On December 21, 2014, there were over seventy-five people lined up at Abuja's local airport waiting to check in their luggage en route to Owerri, Port Harcourt, Lagos and so forth.
Matt Ntekim was heading to Owerri.
The slow-moving line was made even slower by paid agents who cut in to help people with an aversion to order and patience.
A mini giant, three people in front of Matt, quickly moved to confront one such agent who had pushed in front of everybody to help a young woman in a hurry.
'She must line up,' the giant swore at the agent.
The giant was taller by a good 12 inches.
He made a fist that he hauled in the air at a thirty-degree elbow angle.
From where he glimpsed the drama, Matt knew for certain that he was going to witness swollen lips and the smell of tropically-scented blood.
'Sir, I did not intend to...
' the agent began to say, but the giant gave him no chance to finish the sentence.
'Didn't you hear me?' the giant roared, 'I say she must line up.
' Matt moved in for a closer observation but could only see the top profile of the giant.
He had shaved his scalp down to the skin, perhaps to hide his premature balding.
Going by his agility, Matt put the giant's age in the early thirties.
A roll of fat, inadequately tucked under his yellow shirt collar, swayed with his swagger of strength and outspokenness.
The lady and her agent backed off in time to avoid pandemonium.
Eventually, Matt made it to the check-in counter.
His mobile phone confirmed that he had waited for over two hours.
Five suitcases were hauled onto the flat scale and weighed.
Matt watched as the airline attendant brought out his calculator and punched in some numbers.
'Seventy thousand naira for excess luggage,' the worker at the counter said.
'The cashier is a couple of counters over on the right,' he pointed.
'When you're done, bring back the receipt.
' Matt paid the cashier and brought back his receipt.
His luggage was tagged and taken away.
The trial and the temptations were over; Matt exhaled a musty sigh of relief.
He looked forward to finally recovering from the six-hour flight from Heathrow to Abuja.
'Congratulations on a job well done,' Matt heard as he rejoined the rest of his family, all of whom had been standing waiting as there were no seats.
The celebration was short-lived.
Only half an hour had gone by when Matt was summoned by another airline employee.
'But you have many bottles of wine in your luggage.
' Matt was staring at the face of a heavyset woman.
She wore a blue uniform and a blue beret cap tilted to the right.
Judging by the authority in her voice, nobody worth the cost of their education would doubt the lady was in charge of letting their luggage and its contents get from Abuja to the desired destination.
What a fool he was, Matt thought, thinking there would be any time for relaxing in Nigeria! He should have known that trouble lay all the way.
It didn't even matter whether he was on his way in or about to leave the country.
He thought back over his movements since the plane had landed.
Hadn't every three feet been met with a strip search or a pat-down? Hadn't most of his encounters with uniformed men or women at the airport been followed by a cash shakedown? Hadn't all his efforts to be cordial been followed by bag-grabbing and hordes of unsolicited help? 'Anybody could be Boko Haram,' was one employee's explanation for all the humiliating treatment received at the hands of airport staff.
Matt searched his intelligence for an answer.
It was yet another new experience.
He was one of those folk who visit Nigeria so infrequently that they are ignorant of both the rules and the nuance of the country.
Looking for a tool in his repertoire of social skills, he found a disarming, nice-guy smile.
He beamed.
But the lady wasn't buying any of it.
There was no smile on her corrugated cheek.
It was all business.
She seemed to dodge around Matt like someone trying to avoid being the target of a sharpshooter, but he still had enough time to study her.
Uneven fat distribution was lodged on her exposed neck and arms.
The fat wiggled like a yoyo with each step she took.
Each time she left, Matt pondered.
Was wine contraband in Nigeria? Was it now illegal to drink wine here? Perhaps there was a limit to how many bottles of wine one could carry from Abuja to Owerri.
The heavy woman returned.
'Tell me, what is going on?' Matt inquired.
Madam kept repeating the mantra, 'But you have lots of wine in those bags.
' Matt eventually caught up with the hint of a threat: 'do you want these bottles of wine to get to Owerri or not?' Suddenly it dawned on him.
This place is home.
This land is Nigeria.
And this is Christmas.
He dug into his pants and plastered the single worn-out five hundred naira note onto her cupped palm.
But it seemed this wasn't the answer.
'We are not that cheap,' Madam protested and walked away.
She had the upper hand; Matt had to placate her or risk losing his bottles of wine.
What about being an accomplice to bribery? 'It's Christmas' was the rationale Matt used to justify his part, as we all do, finding appropriate reasons to support both our positive and negative actions.
Matt caught up with Madam and upped his offer to a thousand naira.
She grabbed the single note and shoved it into her skirt pocket.
She was brazen.
But she was no different from most Nigerians.
Sorry to disappoint, but except for a meal of joloff rice, fresh fish and fried plantain, nothing else worked.
The airport bathroom was an eyesore.
Don't go by the departure time written on your plane ticket - that's just the boarding time.
Who cares? The boarding time doesn't exist.
Get on to your airline if you don't like it.
Should the country's moral standards be watered down just like its currency, Matt wondered? Should we all as citizens agree to live in a land of lawlessness, with no ethics, no expected level of conduct, and where everybody does just as they please?