Lagos is a place that is not for the faint of heart, a place to arrive in only when you have someone waiting for you on the ground when you land. Ask your host to send protocol. Thank me later.
From the moment you step off the plane, Lagos will show you exactly who he is. Yes, Lagos is male. Lagos is more slap in the face than a soft landing pad, but there is something intoxicating about it.
Entering the airport there is a frenetic energy in the air, a bit disorienting. So many workers, not much purpose beyond more people to ignore or decline when they request “appreciation”. They send you here and there before getting where you need to be. Unnecessary stops. Unnecessary human interactions. Too many, but keep moving forward.
People cutting in line, people yelling at those cutting in line. Teeth sucking. Voices raising. Passport stamped. One more person. A QR code scanned. Waiting. Interruptions. Everyone is the main character.
Enter the belly of the beast. Luggage carousels. “Can I help ma?” Luggages carts. People running. Standing. Waiting. Searching. Yelling. Pushing. Bags droppings. Piling. Carts hitting legs. Death stares. Apologies. Waiting. Reunited with luggage. Next step, X-ray. Drop it down. Pick it up. Get pushed around. Exit. So close to fresh air. More people. “No drink for daddy, I am thirsty.” Money requests covered in clever word play. Finally, exit. Find driver. Sit down. Hands out. “Something small please.” Money exchanges and finally, we move.
As you drive from the airport to Lagos, depending on where you’re staying, you cross multiple bridges. Lagos is an archipelago of sorts that is characterized by the Atlantic which flows all around and through it. Men fishing on handmade canoes as early morning gives rise to the buzz of the city. Everyone is rushing to work, traffic is thick, buses are teeming with people, others walk. Pedestrians and motor vehicles intertwine. Safe passage feels impossible for anyone. Traveling from the airport you see clearly the struggles of the poor and working poor in the city. The discomfort in transport, the movement for survival. Hawkers. Horns. Screeching tires. Crashing metal. Welcome to Lagos.
Lagos is a city of contradictions. Billionaires and the abject poor begging from them. Foreign cars which cost double, a driver with the boss in the back. 12 seats buses with 18 passengers. From G wagons to yellow buses, yachts to canoes, helicopter pads to toy car sized Ubers. Economic oppression inspires expression. Soooooo much art. A tapestry of madness and goodness to create a space that begs you to look closer. A place for enjoyment and investigation. Where you could ignore the poor or be consumed by them.
The sights, the sounds, the yelling, the laughter. The art, the fashion, the food, the people, the singsong verbal spars. Crude oil. Suya and jollof. Fufu and stew. Fela Kuti and Burna Boy. Dongote and Kehinde Whiley.
Lagos is a place that I am grateful to know. 2018. 2019. 2025. And now I realize I must know him, more regularly. Lagos is special. He is particular. An acquired taste if you will and I want more.
Be well. Travel well. Live well. Until next time: catch me if you can!
– Jessica
