Enid Otun  0:00  
Hello, and welcome to season two of, if women were meant to fly, the sky would be pink. Episode Two challenges ahead. I'm Enid Otun. In this episode, I prepare for two months in the US to obtain my airline transport pilot's license, I experience an interesting medical issue that I could only laugh at years later, and political upheaval rocks the country.

I was definitely ready for my next trip to the US. Apart from the fact that I could stock up on stationery and gadgets, which are some of my favorite things to do. I would be on the final leg of my goal to gaining my first command in the very near future. But first, I had to build up 100 night hours which were slow going on my normal work schedule, and then take a course. For this, Bristow's would be sending me to Houston, Texas. First stop would be Port Arthur, where I would join a local flying school and build the 80 or so hours that I needed at night. I would then proceed back to Houston to complete my ATPL course on the Beechcraft duchess, a twin engine piston, which I saw very majestic. I was about six weeks away from my trip and busy as usual. The Lagos flying club was taking up a lot of my time at the weekend, as people realized that we had a fully functioning flying school available again. On the rare occasions that I had time off, I would spend time by the pool wherever possible. I wasn't a particularly big swimmer. But I did enjoy the solitude to be had when invested in the latest Russian classical novel, reclined on a sun lounger, with the occasional foray to the pools edge to hang my legs over the side. Yeah, I would even get my legs out and into shorts, which was a very rare thing indeed, considering I lived in uniform seven days a week. 

About a week after this, I started to itch rather severely on the back of my thighs. I didn't initially take much notice as I was always picking up some form of allergy or another. But I did become slightly alarmed when my mother noticed that the area had begun to look like the moons surface, with red bumps appearing. After a further day of agonizing itching and discomfort, I decided to visit my doctor Dr. Okupa, who gave me an immediate appointment. Expecting him to diagnosis skin complaint, I nonchalantly strolled in with my usual upbeat greeting. I'm here to see my favorite doctor, happy that I wasn't getting my twice yearly medical, or on the receiving end of a anti malarial shot. He examined my thighs and let out what I can only describe as a concerned exclamation. 'What' I said, 'Larvae', he said, 'Say again' I said, 'Definitely fly larvae',he said. It was at this point that I actually tried to get away from my own thighs. He told me that although it was rare for him to see, it was not that uncommon. By lying on the sun lounger, (most probably) without a towel, flies had layed their eggs and burrowed into my thighs to hatch, while I lay on it. I will just pause for a moment to let that sink in. OH MY GOD. The smelling salts were great help to bring me round, but I wasn't absolutely certain that I wanted to be conscious just then. I yelped, cried and then try to maintain some composure as he explained that the best way to bring the little buggers to the surface, to extract them, was to fill the entry points, which were now open holes, with oil to starve them of oxygen. I was a receptacle for bloody fly families, and I wasn't happy. Who does that? Who burrows into your legs like they are prime real estate and then sets up family housing? UGH was an understatement. He got to work right away filling up each entry point with oil. It was then a waiting game, as they slowly came to the surface as they ran out of oxygen. He estimated approximately two hours and suggested that I be taken upstairs to a ward so that I could be more comfortable, and where the oil would be refilled. I was a little more comfortable in a private room and had a TV to watch, albeit on my front so that the oil wouldn't drain out of the holes in my legs. Imagine my surprise when the afternoon film came on. Yes, it was alien with Sigourney Weaver.

Now in all, I had five entry points across both my thighs. My doctor carefully extracted the fat worm like larvae that had taken up residence in my body, from each of the oil filled holes and placed them carefully and still alive in a kidney dish. My stomach contents then joined them. 

