British Airways, this doesn't mean I like you.

When I first realized that my bag had not made it to Nairobi, the 4^th of July was still two days away.

“Don’t worry,” Meghann had said. “BA lost Walker’s bag when he came to visit me a few years ago and they were able to deliver it to him on this tiny little island off the coast of Zanzibar. They’ll find your bag.”

Meghann is really good at packaging uncertainty as dogma.

“How long was it before he got it?” I asked, nervously.

“Ten days.”

Ten days?! This was still back in the days when I thought U.S. doctors knew what they were talking about in writing me a prescription for a year’s dose of daily malaria pills. Going without those babies for an extended period of time wasn’t what I was trying to do, especially with the newest cover of National Geographic – which I eerily had put in my carry on – doing its best to scary the crap out of me.

Wearing a Technicolor Dreamcoat, and looking particularly menacing as a result, was a giant mosquito with a seven-inch dagger for a mouth and the words, MALARIA, Stopping a Global Killer printed underneath.

STOPPING A GLOBAL KILLER. Sweeeeet.

Two things were on my mind at that point:

1) A specific scene from the Al Gore movie about how global warming was putting cities historically out of reach of malarial mosquitoes into the danger zone. The specific example he used, replete with graphics showing cartoon mosquitoes being elevated by increases in temperatures, was Nairobi.

2) The note from my little sister that I’d put in my wallet when I left Houston the day before had one line that had stuck out my head: “I’d be lying if I said I am not nervous and scared for you to go to Africa. I’m praying that you can get through this adventure without any never-seen-before-bayless-typical disease.” At least malaria didn’t fall into that category.

When I walked outside into the warm night African air, I’d be lying if I said I was not nervous and scared. My bug spray was in my checked luggage, too.

The early premonitions of finding my bag were good, though. My first night at the Brainch’s house in Nairobi, I had a dream: Meghann, alone at the Nairobi airport and beside an ocean of unclaimed bags lying on the ground unlocked, before she suddenly spots mine.

Well, it turns out that the dream was true. After uttering “Man, I wish I had _____. That’s in my checked luggage, too” three times per day since arriving on the continent, I’ve received confirmation that the bag is in Kenya. Meghann, flying home to America through Nairobi, spotted my black-and-green baby of eight years last night, lying on the ground amidst an ocean of other bags. Just like the dream. It only took 17 days.

Regis, if you’re out there, I hope you have similar luck. Walker, don’t even try to front.

I’m crossing my fingers as I write this – which really makes it harder to type, in case you’ve never tried – because the bag is still en route to Tanzania. I’m not ruling out something crazy, like a plane crash or a bus spontaneously combusting on the road. Or something really insane, like having a clean pair of underwear sometime this month.