arrive in the airport and are greeted with a sweltering humidity that just feels like chaos, I know what she’s talking about. We are hustled through a narrow hallway and turn a corner to be greeted by Sayo’s crisply-suited “guy,” standing with his arms crossed against his chest. “Anjarae, Alli, Anna?” he asks. I’m confused as to how he knew to walk straight up to us, until I realize that we…uh…stand out a bit. I’ll totally be able to pass for a Nigerian.

And then there’s Sayo, waiting to lead us to the big black SUV that will take us to his place. “Sayo, why are these doors so heavvvyy?!” we complain. “Because they’re bulletproof.” Casual. The driver opens the door of the trunk. And then another metal door, before securing our bags in the boot. The most valuable thing I brought was the Duty Free perfume I just bought after drinking two bottles of free South African Airways wine on the six hour flight up, so… I don’t know if two layers of bulletproof metal are going to be secure enough, sir.

We’ve been parting the sea of traffic for about ten minutes when I lean over and whisper to Anna, noticing the persistent blue and white police lights in the rear view mirror. “Are we, um, getting pulled over? Is he going to stop, you think?” But she’s learning quicker than I am. “Alli, I’m pretty sure this is our police escort…”

When Sayo said he lived on Banana Island, he wasn’t kidding. I had never seen so many bananas – or rotting fruits of any kind, for that matter – in one place. They looked more attractive, though, once we opened up our greased newspaper full of suya for dinner. Why is it furry? Apparently the insides of “mutton tummy” (as we’ve so aptly named it) have a kind of fuzzy mini tentacle texture. Washes down real nicely with Veuve. Because that’s how it’s done in Nigeria, it seems.

One thing I did expect from Nigeria was good music. So for our first night in Lagos, we weren’t going to accept anything less than an epic dancing night. We started off at a bar called Sip and then moved to a club called Liquid, which seemed appropriate. When we walked in, we were swarmed. My answer to “Where you from?”— “Nigeria, why?”—wasn’t as convincing as I’d hoped. “I can’t take you girls anywhere,” Sayo complained. “You’re like frickin’ fresh meat.” I posed that it was probably just because there weren’t many white girls in the bar. “McBeal, you’re the only white girls to ever step foot in this bar,” he corrected me. Feeling right at home.

Whatever suspicions my “white” hair had risen about my identity were promptly confirmed by my very non-Nigerian dance moves. There are two options: (1) the “surprised-karate-chopper” dance and (2) the “lip-bite-body-roll.” Neither is particularly cool (unless you’re the one doing them). I just figured I’d become a good dancer by being surrounded by good dancers. Judging by Sayo’s raised eyebrows and SMHs, though, he wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t force us to go home until after 4am, so he couldn’t have been too embarrassed.

Saturday morning slapped us silly. A nice icy shower woke us up before we headed out to begin our Lagos ‘vacation’—a beach party. We strapped on our mandatory life jackets and took the boat towards ‘the island’ (wherever that was), gliding in between monolithic ocean liners on our right and seaside slums on our left. Sobering, until they were gone.

Once on land, we hurriedly trek through the scalding sand to Ogi’s house where the party was…supposed to be. But when we arrived, it was just an empty porch overlooking a limp hose trickling water into an empty pool. 

A few minutes later, three Dutch milk men (employees of Peak) show up, confused as to why we’ve crashed their private “poolside” afternoon. One thing led to anotha... and before long we’re hamming it up, hearing about how the closest thing to fresh milk in Nigeria is evaporated syrup in a can. Just as we’re about to score an invitation to come visit them in Amsterdam though, the four-wheeler arrives and Sayo whisks us away to the actual party. He looked like a real badass… until the ATV started to burn the backs of his calves, at which point he screamed “AHHH! OWWW! IT HURRRTS! OWWW! AHHH!” the whole way there, like a little girl. Schwarzenegger Swag? Check.

We pull up to Don’t You Worry Child blasting as a near-professional bartender double fists colorful concoctions, and jollof rice overflows out of a big yellow cooler that smells of Clorox, right next to the “Suya guy” that has somehow been transplanted from streetside to poolside. It was surreal, until I caught the giant eyes of bare-bottomed children peeking through the splintered slats of the fence. A sobering reminder that in this Coachella-esque bubble, we’re in Lagos, not Indio.

The second reality check came when Ogi urged us to hurry up and board the boats home, before the 6pm Pirate Curfew. Apparently, if you’re on the water past 6pm, the police shoot first and ask questions later. It sounded so...real at the time, after a few too many Stars, clearly. Didn’t stop Ewan, the German tourist, from pulling the Titanic move on the bow the whole way home. “This is the BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!” he yelled at the wind. Ok, buddy. I remember my first beer.