I was signed off work for a week while my thighs were treated with copious quantities of antibiotic powder, and healed. And when I was finally allowed back to work, several of my colleagues made sure that my aircraft seat was covered with a gaily decorated beach towel just to make me feel better. Sun loungers and my legs would never meet again, not without an added bulletproof barrier. Creepy crawlies were abundant in my flat as they were everywhere in Lagos. From cockroaches to ants, flies and rats. The rats took up residence outside in and around large gutters, designed to be free flowing, covered and cleaned regularly. Flies and cockroaches were regularly treated to raid baths within a residence. The Raid bath was the highly toxic flyspray of the day with a powerful slogan which stated the obvious, 'Raid kills flies dead'. I wasn't really sure what else you could be except dead if you've been killed. But anyway, looking back at that time, we didn't have any of the safeguards in place to ensure humans were protected from toxins. Raid as a flyspray was probably suited more to open chemical warfare, as the moment you emptied the can into the room, you had to retreat to avoid being overcome by the noxious fumes. Even several hours later, when it was supposedly safe to enter, you were met with a film of wetness over every surface, and the feeling that your lungs had been physically assaulted. Now, cockroaches were my mortal enemies, not least because they were the size of a small rat. Well, at least it seemed that way to me. Them and their huge antenna, and the way they scurried across work surfaces and sometimes you. These buggers would get the whole can of raid treatment from me. I wasn't willing to take a shoe to them because it was touch and go as to whether they would resurrect from a squashed mess under your shoe and then they'd really hate you. Also, the crunch when they succumbed to your superior weight, was equally disturbing. How any of us survived the 80's toxic creepy crawly onslaught was a mystery to me. 

Throughout Nigeria's History, there has been upheaval, as there has been in every country around the world. Unfortunately, we went through a period of government instability after independence in 1960, which often took the form of a coup. Democratically elected governments were overthrown by the military, who thought that their way of governance was the way forward. Often it just led to further coup attempts by elements in the military, who wanted a slice of the action. But caught up in this melee, were the people. Sometimes coups were instigated quietly and you almost didn't realize that it happened until a local radio and TV station had been taken over and announcements made. At other times, it was more obvious, and the consequences to the general population caught unawares, was catastrophic. I lived through a number of them and it always felt the same like someone had pulled the rug out from under your feet. The instability and apprehension were palpable. Sometimes it would pass off without bloodshed, and sometimes there would be so much carnage. People would disappear, caught up either intentionally or unintentionally in the melee. I have witnessed on more than one occasion the brutality of just such an event. It was heartbreaking to see, and even more so when things that should not happen, happened right in front of you. Because I always traveled to work in uniform, when situations erupted around you like this, you were unsure if your uniform would be a protector or a target, depending on who you ran into first.  Protesters of the day liked solidarity to be shown by showing of palm fronds or something green and similar. Whilst should this be displayed as you approached a military or police checkpoint, it would probably not end well. 

Far too often we were forced to switch between the two, as we progressed slowly towards our destination, uncertain of what we would find when we got there. I witnessed some atrocities that, to this day I feel unable to speak about and I wasn't the only one. It was self preservation for the most part. No matter how you truly felt inside. Often we would arrive at the airport, uncertain if flights were allowed to depart and under what conditions. We would standby for hours in the ops rooms waiting for the airports to be opened, so that we could position aircraft to various places and pick up the backlog of passengers that had been stranded around the country. Coups were frightening and uncertain, no matter how many times they occurred, you never got used to it. There was a sense of the unknown with every one. Some hope for better things to come, but the often crushing reality of yet another failure. In reality, then, it was the norm, tinged with the hope that one day, coups would be a distant memory as the country settled down to a democratic future. 

Thank you for listening. As always, your reviews and comments are very much appreciated. Thank you to Lucy Ashby for the editing of this episode. If you'd like to ask a question or make a comment, please do so on our social media sites. We're on Instagram, Facebook and Twitter. or send us an email. 

Our email address is theskyis pinkpilot@gmail.com or visit our website. www.skyis pink.co.uk. 

In the next episode, I land in Houston for two months of intensive training for my ATPL,  I'm reminded of blatant and institutional racism whilst in the US, and I return to Nigeria with a renewed sense of optimism and excitement as I can almost reach out and touch my command. 

Thank you and goodbye.

Transcribed by https://otter.ai