Heading home after work is a chaotic mess as usual. The dual carriage way is laden with various vehicles – yellow and black danfo buses, taxi cabs; some yellow, some dark green or faded red but you just know they are for commercial use by their overlong dirtiness and batteredness. 

Private cars with rolled up windows and full blast air conditioning in colours blue, grey or white. Other private cars with rolled down windows and six adults at the back, lapping one another. The two on either sides practically out of the window and holding onto the roof. These cars’ bellies crawl on the ground and groan grr krrh in protest.

There is a long queue at every open filling station which is just a few. There is a nationwide fuel scarcity. A person holds at least two 20litres keg. If possible, they would buy fuel that will last a month; the queue is barely moving and the attendants are slow and nonchalant. More cars veer off the road and join the long queue at the filling station. The fuel queue enters the road, gets entangled and causes more traffic. 

The sun is scorching. It is hot enough to fry dodo without a visible fire. Everyone is sweating like Christmas goats. The windows of air conditioned private cars roll off cold sweat on behalf of their occupants in an aloof manner.

A baby is crying in this bus. His mummy sings. Nothing. She bounces him on her knee. No respite. She tries to suckle him. He cries louder.

“Madam, maybe he’s feeling hot”. 

A passenger behind provides. 

“It’s not maybe. It’s the heat”. Still another. 

The mother removes his clothes, mops his body and blows air from her mouth. Soon he stops. 

The traffic moves a little. Sudden firing of engines. Vehicles shoot forward. Drivers switch lanes like mad men to beat the traffic.

Passengers scream “Oga, wetin happen sef? Abi you be learner?”

“Driver if I miscarry ehn, I no go forgive you o”. 

Everyone laughs despite the heat, despite the uncertainty of when they will get to their destinations. Vehicles jerk forwards and stop. A danfo hits a Silver Honda Accord from behind. The drivers come down simultaneously.

“Mr. Man, are you blind?” Mr. Cripsy White Shirt and designer wine-blue striped tie roars. 

“And e no go better for you. You dey mad? Why you match brake like dat?” 

White Shirt rushes at him. God Punish You also rushes at him, grabs hold of his collar and punches his jaw. White Shirt’s wife or girlfriend screams and curses but remains in the car. Horns blare harshly, conductors put their heads out of windows to taunt them. Passengers clap and pass commentaries. Loudspeakers of nearby filling stations join in the racket. Burna Boy’s deep tenor is heard over a heavy Afrobeat.

Moni Lati Ojodu Berger

De Ebute Meta

Awon temi coolu temper

(Coolu coolu temper)

White Shirt and God Punish You heed the advice. They cool their tempers and walk back to their respective vehicles. White shirt’s front is an impromptu tie-dye design of black engine oil and greasy food oil in palm prints. Cars go slowly. Hawkers call out.

“Fresh bread here. Buy your fresh bread”.

“Ginseng sweet. N50 only”.

A hawker of toothbrushes, pastes, cotton buds and the like stands behind her tray. She has loosened her strapped baby and it is sucking from her left breast, under her armpit, from its perch on her back. Music of the club Shaku genre fills the air. A small stage has been placed on a side off the road. Sales promo of phones is going on. An emcee holds up a phone and speaks quickly about its features while dancers whine on a codeine diet to the thrill of onlookers. They dance like they are pulling the start rope of invisible generators with their right arms pulled backwards. The traffic moves steadily for some minutes then stops again. 

Somewhere along the line, the four vertical lanes of vehicles have become five. Some smart- stupid driver started a lane on the dirt path meant for pedestrians. Other drivers refuse to allow him get in front of them and drive quickly to cover up gaps as the traffic eases on and off. The road becomes completely blocked and pedestrians are in a Zombie standstill. A soldier comes out of nowhere. He drags out the driver and whips him mercilessly, like a school fee defaulter, with his peppery koboko of eight lashes. A full grown man. He yowls horribly. 

People look on unseeingly; the container on a trailer might become unhooked, fall and crush more than ten cars and their innocent occupants or a bridge might catch fire and burn for hours.

This is Lagos!

Note: 'This Is Lagos' was first published in the Ebedi Review Magazine (print), commemorating their 10th anniversary in 2020.