the first time i sat in an aircraft

a mirror selfie at the schiphol airport, amsterdam

The first time I sat in an airplane, I was a toddler clutching my sister’s right hand with both of mine. It was a school excursion from my primary school — one of those big childhood promises dressed up as a field trip. We were told we’d fly high enough to see our houses from above. That they’d even call our mothers and tell them to wave up at the sky as we flew past. It sounded magical.

The fee they charged for that excursion reflected the size of that promise. So we believed them. Without question.

I remember sitting by the aisle, and the school photographer came around to take photos of us — small kids buzzing with hope. Five minutes later, the teachers hurried us off the plane, saying other schools were waiting for their turn. I assumed we were simply letting them take their pictures before we finally took off.

I got down proudly, convinced I’d be called back once it was our time to fly. But instead, we were led to the reception area. They handed out doughnuts and drinks. That was the end of it. No flight. No sky. No waving mothers. Just snacks and confusion.

And then, as if to salt the wound, our head teacher, Mrs. Mary, told us to sing: “We are H-A-P-P-Y!”

But I wasn’t happy. My shoulder dropped. My heart sank. I was devastated. I had wanted so badly to wave to my grandmother from the sky. I felt deeply betrayed. So, I cried.

It’s funny now — how cruel and absurd that experience was. I still don’t understand why they did that to children. Maybe they thought it was harmless, just a way to simulate joy. I was excited. I didn’t sleep the night before. But the excitement died before it could soar, and we all now know why.

Since then, I’ve flown several times within Nigeria. Local flights here and there. But every time I enter an aircraft, I remember that betrayal.

Today is Tuesday. It’s 12:52 PM. My bags are packed, and I’ll be heading to the airport soon. This time, I know the plane will take off. I’m going to Amsterdam for the World Press Photo Awards Ceremony. My very first international trip. There won’t be a wave to my grandmother, mum, aunt, or sister — but there will be a video call. I will wave. I will share this journey with them, virtually. And it will mean everything.

Right now, I’m thinking about what exactly I want to say in this Medium piece — beyond just how excited I am. Because I am. I really, really am.

Barely 16 months into photography, I’ve been selected as one of 42 winners of the World Press Photo Award. Out of 59,000 entries from 3,778 photographers across 141 countries. I am one of them. A number among numbers. A story among stories. A voice among voices.

“Mother Moves, House Approves” — my winning image — is the kind of story that holds history in its arms and whispers:

“I see you. I remember. You exist in love.”

That story reminded me that i’m doing something right. It’s now 4 PM. I’m preparing to leave the house. My plan is to be at the airport by 6 PM latest. My flight is at 10 PM, but this is Lagos. I’d rather wait patiently than miss vital information in the usual chaos. I don’t thrive in disorder.

My mum and the love of my life escorted me to the airport. I made it on time. Check-in was smooth. And, in full Lagos fashion, I bagged four toasters on the way to boarding. I know — it’s not easy being hot. Numbers were exchanged, I flirted a little, but will I text back? I doubt it.

It’s now 10:20 PM. The flight is preparing for takeoff in ten minutes. I feel ecstatic. I feel at peace.

This is a good feeling.

This journey will change my life.

I know it already has.