The sound of a siren rings in my head. With my body dripping in sweat, I turn, adjusting my eyes to the normal darkness of my room. I reach under my pillow for my watch and torchlight, my eyes bulging out of their sockets.
6 am ke?! I overslept.
I rush to the bathroom, dress, do a little housework, and am out the door by 7 a.m. after stretching and rushing through my prayers (sha chanted something). Here goes my Lagos day (saying it in Jenifa’s voice).
The bus conductors use the gong and crying method to advertise their different bus stop names: “Ishaga, Ogba, Agege.” Drivers’ hands are glued to their horns. There is always something to horn or scream at with your head hanging outside the driver’s seat window (“Kuro ni be joo. Get out”). Everyone is driving their cars, tricycles, bicycles, motorcycles, wheelbarrows, or legedes benz somewhere. The bus line (that is if there is one) is long and depressing. When a bus stops to pick up passengers, I notice that the door has almost fallen off. Well, it’s still transportation, so rush, squeeze, shake, adjust, and sit tight for the bumpy, almost-death ride.
When I finally arrive at the office, I feel a sense of accomplishment. “I have overcome my enemies” plays in my head for two minutes. I am stressed even before I begin work! The worst part is that I am field staff, so my sanity lasts only an hour before I am back on the Lagos road, resenting hawkers, pedestrians (who are always in a hurry), and motorcycles (necessary evils) vying for the walkway.
A month ago, I swore again that I would never ride on one of these two-wheeled devils, especially with the influx of northern Okada drivers into Lagos. My decision was based on an accident I saw on a Monday morning in front of my house. A truck carrying soft drinks hit an Okada driver; his dead body lay on the floor with blood splattered on the road. A week after my oath, I was rushing to the airport and wanted to beat the traffic, so you know…
After a day of pushing people out of my way, fighting for my right to the road, and hating all the companies that have their generators making noise and polluting the environment, I am ready to go home. I am buckled up and ready for two hours in traffic, trying not to curse and insult the slightly insane Lagos drivers.
I usually wonder how much money, talent, and ideas are wasted in traffic, anger, and stress. There must be a certain calm, order, and freedom to fuel the desire to do great things and make an impact. Most Nigerians are preoccupied with daily survival because man must chop before he can think of meeting any other needs.
Despite the hassle, I love Lagos, especially during weekends. I love the beauty of the lights shining at night as you move along the Island. There’s no party like a Lagos party organized with class, music, and extravaganza. I once attended a 60th birthday party at Eko Expo Hall that was strictly by invitation only. The invitation alone ti ile yi ko, not made in Naija. Buffet, dessert, Sugar Band on the beat, chocolate, and yes, an ATM card look-alike was the ticket used to collect gifts. Some malls, cinemas, and restaurants (especially some in GRA, VI) are world-class.
No lies: Lagos is bad for your health but good for your soul.
Love,
Shally