“Rally” is an enormous understatement. Showering required tremendous effort, and I failed to convince Anjarae to let me wear my bathing suit out. I remember sneaking away from the Domino’s pizza dinner to snuggle up in a corner on the couch, thinking I was invisible to the party going around behind me. And then being woken up with a shot of tequila chased with an orange slice dipped in Nescafe instant coffee on one side and sugar on the other. Is this a thing? But it worked, and we were off to further confuse our body clocks with Café Patron and Azonto-ing well into the early morning.

I’ve learned a lot here in Africa. But one think I’ve yet to learn is how to stop procrastinating. The Friday before we leave for Lagos, Anjarae informs me that Americans intending to go to Nigeria need a visa. And we haven’t had much luck with African visas in the past, you know? Trouble is, the Consulate General of Nigeria only processes visas on Tuesdays between 10am and 2pm (not including the two hour lunch break from 11-1pm), and it takes at least two weeks. Hashtag Winning.

We are having trouble figuring out how to squirrel our way out of this one. By Saturday lunchtime, we’ve given up and have decided to drink away our sorrows on the beach in Braamfontein. Because why would there not be a beach on a rooftop in the middle of the CBD? It feels like LA with the amount of silicone up here. After a few Grolsch beers (which go down like water, for the record) with Chemeli, Anjarae and I whisk Margot off to our next day drinking event – a braai at James’ new place.

We’re running around Wooly’s like it’s Supermarket Sweep. Clutching raw chicken chunks, as many bags as potato crisps as we can hold, and a small packet of mixed nuts, Margot is really excited to see how the “real South Africans” spend their Saturday afternoons. “Ooooh! I’ve never been to a bris before!” Eish.

By the time we put a dent in the Chenin Blanc(s), we’ve done the “Bada-ba-ba-ba”s of the whole A&A in Africa show, and James is laughing at how we’ve somehow failed this Nigeria trip, especially after booking it months ago. Depressed with depressants, we struggle to make it to dinner for Sijh’s birthday. But friendship first! So we saddle up and head into Sandton City for dinner, where Anj finds herself complaining to Uchenna about how big of a bummer this whole visa deal is. “Oh, my uncle works in the Consulate. I’ll get him to talk to his friend.” Ahh, NOW we’re talking…

Fast forward to Tuesday. My one day that is truly back to back with meetings from, let’s see, oh yes – 10-2pm. Convenient since those are the only hours of operation for the visa processing. So I’m just going to do the best I can. I rush to Illovo the second I’m out of class, printing out plane tickets, Sayo’s baby-faced passport, my bank statement showing my empty savings account (#nonprofitlivin’), and his letter of invitation. “This is to serve as a letter of invitation to the above named who is a friend of mine and resides at Flat 20, to visit me in Lagos, Nigeria on vacation…Yours faithfully, Oluwafeyisayo Folawiyo.”  20 what, Sayo? Super helpful. “As if I wrote it, McKee.”

After rushing to park in the Design store parking lot despite the berating guard, we’re forced to wait at the big green gate to be let in until our Invitee is ready for us. It’s like the Wizard of Oz over here. But just as the gate finally opens, the guard threatens me that if I don’t move my car…So I trade Anj and Anna my passport and stack of papers for two sets of keys, and I’m the new Nigerian Consulate Valet man. Turns out hopping curbs in Nugget to create parking spots is harder than it looks.

I’m sweaty from running cars around town as I beg at the Big Green Gate once again. CONSULATE GENERAL OF NIGERIA it reads, in block letters. And below the seal: Unity and Faith, Peace and Progress. I so badly want to make some progress right now. Just let me IN!

When I barge into the EXIT door and into the aircon of the lobby, it feels like I’ve reached the 4^th level of Super Mario Brothers. Now I’m just looking for coins. I find my way upstairs into the corner office where Anna and Anj are sitting across from our new best friend, a stack of three passports in his hand. People come in and out, dressed in caps and robes, and we can’t quite gauge whether this is actually happening or not.

He urges me to “get back to my kids” but I insist on staying with my paperwork just in case I need to sign (or don’t want to abandon my only really important possession at the Nigerian embassy). “If you need to sign, I’ll buy you a lawyer.” Alrighty then. When he hands our passports over to a lovely woman in a silvery blue gown, we know we’re in.

But our new best friend won’t have us sitting there in silence. “I have something I need you to read since you’re Americans!” he exclaims, as he gets click-happy and prints 6 copies of an article. 

