A City Like No Other

When I moved to Lagos 6 years ago, I was like a kid let loose in a candy store. Wide-eyed, I took everything in; the buildings, the people. The lady beside me in the bus actually had to turn and ask me if it was my first time in Lagos. I was stuck to the window. Everything fascinated me; the way everyone seemed to be in a hurry; the tall buildings; the street hawkers who ran after the bus like their lives depended on it. I could not wait to explore this city alone.

Fast forward to present day and I realize I still stare out the windows when I’m out. Lagos will never cease to amaze me. Only in this city does wealth live side by side with acute poverty. Recently, I and a friend talked about what a post-apocalyptic Lagos would look like. And truth be told, I couldn’t imagine it. You mean Lagos is not already in a post- apocalyptic state? When I speak of an apocalypse, I imagine you’re thinking aliens and invasion and bombings all around. But if you truly take a look at some parts of Lagos, at the shelters people call home in this city, you’ll be convinced it indeed looks like someone bombed them to hell already.

A society is well on its way to collapse when certain things are not in place. Infrastructure is one of them. In Lagos, a large percentage of its residents actually have no designated places they call home. Every night, they roam the streets, looking for somewhere to lay for a mere 4, maybe 5 hours. Buses, verandahs, churches, mosques, under the bridges: all serve as make-shift bedrooms for one night, and then another cycle continues the next day. I have seen people erect posts and put up mosquito nets in an open field. Men and women who don’t know themselves from Adam, cohabiting and bathing together in open spaces early in the morning ; there is no time for coyness in Lagos.

For some of those who can actually manage to scrape all their earnings and afford some sort of shelter, the story is not much different. Families of 5 or 6, squeezed into a tiny room, with one tiny window. The window opens out to a dump site, and it’s too much to hope for any type of ventilation from it. The ceiling leaks when it rains, and mid-year, when the rains peak and the grounds can no longer hold water, the room is flooded. There are watermarks on the wall, cracks zig zag the ceilings, and the wall coating is dull with grime. There is only one bathroom, and 4 other families in the building share it. There are no toilets here; the dumpsite at the back of the building serves this purpose.

In Lagos, citizens are the Law and the Order. When a thief or an offender is caught in the act, he is quickly tried and sentenced by a mob — most likely filled with people who have committed similar crimes over and over. No one thinks of calling the authorities before clubbing or stoning the culprit to death, or worse- throwing discarded tires around his neck, splashing petrol on him and burning him alive. By now a crowd has gathered, and everyone watches, fascinated, as human flesh is roasted amid soul-piercing cries for mercy. Most are drawn to morbid scenes as this, probably because nothing much happens in their empty lives.This is the best piece of action they’ve seen today, so no one calls the police. Besides, the police wouldn’t dare show face at the scene; the mob will likely overpower them, and they’ll end up as roast too.

A certain kind of madness thrives in this city. You see it in the eyes of the scrawny young boy, roaming the streets barefooted. It’s in the actions of grown men who, in broad daylight, pull down their trousers to take a shit by the roadside. Its this madness that keeps the city going I think, because no one seems to mind it. In fact, no one seems to notice the things I do about Lagos. There is no culture of neighborliness, no care for the environment. A heavy dank aura permeates the air. You can feel it the moment you step off the plane at the airport. The stink is everywhere, and even the so called ‘urban’ areas are not spared.

Now you’re thinking “But there are rich people in Lagos, surely?” Yes, there are. And they are in truth, the city’s biggest problems. The upper-middle class citizens like to pretend nothing is wrong with their world. They are convinced the homeless who line their streets, watching them hungrily as they drive past in their Mercedes are really not their problem. So when they see an anomaly, they look away. They’re only here to make money, not to set up a charity. Besides, they have enough responsibilities: they have to provide their own electricity, their own water, and even their own security because the government can’t do it effectively.

Then there’s the nouveau riche who have the city in their pockets. They never get into trouble because they have the right contacts on speed dial. They have uniformed maids and uniformed gate men, and they never have any business in the slum areas. Their homes are in Lekki, their offices in Lekki, and all their friends live in VGC. Their kids school in England, and Canada, and it’s best to let them come home once every 10 years. Until they don’t. They vacation in France and conduct business in Switzerland, so you see how the plight of Lagos and Lagosians is the farthest thing from their minds.

I fear a day when the poor in this city will decide that they want more, and take it. But that’s the thing about revolutions or anarchy or even conflict in general. You never know what would cause the final collapse. Maximilien de Robespierre, the man who led the French Revolution was not poor; he was in fact upper middle class, had a law degree and earned a very comfortable income. But somehow he was radicalized, and fought for the good of the poor.

Whichever way it goes down though, I have only one wish; that I’m far gone from here.