The Lovely Ghosts of Bagamoyo. By Patience Nitumwesiga The journey to Bagamoyo started with me missing my flight. So I walk onto the departures entrance and the clerk asks for my flight name. I give him my ticket. He takes one look at it and says “checking in for precision Air is closed”. I don’t believe him. For a brief second I think he’s joking. But you know how airports are. You miss your target and everyone moves on. Like it doesn’t matter that you’re trapped in one ‘time zone’ and they are rolling on with the globe. It’s like death. Just because one person somewhere has stopped breathing doesn’t mean the world will stop and mourn them. After a while, partly because the clerk has moved on to other people without hesitation or a care in the world about what I’m supposed to do, but also because enough time has passed for it to sink in, I move away. Through the glass, I can see the people I’m supposed to travel with still sorting their baggage but I’m unable to join them.