Lagos diaries

Photo: Joshua Oluwagbemiga

Happy thief

Many a time we just exist

Forgetting what it means to live

Dressing up to misplace a smile

Seconds of happiness can repel for days

A life of happiness is a blessing

Lagos is tough but be a thief

Steal happiness from the hustle

And the law will be on your side

No prison can hold you

Happiness can’t be caged

Makoko love

It was 9.45 PM and I was on my way home. Tired from the day's work, I just wanted to get home, take a shower, have a light dinner and head to bed. The day was far spent but Lagos never slept.

The bus I boarded, driven by a driver that I suspect was slightly drunk, was on Herbert Macaulay Way when its headlights fell on two love birds by the roadside. The wide-eyed shock, laughter and head tossing that enveloped the bus made me realise that everyone had noticed them. You see, these are the sort of things we notice in the Centre of Excellence.

The two love birds were on the roadside by Makoko bus stop. Oblivious to the rest of the world, which by this time of the night I could count on one hand since the evening rush-hour traffic was gone, the boy tightly held the girl’s backside, revealing her thighs as they locked in a tight embrace. I noticed the boy attempt to plant a kiss on the girl’s lips, a move that was tactfully rebuffed.

Our bus drove soon revved off with no one passing a comment on what we had just seen. Another day, another bus, another set of passengers, and we would have spent the remainder of the journey dissecting the growing moral decadence among the younger generation. It was either this set of passengers were regular owls who witnessed Makoko love every now and then or they were just too tired, like myself, to be bothered about two love birds or decadent youths (depending on who you ask).  

Just another day in the life of a Lagos hustler.

Breath of death

I boarded a bus to Obalende from Chevron Bus Stop after a hard day's waka under the hot Lagos sun. The danfo buses in Lagos are usually cramped; four people sit on a bench regardless of body size, with a typical bus having three rows of benches. On a bad day, one could be squeezed between two plus-size people and, on a good day like today, usually at off-peak hours, you could have the whole bus to yourself.

I took a seat on the first row. There were three other passengers on the other two rows.  I settled in hoping for a hitch-free ride to Obalende.

We had barely reached New Road, the bus stop after Chevron, when this bros, sitting behind me started a phone conversation about an impossible job he had to deliver the next day. His voice hit my eardrums so hard that I had to turn to give him that tani yi look. That was when it happened. He took my breath away. I had to stop breathing to save myself the embarrassment of fainting. His conversation went on till we got to First Roundabout by which time I had been debriefed of his entire plans for the next day.

If not for the grace of a near-empty bus that allowed a seat change, I could have died of bad breath. I thanked God for the occasional empty danfo graces.

Just another day in the life of a Lagos hustler.

Fake note

It was 8.05 PM; the day's work was done. I was on a bus, plugged in and minding my business when I heard the commotion. The driver was squabbling with the attendant at the Lekki toll gate. From all the shouting, I garnered that the bone of contention was whether the ₦1000 note the driver gave the toll gate attendant was fake. The driver quickly settled the matter before the attention of the policemen loitering around the area could be drawn to him.

I continued minding my business until we stopped under the pedestrian bridge at Mobil Bus Stop. I could hear the conductor, over the loud music from my earphones, arguing with one of the passengers about giving him the fake note. I silently regretted not investing in noise-cancelling earphones.

Things went south when the duo decided to take it outside the bus. That was the most shocking display of madness by two supposedly sane individuals that I had ever seen. They tore at each other’s shirts, punched and almost stripped themselves; the sound of police sirens from a distance somehow brought them back to their senses. Only then were they disposed to listen to our desperate entreaties for some sanity.

After the mediation, the passenger insisted that he did not give the conductor the ₦1000 note and since the conductor wasn’t certain either, it was resolved that the passenger be dropped at the bus stop, while we continued the journey. I got to Obalende at 9.45 PM, wondering when I would get home, knowing I still had to catch a bus through Third Mainland Bridge and hitch another keke ride before I could even dream of my bed.

