#LagosWaka: Crossing the Bridge. Walking the Street
Long faces. Long queues. Squirming heads. Deafening honks. Short fuses. Pepe-ric passengers. Hamilton-ic drivers.
It's just 6:30 a.m.
But there is already so much craze and energy here that would shock neutrals.
There are many sleep-deprived eyes, yawning mouths with bad breath as you contemplate where to sit in the cramped yellow jalopy.
Soon there is a sleeping match. Some tilt their heads backwards, some it's a free-for-all nodding spree. It seems you hear some slow snores too. Ah.
It's a daily ritual for the millions that live here. Cosmopolitan and tiny, this city is the assembly of everything Nigerian.
There is a scramble for everything here. Space. Sanity. Survival.
And speed is of essence. Errors are hardly forgiven. Don't “loseguard” (drop your guard), you are warned, the street is always on the prowl.
Even as you watch that Netflix series your eyes are on the alert, not sure who might snatch your phone from the window.
It's more like a struggle between brawn and brain. Both for the street.
Your toolkit: stern face, impeccable martial art, coarse voice, know people (it is called being connected here), be dramatic (they call it have mouth here) and fluent in street lingo. Sprinkle some craze in there, too.
A mafia-like gang — area boys or agberos, as they are called — controls this street. Motorists and street traders are their cash cow. They can be your own nemesis and, sometimes, saving grace, too.
One is haggling with your driver, threatening to rip off his side mirror.
“Fún mi lowo mi,” he barks with the confidence of a PalmPay creditor chasing a debtor.
“Oga, don't delay us óò,” now awake, one of the sleeping passengers with sullen eyes charges at the driver, “traffic dey Third Mainland.”
Your heart jolts. Third Mainland. It’s 7:30 a.m. now.
The concrete serpent called Third Mainland Bridge that snakes over Lagos Lagoon that empties into the Atlantic Ocean, connecting the commercial district of Lagos Island to the mainland section, is a traffic venom.
A necessary evil 11.8km long where thousands of commuters must cross to either reach their upscale Ikoyi offices or the bustling Balogun market.
Luckily for you, the road is free. Subsidy?
As you are drowned in your own thoughts, you see a boy yank an elderly man by his trousers, nearly ripping his worn-out dress with its faded glory.
“Next time you won’t try to steal what doesn't belong to you,” you hear him say something like that. “Follow me!” he orders, to the consternation of many who looked at the senior with pity and disgust.
Then you remember the far right Italian politician who yelled “attenzione pickpocket!” in a TikTok video you saw last night before you slept off.
Pickpocket again? You shrug.
You have pity too, but when you remember the precise stealth with which ₦12,000 (about $100 at the time), your three-month savings, was stolen from your bag over 13 years ago you think feeling disgusted is a fair game.
As you leave the scene you wonder who the man is and what will become of him. Anyways he probably will sustain some bruises, or at worst a bloodied nose.
All the best, you murmur.
As you march on, you see another group tugging at each other's shirt. Few metres away from them there's a scramble to board a bus.
You shake your head. What a life.
Èkó.
…to be continued.
