I landed at Boston’s Logan International Airport earlier this week, before I settle into my studies at Harvard Business School (you can read about that HERE).

With heightened tension in the air due to Trump’s new immigration laws, I hoped I wouldn’t have a problem getting in – being from Africa and all.

As can be expected, there were a lot of planes landing at Logan, with many people in the queues leading up to the US Customs and Immigration officials – sitting in their various booths, waiting.

What should we all expect, following Trump’s various travel bans / amendments / appeals etc.?

There were cameras everywhere, as I tried to look normal while the queue shifted forward at a painstaking pace. I say ‘try’ because I like to play a mind game with myself in those situations.

I try to convince myself that I’ve got a stack of drugs hidden on me, and I must try my best to act natural. Then, once (if) I get through, I give myself a pat on the back, concluding that I would be a great smuggler in another life.

So anyway, I get to the front of the queue and this incredibly spicy guy in a bad suit (trousers like clown pants) tells me which booth to go to. I get there and the border control agent is finishing up with the lady before me. He’s asking questions, she’s answering. Nothing too aggressive – but definitely going through the motions.

She leaves the counter – she’s in.

The agent is typing away on his computer, as he nods at me to come forward. I get there and he is still typing furiously. He’s in his early 30s, pale in complexion, definitely consumes junk food from time to time and is balding.

This is not the agent below, but you get my drift:

I place my passport on the counter and greet him, “Hi!”

He pauses, turns to me for a split second and says,”remove the cover.”

My passport sits inside a fashionable, kale-green leather cover. I remove the cover and place the now naked passport on the counter.

He’s still typing. And I can’t see what he is typing because they have some special screen that blocks visibility from the side.

I try to stay calm and act natural, because (remember) I’m pretending to have drugs on me – in fact I’ve pretty much convinced myself. Then it dawns on me… They’ve obviously been watching me in the queue on CCTV, and my ‘acting normal’ skills weren’t very convincing.

Did I fidget too much? Maybe it was because I removed my jacket – does that come across like I’m getting hot from being nervous? I knew I should have left it on! Even if I don’t have drugs on me (which I don’t), I’ll probably have to endure some kind of interrogation as a result, possibly even by Donald Trump himself.

Possibly televised. All because of this silly make-pretend drug smuggler game I play with myself.

He’s still typing. Now I understand what is going on. He is in a live-chat with the ‘control room’ who have been monitoring me since I left the plane, which is when I usually start my drug smuggler role-playing game.

The control room is briefing him on all the weird things I’ve been doing. They’re giving him instructions on how to handle me. I mean what else could he be typing? He is typing SO much, it’s unreal! It HAS to be a live chat. They would definitely make use of live chats because I would overhear a phone call or walkie-talkie, and they don’t want me to know they’re onto me.

I’m genuinely starting to sweat now and am really overacting – trying to come across normal. Hands in my pockets. No – too cocky. Hands out. Lean on counter. No, that REALLY looks like you’re trying to act relaxed – too fake.

This is getting really bad. I’m basically going straight to Guantanamo Bay. And didn’t Trump give them the go-ahead for waterboarding again? I’m so screwed. What am I going to tell Harvard?

He looks up and says, “What’s happening.”

WHAT’S HAPPENING?

I’LL TELL YOU WHAT’S HAPPENING – I’M HAVING A MELTDOWN AND I’M ABOUT TO BE WATERBOARDED BY SOMEONE CALLED PRIVATE SANTIAGO!

Instead I reply, “just cruising.”

I shit you not – that was my reply.

“JUST CRUISING” – can you actually cope?

I think it would be totally justified at that stage of the game for the guy to pull out a Glock and smoke me there and then. With my appallingly bad drug-smuggler-trying-to-be-normal acting skills, combined with the first words to come out of my mouth, it’s almost a certainty that I’m a bad guy and will never see the light of day again.

The guy laughs, bewildered, and says the words back at me, like a question, “Just CRUISING?”

I smile, “Yep… just cruising.”

“Why you here?” he asks.

“I’m studying at Harvard and visiting a friend – my mom’s actually here in town already visiting that same friend.”

“MOMMA DUKES!” he shouts.

Wow, I got such a fright when he said that.

I laugh, nervously and reply, “yeah, momma dukes!”

Holy crap, this is not going the way I expected. Is this all part of their training? When do the dogs come out to sniff me?

“What do you do for a living?” he asks. Probably my worst question on any given day…

“Umm… I’ve got this like website. It’s like a news site. People read it. I’ve got like brands and stuff.”

He frowns and tilts his head, like a Labrador that isn’t sure if you just said ‘foodies’ or a word that sounds similar.

“It’s a bit like Gawker.com – have you heard of Gawker?” I ask.

His frown fades and he finds clarity. “Oh GAWKER! Yeah, sure I know Gawker! They’re the guys that did that video of that guy and then he sued them, right?”

“Absolutely correct, sir! The man you are thinking of is Hulk Hogan and he sued Gawker for $140 million because they published a tape of him having sex with his friend’s wife. His legal bills were funded by the billionaire, Peter Thiel”.

“$140 million dollars?” he exclaims – shocked, but excited – as he doodles on my entry form and fumbles around for stamps.

“Yeah. Uh-huh.” I reply. This was going great.

“And Gawker got shut down and they have to pay him the money?” he asks.

He seemed to be getting it. “Yep!” I confirm.

This is when things got interesting.

He laughs and says, “They can have my sex tape for $14 million if they want it!”

I start canning myself, nervously, as I nod and agree with him. Now I’m worried that it might be a trap. Am I even allowed to be talking about sex tapes at US border control?

But then he stops laughing and his face drops.

Oh shit. This is it. It’s obviously a sting operation. I’m done.

He looks me dead in the eyes and says, softly, “I’d do it for one point four million dollars.”

We both explode with laughter! I’m hitting the counter to emphasise how hilarious I think he is, as I continue to hose myself. He’s typing away during the fit of laughter.

I decide to take things one step further as we laugh, and I add, “RANDS!”

He’s basically got tears running down his face as he shouts through the laughter, “YEAH!!! HAHAHA!! ONE POINT FOUR MILLION RANDS!!! I’D DO IT FOR THAT!”

He hands me my stamped passport and is still tickled pink from our exchange. “You have a good time in Boston” he says.

“I will man – thanks a lot” I reply.

And off I went to collect my baggage.

Probably the exact opposite of what I expected – but certainly worth sharing.