By Prof. Anthony Sallar
What began as a routine trip from Accra to Jackson, Mississippi quickly unraveled into a marathon of delays, long lines, missed connections, and airport floors doubling as makeshift beds , a journey that would test the patience of even the most seasoned traveler.
The trouble started the moment he stepped into the connection hall. More than 200 passengers snaked ahead of him in a security line that barely moved. Agents warned him bluntly: “You won’t make your 5 p.m. flight.” And just like that, he was rebooked.
Immigration offered a brief moment of relief. In under two minutes, the officer stamped his passport, cracked a Christmas joke, and waved him through. No fingerprints, no fuss , a small mercy in an otherwise chaotic day.
But the calm didn’t last.
Soon he was aboard a flight from New York’s JFK Airport to Atlanta, knowing he would miss the final leg to Jackson. With no hotel and no options, he braced himself for yet another night on an airport bench — his fourth time sleeping in that terminal. The flight was scheduled to land after 1:15 a.m., and exhaustion was already setting in.
When he finally touched down in Atlanta close to 2 a.m., frustration boiled over. At JFK, Delta agents had insisted on checking most carry‑on bags because the flight was full. He warned them that checking his bag would force him to exit, retrieve it, and re‑enter security in Atlanta , a process international travelers dread. They refused to budge.
And so, at 2 a.m., he found himself dragging his bag through yet another security checkpoint.
What awaited him was staggering: a line of nearly 400 people, funneling toward just two TSA officers taking photographs. The queue crawled forward for three long hours, inch by inch, as fatigue settled into his bones.
By dawn, he was on the airport train, shuttling toward the gate for his 8:30 a.m. connection flight, the final stretch of a journey that had already swallowed an entire day and night.
Hours later, the wheels touched down in Jackson, Mississippi. The cabin exhaled. He whispered a quiet prayer of relief.
Thirty hours.
Three airports.
Two security gauntlets.
One sleepless night.
And finally — home.
“It is almost 2 p.m. in Ghana,” he reflected, “which means I have been on the road for 30 holy hours.”
A journey that began in Accra had ended in Mississippi, but not without reminding him , and anyone who has ever sprinted through an airport , that sometimes, the longest part of travel isn’t the distance….It’s the endurance!
