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“Go there go do registration”, said the security man at the gate after frisking through my Ghana Must Go Bag. He had checked my bag very thoroughly, putting his hands in every corner, sniffing every angle like a police dog, scattering all my neatly folded clothes, including my boxers and flipping through them one by one. He even searched the pockets of the undies. I wondered what he was looking for, I wondered if I looked like a smoker, whether he was looking for sticks of cigarette or wraps of marijuana or some pints of snuff. Miss Cozy, the young lady whom I had helped and who I was eyeing was standing behind me and I wondered if the security man would ransack her bag and flip through her pants the same way he was flipping through my boxers like the pages of the newspaper.