In November of 2008, I was working for an aid organization in West Africa. They had me bouncing around several countries, but mainly between Mali, Guinea, Cote d’ Ivoire, and Burkina Faso. Back in London, my sister Annabelle was getting married in two days. Despite telling her I couldn't make it, I managed to move heaven and earth, and found a window of opportunity. The idea was to show up, surprise her, (along with the rest of my family), lots of kisses, and toasts all around, a storybook happy ending. Enter Afriqiyah Airways, (pronounced Ahh-freak-ya), the Libyan state-owned airline, based in Tripoli, it was vying to connect North and West Africa to the rest of the world. Despite flying all over West Africa, this would be my first time on Afriqiyah. The itinerary was less than desirable. Early Saturday morning flight out of Burkina Faso’s vibrant capital, Ouagadougou to Tripoli (Libya) change planes then a non-stop to Gatwick. My best mate volunteered to be an accomplice and collect me at the airport upon arrival, with plenty of time to clean up, change and make a grand entrance. The first leg of the journey began with a grueling 400-mile drive from Korhogo, a remote village nestled in the northern tip of the Ivory Coast or Cote d’Ivoire. A rough ride it is. Exhausted but still in one piece, I arrived in Ouaga around 9 pm. At the check-in desk, I asked the agent if everything was on time. With the sincerest look, he replied, “Sir, we are on-time only 71% of the time, we will leave, when we can leave”. Not very reassuring, but honest, nonetheless. We finally boarded just after Midnight. The airbus A320 was a 3-3 configuration. It felt rather normal. I took my seat and slumped against the window. Fortunately, the seat to my left was empty, providing some additional room to stretch out. To my left, a Tuareg man wrapped in an indigo turban, sat in the aisle seat. Despite my exhaustion, I nodded my head, smiled and offered the obligatory, “Good evening”. He turned, smiled back, “Did you miss another flight?” I responded, “No, why”. “Because not many people want to go to Tripoli at 1:00 AM”. “Well, it’s actually a connecting flight, I’m traveling to London”. For whatever reason, my response satisfied his curiosity. “Ahh, I see” he nodded and then closed his eyes. Pre-flight announcements in Arabic, and we were off. 3 1/2 hours later we touched down in Tripoli. I nervously checked my watch. Less than an hour to catch my connecting flight, I managed to squirm my way towards the front of the cabin. Ignoring the dirty looks from other passengers, I began profusely apologizing “Pardon me”, “Kindly excuse me", “So sorry, I have a tight connection”. I would have made it to the door, had I not been met by Afriqiyah flight attendant. Her eyes piercing right at me. “I am sorry. You will not make your connection” she said, with a slight in of embarrassment. "Tell them you need to be on the 8:30 flight. Otherwise, if you don’t get on that you will be stuck in the airport for another day, Do not even try to make it. You need to get on the 8:30”. My heart began to sink, “Then what time will I arrive in London?”. “Scheduled to land at noon, but likely 1:00 pm” A wave of relief washed over me. I might be close, but I will still make it. The terminal smelled of stale cigarettes and bleach. There was an enormous picture of General Moammar Gaddafi’, Libya’s autocratic President. I pass through immigration to the transit area. Finally, after several discussion with Afriqiyah staff, I am confirmed on the 8:30 AM flight. I tried to phone my mate to tell him I didn’t make my flight, but for some unknown reason my phone doesn’t work in Libya. I wander through the terminal in search of a payphone. After several minutes, I notice a rather large amount of security nervously standing loitering around. . Something is clearly out of the ordinary. Over by the window, a small group of passengers stand looking out the window. Quietly I saunter over to take a peek of whatever has captured their attention. The object of attention was parked on tarmac. An Afriqiyah Airbus A340 surrounded by armed guards. At first I thought, “Wow who knew Afriqiyah had such a big planes”. Glancing at the man to the right of me I attempt to ask a question using only my facial gestures. He looks around and discreetly whispers, “Gad-a-hafi”. An uneasy feeling crept over me. “After all this, Libya’s strongman, was standing in the way of me attending my sisters wedding”. My concern was justified. A few minutes later an announcement was made informing passengers that the flight to London was delayed. It became rather apparent, that everything stops for the General. For the next hour I tried hard to not entertain thoughts like, can you recommend a good hotel in Tripoli?” Or even worse, “Annabelle, congrats on the wedding! Would have loved to have been there, but you’ll never guess where I’m calling from.” I kept thinking what if I got stuck here in Tripoli? I would be that crazy old man stuck who got stuck in Libyan airport. My daydreaming was interrupted by an announcement in arabic followed by English. I made out the word “Gatwick". Perhaps Mr. Gadhafi decided to leave later. A short while later, Afriqiyah Airways ft 222 departed Tripoli. Landing at Gatwick was typical chaos. The immigration officer laughed at me when I explained I was here for a wedding that starts in an hour. Outside, I quickly hailed a cab. I managed to change clothes in the back of the taxi. Finally, after 33 hours of traveling I walked into the church. There were many gasps, tears of joy, and lots of laughter. After the ceremony, in a private moment, my little sister looked at me, “How?” I looked back at her, “Afriqiyah. Ahh-free-kay baby!” - M. Walker, 2022