Lagos in love

Kristen House
Sep 1, 2018 · 5 min read

Sometimes it takes a little extra effort

Balogun market, Lagos

Before I spent a week walking the streets, meeting Lagosians in their homes, and learning to barter in the marketplaces, I had a very American view of Nigeria. It was a big country, and had a lot of people in it. Lagos (I pronounced it LAH-gohse) was on the sea, and was famous for a notorious slum. And, of course, my internet prince was somewhere in the country, just waiting for me to help him move his millions away from a corrupt goverment.

Makoko, the floating slum along the Third Mainland Bridge in Lagos

What I found was far more complex, more human, and more awe-inspiring than I could have ever imagined. And I feel embarrassed for my narrow views and lack of curiosity about this place, Africa’s largest economy.

Lagos (pronounce it “LEG-ohse) is big — massive, in fact. The city, while famously difficult to count during census, is estimated to have over 21 million residents. To put that in perspective, that’s 2.5 New York Cities. Nigeria itself is equally huge — one in every 7 black people on earth is a Nigerian.

Nigeria has it’s fair share of woe: Infrastructure in Nigeria leaves a lot to be desired. Electricity, even in the wealthiest parts of town, goes out many times per day. Healthcare is terrible, prone to strikes, and hard to access outside the cities. The average annual income is around $450. Roads are rarely paved, often littered with refuse, and lined with men urinating on walls.

But beyond being young, plentiful, and living in a rapidly growing and developing country, Nigerians resist being grouped into types. If one thing pervades all the groups of people I spoke with, studied, interacted with, and observed during my week there, it is this: the Nigerian Hustle.

On every street, in every alley, and between lanes in the freeway are hard-working street hustlers trying to sell you a soda, a snack, or a flashlight. They press cans of spice into your hand, hang necklaces around your neck, and hold reams of fabric so close to your face that they’re likely to knock you over. Their enthusiasm outpaces their salesmanship, and they don’t have the suave that we expect from shopkeepers and businesspeople in the West. But they make up for that with pure energy.

The traffic jams in Lagos are bad enough to make LA seem easy to navigate. And street hustlers take advantage of that captive market by trying to sell things to you — right at your car window. Here’s a short and very incomplete list of actual items I was offered while sitting in traffic in Lagos:

  1. Pork rinds
  2. Smoked fish
  3. Phone chargers
  4. Steering wheel covers
  5. Alcohol
  6. Trash cans
  7. Coat stands (I’m not kidding!)
  8. Gum, candy, and sodas
  9. Motivational books
  10. Mix tapes
  11. Jesus — “The Winning Gospel”
  12. Crackers in boxes
  13. Flaslights
  14. Socks
  15. Flip-flops
  16. Iron gates (WHY?!)
  17. Boxes of Kleenex
  18. Sardines in a can
  19. Wiper blades
  20. Air mattresses
  21. Slices of mango

And all of this hustle is in support of dreams. Big dreams. The kind of dreams that American kids dream before the world and adults smash them down to smaller, more attainable goals. One woman, 26, told me that she planned to be a ballerina in Paris within one year. Nevermind that she had no classical training and weighed more than a waif. Another man told me that he would launch a Nigerian-focussed marketplace akin to Etsy that would feature local-made wares. Again, no matter than he had no experience in tech or code or commerce. A mother of 3 told me that she wanted to buy land and develop it into commercial real estate. Again, she had no experience that would make this dream attainable. But none of them had even considered the unlikelihood of their aspirations, and those dreams kept them fueled every day to go back out onto the streets and hustle. Or sell one more hand-made suit. Or wake up at 5am to practice grand jetes.

And sometimes, their dreams do come true. Africa’s billionaire class is growing, and thousands of millionaires hail from Lagos. They’re almost all self-made, and stories of the local-boy-makes-good abound on the street.

This is Nigeria at its heart: the reality is grim, but that doesn’t stop the forward momentum. A lively and unbridled chaos runs through the city, giving it both a sense of desperation and a heartbeat. People want better for themselves — but they don’t see a clear pathway from their own dark doors to the bright lights of Victoria Island, where the country’s billionaires live just feet from the Mokoko floating slums. And so, they innovate. They become entrepreneurs. They hustle. They scam. They approach opportunities with the pure ruthlessness of people living for this moment only. They dream in vivid technicolor, and they’ll be damned if they’ll let reality spoil tomorrow.

And this is why I’ve come to love Nigeria. Not because it’s easy to fall in love with. No, it’s not like Paris or San Francisco or London. Lagos doesn’t seduce you with glitz and glamour. Lagos hustles your heart. Lagos teaches you that sometimes you have to believe in yourself against all the evidence. And in the din of desperation, hard work can help you find the self you always wanted to become.

A girl in a neighborhood in Ikeja, Lagos.

Kristen House

Written by

Southern in San Francisco. User Experience poet.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade