So picture this: I hopped on a flight recently that was more like a matatu ride across the skies. From Instanbul to Freetown with a detour in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, the journey was a rollercoaster of adventures.

In Ouagadougou, we picked up a handful of passengers heading to Freetown, making the stopover feel like a casual visit to a friend's house. No stress, no wahala, just a chill vibe in the air.

Then came the leg from Freetown to Nairobi via Accra, and oh boy, the drama unfolded like a Nollywood movie. The boarding process felt like a comedy skit with ununiformed security personnel giving our bags a mere shuffle and a nod, leaving us all scratching our heads. One passenger even joked that it was a government scheme to create jobs for the politically connected youth. Ah, the mysteries of African airports!

As we soared towards Accra, the plane filled up, resembling a bustling matatu on a Monday morning. When we landed, chaos erupted as the cleaning crew stormed in like a herd of wild animals, tossing pillows, blankets, and demands at the passengers. It was a symphony of disorder, reminiscent of a matatu rank during rush hour.

The vacuum cleaner guy danced around warning everyone about their legs like he was in a street play, while another crew member demanded to see boarding passes with the intensity of a customs officer on a mission. The scene was so absurd that I couldn't help but chuckle at the madness unfolding around me.

Squeezed next to me was a gentleman who had clearly reached his breaking point, shouting at the crew for their antics. But alas, they just glanced at him like he was a lost goat in a market. It was pure comedy gold, a matatu drama unfolding at 30,000 feet.

I pondered why airlines don't adopt a matatu seating strategy—placing exiting passengers upfront to avoid disrupting those left behind. But hey, what do I know about flying planes? Just a humble passenger enjoying the show, soaring through the African skies in true matatu style.