Just another day in the life of a Lagos hustler.

Silence

Seated in silence

Behind the keyhole

A battle raged within

Poisoned by darkness

The mind is numb

But hope is ignited with a spark

Light is restored with a kiss

The battle is won

The war seems unending

I wet my bed

It was a wild night.

I was heading home with friends after slightly overdoing it with the drinks. I was about to cross to the other side of the road when it hit me. The rays of light from my bedside window knocked me back to consciousness. It was 6.45 AM and I was still in bed. What?!

I immediately jumped out of bed and searched for my phone, which doubled as my alarm clock.  It was supposed to wake me up at six. I found it lying in the corner and noticed the screen was blank and wouldn’t come on. What could have gone wrong? Puzzled, I ran into the bathroom to prepare for work.

It had been a rough and hot night. The power holders held on to their power and my body had to work overtime to regulate itself. It was one of those nights when a hand fan or several visits to the bathroom for a shower couldn’t remedy the situation. It was a battle but I had to sleep and that is what I did. The result was a wet bed sheet and a mysteriously dead phone. Before stepping out, I tried my phone again but it remained unresponsive. Uncoupling it, I realised what had happened.  The interior of my phone was moist and I had no idea what the mysterious liquid was? I removed the SIM card and hit the road, as I was running late. I was heading to work without a phone.

Amos Kito

There I was on the edge of my bed, thinking whether to get out of bed or to return to it.  It was a Saturday morning and I had caught up on much-needed sleep from Lagos weekday stress. In my confused state, my eyes fell on a mosquito resting on my window.  It started flying towards me as I prepared for its approach. I sat up on my bed and balanced my hands. Once it was within range, I went in for the kill. Confident I had delivered a decisive blow, I watched as the mosquito spun lifeless to the ground. Victorious, I looked down at my kill only to see it wriggle right up again and prepare to fly off. I immediately quashed it underfoot. So, ended the life of Amos Kito, my house companion with nine lives.

L. O. V. E.

How sweet we made it

We ran into corners

Made use of the moonlight

He whispered words

I replayed them in his absence

But he lied

He had another

I was the side piece

I feel cold

Ice sits where my heart beats.

Caught in the act

Friday afternoon.

I was sitting with two female colleagues for a brief end-of-the-week meeting to review our progress on a group project we had been working on. The meeting had barely started when Sharon from the second-floor office walked in.

Sharon was an endowed lady who always came up in the men’s chats and small talk.  She could never walk past unnoticed and this time was no exception. It was like I was seeing something out of this world. What could a weak soul like mine do? I simply got carried away.

I was long lost in a world where only the two of us existed when I heard my name from what seemed like a distance. My colleagues had noticed my silence and were calling me back to the present. And what didn’t I hear afterwards? They went on and on about how disappointed they were that I allowed myself to be distracted at such an important meeting.

Distraction? I alone knew where I was in that brief moment of silence. Thank goodness they were not mind readers because their disappointment might well have turned to shock.

Mind over body

Why do I get the feeling we have met before?

In a land far away, where only thoughts are shared.

Where flesh counts for little and minds walk around in pure innocence.

But now I must return to silence as the moon shines.

Only then can I get a glimpse of that land far away.

Where thoughts are shared.

A warm embrace

It was a wet morning and I was to arrive at the agreed venue at 7.00 AM. The rain was light but persistent and the drains couldn’t hold it anymore. The flood gates were opened and the road became unmotorable. I finally arrived at the meeting point dripping. I needed to dry myself.

I spotted her after a few minutes—an old friend and regular social media companion. She saw my plight and decided to give me a warm embrace. It was long and deeply felt; minutes became hours in my head. All shivers disappeared and warmth was rekindled in my chilly bones. Everything seemed to be going OK until she asked, to the hearing of bystanders, if I had cum already. A joke, right? The pill of embarrassment was mine to swallow, all because I accepted an embrace. Na wa o. What are friends for?

