Wednesday was the most terrifying day of my life.

I’m in Abuja, Nigeria with my friend Mel who is attending an education conference and last Friday – the day we were boarding our plane to come here – a bombing occurred during the celebration of the country’s 50^th anniversary of independence. So, I knew the place wasn’t completely stable but having traveled a fair amount I’ve learned that a lot of the time what gets shown on international media outlets is hyped up since fear sells.

Monday I spent the day on a tour of the city – “tour” being a very generous description of riding around in a vehicle with 2 bodyguards, 1 guide and 1 driver. Four Nigerian men and me. They kept reassuring me we were safe.

I was having a good time and managed to shrug off the recent events as normal for this part of the world.

Then Wednesday it all got a little too real.

It was Mel’s free day. She didn’t have any sessions or conference obligations so our plan was to trek around – go shopping, see a few sights.

Getting a car through the hotel costs $10 versus getting a local cab right outside of the hotel gate so we opted for the local taxi which was only $2. We were heading to the Hilton – known for its shops and only a 10-minute drive away.

On the way we started to see congestion in the traffic up ahead and it looked as if a terrible accident had just occurred. But as we rolled closer the taxi driver started to freak out – he was obviously very uncomfortable with the situation and then said the dreaded “b” word. Bomb.

BOMB!

He motioned around and we suddenly found ourselves slouched down as low as possible – sensing imminent danger as the lone white foreigners in the center of some unfolding tragedy. Being white is a huge liability in a country where militants from the Niger Delta have a thing for kidnapping and killing Westerners to show their frustration with the ongoing oil disputes in southern Nigeria. We both knew if militants were involved and we were spotted, we’d quickly become the preferred target.

Oil. The blessing + curse of so many developing countries.

We could see cars that looked as if they’d just exploded. People were scattering all over the place. Cars with cracked windshields and blown out tires were trying to drive off. At least six cars were blasted out.

Mel started to cry while asking if there had been people in those cars. I started to shake.

What was happening?

Had people just died?

Were we going to die?

Or get kidnapped?

Who were the men with machine guns milling around the cars?

Are they the good guys or the bad guys?

The taxi driver was upset and saying something about only God being in control. I prayed and repeated the words “peace” and “safety” as my mantra over and over and over.

Loud sirens were going off all over the place. Since we were crouched as low as possible in the back seat we couldn’t see where they were coming or going. We couldn’t see where we were going. After what felt like an eternity – we saw the palm trees that line the entrance to the Hilton.

I handed him $15 and we ran through the security gate, afraid the militia could be right behind us.

At the hotel front desk we asked if anyone knew about a roadside bombing between the Sheraton and the Hilton. They said no but reassured us whatever was happening we were now safe.

We hung around waiting for someone to come in and tell us what to do, and then Mel suggested we hire a Hilton car to take us back to the Sheraton before word got out about the bombing so that we could be back at the location where people from the US Embassy would surely look for us. We got in the car and drove off.

Suddenly traffic slowed again and we realized we were back at the scene of the bombing.

Holy shit.

We crouched down low but this time I turned my video camera on to try and capture whatever was happening outside. From my vantage point I couldn’t see anything other than a half dozen charred cars and a lot of chaos brewing.

Once we were past the scene of the crime Mel asked the driver (who spoke considerably more English and who didn’t seem phased at all) what was going on.

“That’s where the anniversary bombings happened,” he said.

Confused we sat up. “So, that was from last Friday? Not today?” asked Mel.

“Yes.”

We weren’t able to put all the pieces of the puzzle together until we got back to the Sheraton.

The road had just reopened so our first taxi driver had not before seen the devastation and was apparently shocked by it. Citizens, investigators and the military were back at the scene to try and get the damaged vehicles out of there – which is why we were surrounded by vehicles that were partially destroyed. Plus, at just that moment a city bomb drill went off.

It had all been a misunderstanding but the entire experience was just too much.

Too scary.

Too close.

Too real.

People had died there. At least 12.

Thankfully we were separated from the blast by days instead of by minutes.

If nothing else, it taught me that this place is dangerous and unstable in the kind of way that sends chills down my spine.

Things can change in an instant. The fear I experienced is haunting, and I only lived with it for 30 minutes… some people on this continent live with the knowledge that men with machine guns or machetes can indiscriminately come marching through their towns or villages and wreak havoc any time.

After getting back to our room we read in the local paper that the previous day the airport and several federal buildings received more bomb threats that caused mass evacuations throughout the city. So – I’ve been even more cautious about where I go.

My adventurous spirit has been squelched.

Today is my last day in Africa and I can’t wait to get home.