Lagos,that name drives me nuts,but you can't but jump at the prospect of exploring it. The human angle is spread across its peculiarities and ushers in a nostalgic muse.
With an excellent profile of hurstle,one that drives its commercial spirit,Lagos chokes you with its ambience. It literally plucks the dreams out of other hubs like Port-Harcourt,Abuja(superficial) or Ibadan,an old vintage sprawling on mundane.
Lagos bequeaths an unquiet landscape,warming its force with water,cash and dirt...expanding with the size of your breath.
I felt after many years of my childhood experience i should give it a try,especially now that colour and boom has trademarked its unsual content.
Off i go,from a sleepy crescendo in search of platform,whatever that meant-i was hopeful. The 'hurstle' caught me pants down in the surburbs of lagos where i wanted to catch the next bus and the next bus till my sweat greased like butter,dark and gummy. Conductors in a whimsical,gruffy chant,quick steps and honks sandwiching me between a hectic reality of unending struggle. The mainland,as complex as its thriving life is,although not to those already domiciled,is where the hurstle is upbeat. A stone wash of squalor mixing with old trading and existing patterns since lagos wanna-be...shades the official and juggling prospects of the island. The island is where the money is,inundated by mosquitoes swimming in murky waters,all jetted within the rising walls of development. Its an amazing quantity in lagos spring!
The other day,my eyes was on a recording motion in a rickety 'danfo' full to the brim,typical as my first day in five years. My 'hermes'footwear,procured for the hurstle,was painted with thick dust,a matching order for my crumpled shirt(you know why) covering my extra-large jeans. I sat,mopping my face with an oily handkerchief,battling for air because the danfo driver wasnt ready to move...his conductor was busy collecting fares before we hit the road,i was groaning in an odour infested bus. "Driver oya now,na here we go sleep?"An exasperated old man jived in from the back. I forgot to say that instead of cheap,foam laced seats,iron bars clung sparingly to tattered planks,but our buttocks were always ready to sit-man must move-this is lagos!!
The journey began,sweat trickled on exhausted bodies,people from different plantation trying to catch a living. We bumped into a log-jam,the usual,it was like we were queuing in front of a petrol station that roared back to life after a bitter period of scarcity. Traffic wardens in red trousers and one 'kain' uniform,better still,popular as 'Lastma' officials,were hovering like bees on the road sides,angry faces,their traps were never ending...violate?!please...and motorists were extra careful. Then,one one woman started chewing and another guy was licking and rubbing sputum on his dirty cherry berry(agbalumo) the heat came out fresh and took a fair share of water from our bodies. I was drenched already,my head spinning,my nose assailed on the frequent,as i looked out of the window tentatively. "Which kain wahala be dis? I heard a voice from the back...am sure the retort is as old as lagos itself. Unknowingly,as i sat,grossed by the atmosphere and other untidied thoughts,a sprouting nail on the plank i sat had stuck to a weak part of my jean. Praaaaa!!!...as i rose to alight. The back pocket side of my jean had torn substantially down to my now soft bulge. "Eeya,epele ooo!ijoko awon danfo yi sa!" Quick traditional remarks beat out any option if there was any as i mopped foolishly at my new finding. The danfo revved into an open space and it was long gone. I was dressed to submit my CV somewhere,somewhere that required more of my dressing on the temporary than any content i wanted to offer. I was far from where i was passing my nights,any help was distant as was the content of my purse. The worst case scenario was to pick another bus home and prepare for another day.