Some of you have heard this story before. But I am at the airport and the woman at the counter has me triggered: she reminds me of the smiling German woman I met at a check-in counter in Berlin on my way to the US who is the reason I have trust issues in my life. Achtung!

I am a good African. I have great respect for travel processes. I behave myself at embassies, always have more documents than I need. Embassy and passport trauma makes you have great respect for any process that involves the presentation of a passport, foremost of which is flying

I typically arrive at airports too early. Because you know, mans got a green passport. I am on my way to Boston. Although I still cannot spell Massachusetts without autocorrect, I have practiced in my fake American accent how to say Boston, Massachusetts. Together, like one word.

I say it to myself in the mirror:

Where are you going to Mr Elnathan?

Bawstun Mehsechuusits.

Bawstun. Bawstun Mehsechuusits.

I feel confident. Confident enough, that I think, if they do not see my shit green passport they may even first think I am an African American.

My American visa was easy. If you have gone through the fire of German immigration and they accept you enough to stamp a residence permit in your passport, everyone trusts you a bit more. Because we trust Germans with technical shit. Like engineering. And screening foreigners.

I am flying from Berlin. To Amsterdam. To New York. To Bawstun. Bawstun Mehsechuuusitz. I have three boarding passes, printed out myself. I have ironed my clothes to death: as a black person you learn to dress well to the airport, anything to reduce the likelihood of disrespect.

I am not in a hurry. I know they will check my Nigerian passport. Look deep into my beautiful brown eyes to see that I am not my cousin, because you know how black people look alike and use each others passports. They will check my German visa. Then they will CHEECK my US visa.

I am the last person to board the flight. I am excited: the people who have asked me to come to Boston are paying me three times what the stingy organisations in Germany pay me for events. Because AMERIKAHHH! Bigger, richer, home of the free, land of the something-something...

I have always felt that an honest smile travels with an SASE. You get it back. I smile broadly at the German check-in lady. Show her my boarding passes. She checks my visas and passport. She looks at my face. Here, I should have known. But I wasn't listening to the voice of Jesus

Do you want me to help you with that? she asks me.
With what? I say
I see you have many boarding passes. I can give you just one.

Wow, I think. German customer service in Berlin, friendly? Surely there is a god.

Yes please! I tell her, smiling even more. Nice woman, Jesus!

She tears up my boarding passes as soon as I hand them to her. Punches in some keys and hands me back one crisp boarding pass for my entire journey. Bawstun baby!

But I should have known. That she was not a child of god punching in my name. She was adding demonic codes to my boarding pass: She typed SSSS on my new boarding pass. High on her smile and niceness I did not notice this. Like a cow to the slaughter I walked through. BAWSTUN!

I land in Amsterdam and get in line for my next flight. Ahead of me they ask an Arab looking bearded guy to step aside. I think: oh dear, the things these guys have to go through at airports.
I present my boarding pass. The lady, a black woman, looks at me nervously.

She turns to her colleague and shows her the boarding pass, like she is trying to let someone cheat during WAEC exams. They ask me to step aside while they attend to others. She looks at me, apologetic.

I am like: I am not with the Arab, Jesus! No! I even have a Jewish name!

A bald, menacing Asian looking guy shows up. He takes both of us to a corner where they have some special equipment. He barely utters any words. Just short instructions. There. Here. Spread open. Wider. Up. Down. Turn around. Did you pack yourself. Are you alone.
Then my bags.

He checks every single item in my bag for drug residue. My shoes. My belt. I spread so wide I am afraid I might fart. After a while, he lets me go. My bag is in chaos. And I am the last to board the flight. Just as I walk in the door closes. I don't think the Arab guy boarded.

It is a long flight and I try to drink my trauma away. I work on my material for Bawstun. I have forgotten how to Mehsechuusitz. Now I am just going to America. This has been too fucking stressful. And I am glad that at least I did not fart. I am all about the wine now.

New York. New York baby! Just one more flight. It's a long ass queue but all is well. The airport seems efficient and the line is moving fast. Black people everywhere at the airport. Nice. I love feeling invisible, something hard for black people in Europe, except in like London.

I present my boarding pass to a guy at the security check in New York. He almost waves me through. Then he looks at my boarding pass again. And asks me to hold it and step aside. No discretion. He freaks the fuck out. He screams at a guy on the other end: HOUSE GUEST!!!

The guy on the other end screams to another guy: HOUSE GUEST!!! Now everyone is looking at me. My entire life flashes before my eyes. I wonder what has happened. I have never heard this phrase before. People are scampering, I dont know why. Two guy whisper to each other. Fuck!

I start to doubt myself. Did I smoke weed months ago and forget it in my bag? Have I committed a crime which is only a crime in America? Did I insult someone? Is my visa fake? Was I scammed in Berlin? Are handcuffs tight around the hand like in the movies? Can I survive jail?

Finally they find the guy who will handle the HOUSE GUEST.

Follow me sir, he says.

Is everything ok? I ask

Just follow me.

I want you to spread your arms wide and your feet as wide as you can. Do you have any sharp objects on you?

Me: NO!!!

Him: Now I am going to have to ask you: for this procedure, would you like a private room?

Me: PRIVATE ROOM??? What are you about to do to me? Will we need condoms? Lubricant? Why do I need a private room Jesus?

It might be better he suggests, for everyone.

In Germany I know my rights and my way around. I know what they can and cannot do to me. I know very little about America. I have only been here once before.

And I am like, you know what? Whatever you have to do to me, do it here, in front of everyone. Let people SEE IT!

Tears well up in my eyes. I feel his hands everywhere. He warns me when he is about to touch my buttocks. He says he will use the back of his hands. As if that were better. I want to say to him, if you are feeling up my ass and crotch, I might as well benefit from it. Do it well.

I feel his hands rub my ass up and down. I spread wider. His hands go between my legs. The back of his hands touch the bottom of my balls. His hands go over my chest, across my nipples. A feverish cold sluices over me. I am gritting my teeth. I know I cannot express anger now.

Then I zone out. I am out of my body, watching it happen. Watching him go over my body again. Then my bags and every item I have been carrying. I am not there. It is not happening to me. These tears in my eyes are not real. The people staring are not looking at me. It can't be me

SSSS. That is what got me this personal massage. SSSS. From a smiling German lady offering to help. SSSS. For the one black passenger on the plane. SSSS all the way to Bawstun.

Ps. Now I have to fly people. Hugs and kisses and see you all on the other side.

I will end by saying passports and citizenship are perhaps the most valuable currencies of our age. This is where global inequalities manifest most acutely, most violently, most effectively. This is the stage where power plays. More than most things it tells us where our world is