After over forty minutes of walking, Musa’s feet began to ache. Perhaps, he should reconsider buying that new pair of sneakers, and not having to put up with trekking in formal shoes. The nylon bag was not helping him either. Thus, he decided to stop by a coffee shop where he’d order a cab back to Lekki.

Along the way, he noticed an office building undergoing renovations, making it the only structure in its neighborhood to look somewhat unfinished. Pedestrians watched from a safe distance, with construction workers hard at work. In fact, the state of the building reminded Musa of the aftermath of Lebanon’s July War of 2006. By the end of it, many structures in affected areas were still standing, while a few others were completely destroyed and needed to be rebuilt.

It was July of 2006, and Musa was on his way back from the passport office. By this point in time, he was familiar with some of Beirut’s key districts such as Hamra, Downtown, Mar Elias, and Ashrafieh, remembering every street corner and route to take, and which bus number went where. Getting lost in Beirut was no longer an issue for him, although it at times felt like trekking uphill. He had also learned first hand how sensitive Hizballah security personnels were with tourists taking photos of southern landmarks, as two men followed him on his way to one of his aunts the other day.

In addition, Musa had also picked up a few phrases to say to people in Arabic, such as “hon ma’roof” to tell bus drivers to stop, “fatdal” when making payments, and “islemo” when giving thanks.

That afternoon, he used his free time to make his way to a local cemetery, so as to offer supplication to his late uncle-in-law. Afterwards, perhaps, he could even stop by a minimart to buy a treat.

But, along the way, he noticed something out of the ordinary. A gang of youths, some on motorcycles, and others in vehicles, sped through the expressway separating eastern and western Beirut. With a celebratory tone, they were waving flags, either yellow or green, happily chanting phrases as they drove towards the central district. Although it was something he had seen once in a while in eastern Beirut, that very instance felt unusual to Musa.

As he often did, Musa made his way into the western neighborhood of Zaidanieh, where he would visit each of his aunts and their families. In fact, one of his aunts asked him to stay for lunch, which he accepted.

Later that day, the family members sat in the living room, with others on the balcony. Musa was more than welcome to flip through the channels, but something worrying soon got his attention.

“Fighters belonging to the Shi'a militia group, Hizballah, had killed three Israeli soldiers, and kidnapped two more before taking them across the Israel-Lebanon border,” a news anchor said. “Israel Defense Forces personnels are already in pursuit in southern Lebanon.”

“Musa, change the channel. We can’t understand English,” said one of his cousins, Ahmad, who frantically seized the remote from Musa.

Ahmad then switched to a local channel covering the event at the Israel-Lebanon border. Although entirely in Arabic, Musa could already tell what Hizballah's provocation with Israel could bring to Lebanon. Seeing how Israel raided the Gaza Strip, in its bid to rescue the kidnapped soldier, Gilad Shalit, he expected the worst.

“Musa,” Abdulaziz said repeatedly, trying to get his attention.

“Oh sorry,” Musa said, having been distracted by his thoughts.

“Are you ready to attend Karim’s graduation? We’re coming as well,” Abdulaziz said.

“Oh, yeah! Hussain was in the same class,” Musa said, with Hussain being one of Abdulaziz’s sons.

Thus, before sunset, everyone drove to Downtown, and parked just outside an event center. Over three hours later, the graduation ceremony was over, with each student tossing their mortarboard hats up in the air. Later that night, Musa joined Karim and his friends on top of a mountain for a celebratory picnic, where they were treated to a stunning view of the city landscape.

“Beirut does look beautiful at night,” Karim said to his friends.

Although everyone else was having a time of their lives, Musa couldn’t shake off the feeling that something bad could come out of Hizballah's kidnapping attempt in Israel, or if he’d still be able to resume his studies.

As Musa feared, several hours before sunrise, everyone woke up to frightening sounds of explosions, and jets whooshing at low altitudes. Staff who were working night shifts ran into the streets to watch the air raids over southern Beirut. Without a doubt, everyone knew that Hizballah was their target. Through the balcony, Musa and Karim watched as Israeli jets pounded the suburbs, with people screaming to the sight of flashing lights of bombs falling.

Every day, jets would drop anywhere from twenty to thirty bombs over the suburbs. Black smokes filled the air, and could be seen from a high point across northern Beirut. It was the first summer in a while when it rained, which usually wouldn’t happen until autumn or winter. as if the nation was crying over its wounds. Many people were too scared to leave their homes at first, at least not until they were able to understand their new reality. The occasional sightings of drones flying over neighborhoods in northern Beirut, and jets dropping leaflets warning citizens about the “evil” within, further kept Beirutis on edge.

With time, people were able to brave going outside, with a few cars being spotted on the streets. Musa was also able to return to the passport office with help from Karim, two days into the raids, where he picked up his brand new passport. However, universities across Beirut remained shut till further notice, with Musa unsure as to how long the war would last, or if it would have a negative impact on his prospect of getting a higher education.

Two weeks had passed since the raids began, and Musa didn’t feel comfortable staying in Beirut anymore. The explosions from falling bombs definitely didn’t make it easier to sleep at night. With his hand on his chest, he felt as if his heart could give up at any moment. Hence, one afternoon, while watching footage of expatriates at Beirut’s port, leaving the country with the help of foreign navy ships, he came to learn of a taxi service that was taking people across the border into Syria. He and Karim talked about it and agreed to phone home to arrange for their flight back to Lagos through Damascus. Armed with necessary documents, luggages, and cash, they ordered a taxi to Syria. The route they took was the longest, but the only one that Israeli jets had not blown up yet.

"We were lucky," Karim said to Musa, as the pair had settled in a local hotel over the night. "I just watched the news; Israeli jets just blew up our only route out of Lebanon."

For a brief moment, Musa felt a sigh of relief.

For the next two days, Musa and Karim spent their spare time exploring the old city of Damascus, as well as its modern surroundings, before finally boarding their flight to Lagos. Expectedly, Mr. Shajareh and his cousin were at the airport to welcome their sons, and escort them to the parking lot. The boys took the opportunity to go on a holiday around town, and explore new establishments and shoppings malls that just opened. But, to Musa’s surprise, the war in Lebanon ended a lot quicker than he had imagined it would, with Qatar stepping in as mediator.

“I told you all would be well,” both Mr. Shajareh and Karim said to Musa in their own ways.

Hence, by October, the boys booked another flight back to Lebanon. “I’m just glad to be returning to university,” Musa thought, as higher education became his highest priority once more.