Lagos Commuting Diaries
A working-class woman’s thoughts on Metropolitan Lagos.
As it Was by Harry Styles, because that mood and this piece is absolutely fucking it. (Yes, I changed the song recommendation. Fight me.) Also if you are a Mainlander chop suya and take heart, I no dey reason your matter here like that.
New job, different location, same nonsense and ingredient. But I’m not here for that sha.
I knew my day was going to be interesting when I told my aunt my office was on Victoria Island. She asked for the name of the building and when I told her, she made a face.
‘Wallflower, that’s like… Marina! In Lagos Island babes!’ She laughed and looked at me, only slightly worried as I blinked owlishly at that, my cheeks turning taut. ‘Shey, you won’t get lost bayi?’
Thankfully, I did not get lost. Not for lack of trying though.
Every time I came off the bus in the middle of CMS, I walk through the streets of Lagos’ commercial centre and see run-down buildings with pretty interiors.
Turn a few lefts and you’re assaulted with every type of street food Lagos has to offer, suya and puff and akara and fried yam. A few more and you’ll find full-on restaurants, in old buildings and new buildings, in wooden shacks and metal shelters and on legs or wheels, in coolers and buckets and nylon and leaves. There’s liquor in a large bottle, liquor in a small bottle, liquor in a cup, liquor in a can, liquor in a tin and even liquor in a sachet.
Turn right and there’s a boutique on every corner. There are upcoming tailors and seamstresses here and there, fabrics peeking over stories and stories of buildings. Cobblers at every alley to mend or shine your shoes. Lounges, firms and hotels turned into shopping complexes are just up ahead.
Whenever I got off the bus on Carter bridge, I’d take a bike to my office so I don’t get distracted by just how larger than life this decrepit heart of Lagos manages to be, with its hazardous buses and pungent smells. And yet The Cathedral Church of Christ at the traffic light never fails to stop my thoughts. Tinubu Square continues to catch my wondering eyes.
Broad Street goes on and on while on the back of a bike or seated by the edge of a bus. The large, big-name signs on it that have fallen into disrepair manage to catch my attention long enough to imprint a haunting image in my mind. The stores that belonged to high-end retailers, closed and run down, are still impossible to miss on the back of a motorcycle or out the window of a cab. Lift your head high enough and you’ll see old buildings and new alike, going for several feet and pushing for hundreds of floors. On a floor high enough, you can see the rest of the Island even up to V.I at night, with all of the cars and all of the lights.
In a strange way, Lagos Island reminds me of the New York City they glamourise. And hear me out before you tell me that of course, I would say something so ridiculous because I have never left the country. Lagos Island reminds me of New York City in the way nostalgia for a past not yet lived can seep into your skin. I walk these roads and wonder what Lagos must have been like when Lekki was to my parents what Eko Atlantic is to the youths of today.
From hear-say and alternate media and straight up facts, I know that New York at every stage of its national and global identity was glamorised. I personally blame capitalism for that. New York, and any other city like it, is never as pretty as the world will tell you it is. But I am a city girl still. A struggle city girl claiming suburban poshness by geographical association yes, but a Lagos Island city girl nonetheless. Being caught up in the hustle and bustle of urban life and having that unmistakable aura of someone that grew up in a metropolis like Lagos is something that even the best of us Lagosians can’t help but romanticize every now and then. I imagine New Yorkers are not all that different.
Look. Lagos Island isn’t “pretty” by any means. There are run-down stores of too many international brands that have retreated to high-brow neighbourhoods here and in Abuja, or just out of the country together. Not to mention the many home brands that started here and ended here. Both are testaments to our collapsing economy and declining government. And everyone is ready to scam you or touch your ass. I find myself very grateful for my Resting Bitch Face, lest my inner aje-butter be exposed as a prey to the ruthless vultures of the commercial district that will harass you for not replying to their compliments, patronising their store or simply being too smart to fall bait to their little pocket heists. I certainly rarely have anything good to say about the commuting network of the city or the social side attractions that come with it. Commuting at rush hour is a nightmare at that very CMS junction where the Cathedral stands as if it is not a part of that very ghetto bus stop.
But somehow Lagos leaves one hell of an impression. If you’re high enough to look at it from a certain perspective — standing or otherwise — it’ll do a bunch of things to you. Heck, walking the roads of Lagos Island early or late enough for it to not be so suffocating can do the trick. You’re a little proud, and a bit exhausted. More than disappointed and just a tad under overwhelming. You're gingered and you’re tired and you’re excited and you’re so done.
Maybe you’re contemplative and longing and even in mourning of a golden era you haven’t seen. Probably wondering if you already missed it. Or if it never had a chance to come.
And if you’ve been here long enough you’re probably thinking that this is home for you. (Me sha, that I never see airport since till like last week, it's definitely a feeling of home for me.)
It all boils down to the sum total that Lagos will humble you. And whether I plan to japa or not, this city has as certainly taken a root of its own in me.
