Mar 25 2008
A reporter’s life in Nigeria
I came to Nigeria in the morning, before the sun had risen, and when the haze still gathers over the covered hills. It’s the kind of haze that the occasional palm tree can break, between the shadows of rolling ups and downs in the earth. The airport was quiet, but not in a way that matches the skies. The airport is quiet in an empty way—the way that guards are kept late into the night and the customs officials are scraping the sleep off their eyes as they hassle the incoming passengers.
