“Hold that bag well.”
His tone blazed in African elder-arrogance¹, yet exuded compassion.
The lady raised her carefully cut brows, concealing further her forehead largely hid behind a fringe styled wig, as if to say who are you and why do you care? She fluttered in an uncertainty of what Baba really meant.
The elderly man took a cue. With his English well dealt with by a pluricentric vernacular he had spoken for over sixty years, he added in his sing-song cadence, “why are you behaving like you're not in Lagos?”
Like the earthworms my childly palms doused with salt, in my early passage into hurting innocent things, the lady startled to alertness. From that moment her green and red “Gucci” handbag -- spelt with double U and a single C -- clung to her second third like a kangaroo's pouch. She hugged the bag passionately as the queue snaked to the bus.
I walked to the last row of seats and sat by the window, prepared for a three hour ride to be conjunctured with haltings and dead engine intervals, as an inevitable traffic jam loomed. Marina to Ikorodu is a 38km journey that should last 40 minutes, but I have been in Lagos long enough to know things were different here.
This was the administration stable of Traffic Jam Ville, the encapsulation of chaos, the hyperventilating progeny of civilization. And she had a lion share of the world's bronze populace. This city didn't understand what it meant to be tranquil. This city’s inhabitants will make fun of their counterparts’ tweets in Abuja when the latter claim to have “wasted” five minutes of time in traffic. Five minutes?
Lagos’ idea of waste was insulted and her inhabitants voiced it. It's like Dwayne Johnson introducing himself to George Bush as a “seasoned politician."
Why Lagos? I asked.
That is one question I struggled with; one I wanted to ask everyone else who was here. I mean why did they -- we -- all come here? What pulled us all from our different worlds of order and serenity, where we could afford to lose guard and not lose our phones or the content of our handbags also?
I recall my brother denying his car battery inside a locomotive train some years ago. That fateful day we went shopping for a replacement battery for his 2004 Toyota Corolla. We decided against using the public bus because it was approaching the hours work closed. I recall sitting by the window and watching the spear grasses rush past me, my sitting position giving the illusion of riding in reverse the whole journey.
Bam!
A nearby luggage rack gave in and just narrowly missed a passenger sitting beneath it. It was a result of the 20kg battery on tired metal. In typical Lagos style the place exploded into an uproar. It seemed they wanted the neck of the battery's owner, or nothing. I was scared. I looked at my brother. He looked at me. The primordial connection we had enforced in 21 years years of knowing ourselves was enough to carry the signal across. Hush. In Saint Peter Jonah style my brother denied his battery. Three damn times. He knew the robes of this city than I did. He had been around longer. It was the safest thing to do.
🎶🎶”I saw you walk in with the battery.”
“It wasn't me.”
“You even put it on the damn rack.”
“It wasn't me.”🎶🎶
My bewilderment climaxed when a complete stranger rose to claim ownership of this battery.
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Like… Seriously?
Unlike my brother, the new owner could speak Yoruba language, and looked more like the image of a Lagos boy. His loud utterances were punctuated with lots of “ah!” as he stretched his vocal cavity full width and bulged his eyes as if to give his words more meaning. He stood up to the city in a way neither my brother nor I could dare attempt.
EDIT: In an out-of-train settlement, we paid 50% of the battery cost to this stranger to reclaim what was originally ours.
Was this monstrous city a bit forgiving of its own? Perhaps. Despite the aggression of this city, its cowardice and vulnerability was glaring to the observing. You don't have to be tough in Lagos. You just have to look it.
But why, Lagos?
Why would you attempt to pickpocket me twice in a week, each time targeting my mobile phone?
Two men who were conversing uncomfortably loudly on the queue approached my section of the bus. I wanted to kick. Two men who had a chance to sit together on a pair of seats in the bus decide to sit three seats apart. Two men conversed at 90dB the length of my irksome journey, over other passengers' heads. Why, Lagos?
I pushed my in-ear earpiece as far as they could go. I wanted to shut out of the chaos. But my eyes dropped on this woman and her kid, both with feet dusty like they had set out to kick the sands. The only time I remember my mum's feet that dirty was when we went to the farm.
As a kid I could recall sitting there, spent and exhausted, tired from playing, and staring at my mum's feet. It was beyond my comprehension how they stayed that clean for that long. I promised myself I'll match her standards the next day when I had a chance to have my bath and turn a new leave. But like a struggling alcoholic I always failed. I went to bed every night like a pig given its way.
photo source
As I battled with my thoughts, I could only imagine what this city could have been with a symbol of order for her to look up to. A pair of clean feet she desired to emulate the next day. I imagined Lagosians raised to believe it was really rude to converse loudly in public spaces. I dreamt of some order and tranquility. I craved for loads of it. To challenge the image of a “Lagos boy” who is domineering, aggressive, sharp, and will steal your belonging when you aren't looking.
I looked to my side at the lady with ruffled fringe wig. She had reclined on her seat, her mouth slightly open as she dozed, hugging her bag like she was walking on the streets of Lagos in her dream. I saw a tired city that was still in a haste. I saw a city that murdered her values to pride itself in its notoriety. I saw Lagos and I wanted to ask her, why?
¹ Particularly among the Yorubas, in African traditions the elderly are revered because they are believed to possess much wisdom. This imbues a sense of entitlement as one's age advances. It's easy to perceive some as arrogant when they wield the full weight of their chieftaincies.
Cover photo by Adolphus Opara, 2008