Rain sickness

All that is needed is just a little rain and Lagos turns to a madhouse on steroids; like a normal day isn’t bad enough. Once it rains, the city turns into one huge drainage. Everyone suddenly seems to have an important appointment to meet. Traffic lights are completely ignored. Transport fares are tripled. Cars are parked and kayaking becomes an amateur sport within city streets. Houses become swimming pools and freeloaders empty their trash into the already overflowing drainage.

Being caught outside on a rainy Lagos day is never the best experience.

Lagos

She is the smallest among her peers and yet the most sophisticated. She lets everyone in and keeps them well entertained.

She is a beauty at dawn and a sight for sore eyes at twilight. I just love her. She feeds me from her breast, in very much the same way as she does others. I am understandably upset but she gives me more than I need to stay alive so I do not complain.

She is very calm on Sunday mornings when I go to church. It is like she prays along with me although she doesn’t look the religious type. On Monday mornings, she is a wreck, I am guessing from an activity-filled weekend. Just a glance and I’m already beginning to question my love for her. Then I remember Friday nights when she is at her best—her naughty best—even though it seems to evaporate quickly and leave me wanting more.

On Saturdays, she dresses up like an elegant lady—like nothing happened the night before. She puts the owa in owanbe. When she cries, it is a mess;  I am disgusted and lock myself away. Sometimes she shows her ghetto side; other times her lovely side.

In all, I still love her. And even when I leave I find myself still drawn to her. She is my love and I know that no love is perfect. So, we are working on it together.

Searching for truth

Pilate couldn’t see

But I felt Him

Now I ask

What my truth is

Still I search

For to rest

Is to forget self

To forget is to exist

To know truth is to love

Life is Love

Love is Truth

Still I search.

Lagos sun

There she hung in the evening like a gold coin on a dusty blue paper. Her rays like gold dust on all that fell underneath her gaze. My 8-5 was exhausting but her presence was a delight that placated my soul.

There I was on the Third Mainland Bridge when she stole my attention away from my ‘traffic book’, using the aluminium railing of the bridge to call me out. All surrounding objects excited my senses. Time seemed to start and stop all at once. She stole the show that evening, using the lagoon as her spotlight. She took my breath away. But she is no killer. She brought me to life like I drank fresh wine from a new wineskin. All was right in this beautiful chaos called ‘city by the sea.’

Dream seeking

Do you remember how to dream?

Can you shut your eyes in a crowded street?

Can you see horses with wings?

Do you remember how to dream?

Yesterday I remember

Today is all I have

Tomorrow comes alive

When I shut my eyes in a crowded street.

Father’s hands

Everything is strange to me. The sounds, the smell, the touch. I can feel many hands, all different. Things are difficult to understand. But father’s hands I know. They touch me with love and I know, even though it feels uncomfortable the first few seconds.

How can I comprehend what is happening? It all feels strange and right at the same time. I am only six months old and I can’t help but take it all in. But there are things I remember very dimly: her voice, her smell, her gentle tap when I playfully kick her belly. The sound of her heartbeat was the only music I knew. The memories are fading because she is no more.

She spoke her last when I cried my first. I had no breasts to feed me, only father’s hands.

I long for her, so I cry. Not for the unsatisfying food I get but for something I remember which is slipping away from my reaching hands. There is nothing I can do but cry hoping she will hear me and we can be together one last time just as we were those nine months.

Upgrade

It ended in despair

Hope was killed in every scene

Machines became king

Humanity willed it

Not for ignorance

But Pride

It was Her

She was the cause

We ate out of it

Disguised as knowledge

We lost control

Lost it all

Lost our humanity.

About the Author

Wale Mariano (Olofinkua Joseph Olawale Omaseye) is a Lagos-born researcher, designer, writer, music lover and, most importantly, hustler. Born in the Yaba area of Lagos, he spent most of his early years in Lagos and Benin city. He holds a master’s in Thermofluid from the University of Lagos. He live and works in Lagos as a consultant.