“US consulate worker killed in Joburg.”  OoooK? And then we’ve launched into a debate over what a man could have possibly done to “earn the stabbing of a woman.” Um, I can think of a couple things. “Is the moral of the story to beware of beautiful women?” he asks us. Pretty sure there’s nothing about beauty anywhere in here, but we’ll let him go with it…until we get back our passports. “Are you going to take me out to the Sahara and leave me for dead since you are beautiful women?” he demands. Where did this go so wrong?

Passports in hand, it’s time to leave our new best friend. Anj and I go home to celebrate with chicken parm night on the roof and a delicious bottle of Chocolate Block. We’re going to Nigeria!

Now for packing. It’s Thursday and we’re doing our last minute shuffle for our flight in the morning. “Wait a minute, do we need anything for malaria?” Anj asks. Nah, probably not, I say. “Well, let me look up the map just to be sure.”

We just don’t learn, do we?

Monday morning. The fourteenth. I drove to school at 5:50, Rivers and Roads on repeat. 6:45am Meditation in Conference Room One. Doors slammed and mops sloshed, but it was easy to find my mantra this morning. Not here I am, but there you are.

Our 7:45am lesson was on Servant Leadership. I watched as my sleepy-eyed students struggled to stay awake through the four page article. We talked through the bullets. Is Servant leadership something you’re born with or do you develop it? What does it mean to be “sharply awake and reasonably disturbed?” Who are servant leaders you know? They were getting it, but barely. So I told them to put away the reading.

I turned off the lights and flashed up a picture of The Lawn at UVA. The Rotunda, the columns, the piles of firewood, the rocking chairs. “Who knows who Thomas Jefferson is?” I began. Yep, Ms. Alli's going crazy. Fueling their confusion, I talked through how he was also an incredible architect. And how he designed the Lawn at the University of Virginia, where I went to “uni.” I told them about the Lawn, lined with student rooms, and how the highest leadership honor at UVA was to be selected to live in one of those teensy bathroom-less rooms. Who needs aircon in August, anyway?

I told them about how I’d tried to President of this and Chair of that, piling positions onto my CV with my eyes on the prize – a (not-so-luxurious) Lawn room. "I’d thought I had a good shot – a really good shot, actually. So when I got that rejection email that January evening in 2008, I was devastated. I couldn’t believe it. If I hadn’t gotten it, who had? I was the P-res-ident of Kappa for goodness sakes! Chair of Student Arts Committee! Practically a 4.0 distinguished majors student! What else could you want, Thomas Jefferson!?!?" I winced in embarrassment and shame at my third-year self. My kids did, too. Guess those empathy lessons have been paying off, eh? They had expected me to tell them a success story.

But the success wasn’t mine. “When I found out one of my best friends, Sydney, got a room on the Lawn,” I told them, “I was totally confused. Wait a minute, what did she do to get a room? What positions had she held that had impressed the committee?” Even more wincing. "But Sydney wasn’t the one holding important positions. She had been doing things all along, sneaking out on Saturdays (while we were all still hungover in bed) to do community service, running programs none of her closest friends even knew about, really. Never asking for credit, for praise. She did it because she was truly serving others. The whole time. Not herself, not her resume."

They sat silent. “And I tell you this because Sydney is the best servant leader I’ve ever known. And it special that this was today’s lesson because one year ago today, we lost Sydney in a skiing accident.”

Breathe. “At her funeral, they described her in the most perfect way,” I told them. I tried to slow my shaking hands as I read the printout of the sermon. When Sydney walked into a room, it was not ‘Here I am’ but ‘There you are.’

Now that’s servant leadership. When the lights came on, my sleepy students were gone. They had gotten it. Class ended with a flurry of hugs. “Your friend sounds really special, Ms. Alli.” And in true Syd form, she’s still here, making us all better people. Whether it’s me or 17 year olds from across the African continent that she’s never met. She’s still inspiring us.

…

Two weeks later, and I’m still scrambling to do one-on-ones with each of my 21 students. Isaac and I are finishing up as he forks over his Sodexo dinner doused in gravy. “Anything else you want to talk about?” I ask. Making sure we’ve covered all the bases, you know. “No, Ms. Alli. I think that’s all.” But then he pauses, and I know he's got something else to say. “Ms. Alli, I just wanted to say thank you for sharing the story about your friend...Sydney, right? I wanted to tell you that I think about what you said a lot. The part about ‘Not here I am, but there you are.’ Like a lot, a lot.” 

And here she is again.