"I shouldn't have come alone." I whispered, eyes darting nervously around the technicoloured foyer. "I really shouldn't be in a hotel by myself." I sighed, my usual calm disposition giving way to panic. Although my life was not in any imminent danger, from the moment Tamba the driver unloaded my luggage, I felt an uncomfortable ball of anxiety building from the pit of my stomach, crawling via my midriff and settling in my chest. Was it the dim lit foyer? My palms begun to sweat. I felt unsettled about something, and the more I could not figure it out, the more anxious I became.  Read more... (1571 words, 2 images, estimated 6:17 mins reading time)

Monrovia. It sounded too exotic to be the name of a capital city in West Africa. I formed this opinion as a child listening wide-eyed as my mother and her friends traded stories of their travels to Liberia. From snippets of their animated accounts, I wove a lush tapestry of a sophisticated and advanced Monrovia where the posh and ambitious travelled  to trade. With this image dancing in my head, you can imagine the frequency of my heart palpitations when on January 14th 2011, my carefully crafted plans to visit Liberia appeared to collapse with the incremental hourly delay of Air Nigeria.