Lagos!
Tags: Travel Writing, Travel, Nigeria, Africa, Lagos

As far as flying goes, Kigali to Lagos was unconventional.

Wikipedia

The experience begins 38,000 feet in the sky. As the descent steadily approaches, some amongst us are nervously clutching their clammy palms, eyelids shut with heads slightly bowed as if in prayer. Those that aren’t squeezing the life out of their neighbour’s hands have a tight grip of their arm rests. A peculiar silence saturates the air punctuated by the whistling of jet engines. I take a peek at both my beloved mother and grandmother — both bone tired from hours of endless flying — and realize they are unaware of what’s unfolding. Both women are in an indestructible bubble of equanimity in a celestial universe far, far away.

And, touchdown! A thunderous applause quickly ensues catching me by surprise awakening both my mother and grandmother. Ear-splitting clapping is complemented by hundreds of hallelujahs and thank you Jesus O’s! Perplexed by it all, my 80-year grandmother — flying for the very first time — gently leans towards me and asks, “Did the plane crush?” “No grandma” I assure her. ‘’We just landed!’’

The jet is still on the runway steadily taxiing to the gate whilst running at formidable speed. Seatbelt signs are still on. Passengers storm out of their seats and hastily reach for their luggage; one of them nearly hits my grandmother. Crew caution those standing to remain seated or risk getting seriously hurt. After what seems like relentless cajoling from the weary crew, those standing retreat to their seats except one man, Gucci luggage and backpack in tow. A female purser approaches him and politely asks that he sit down. He boldly shuns her request. Several people chime in, including those that were previously standing. The man doesn’t cede. Captain finally sends through a commanding announcement demanding that the man return to his seat. He capitulates, finally. We are in awe as we watch him recoil to his seat like a wounded hippo. My mother reminds me that this was the same fellow that brazenly approached a stewardess during inflight meal service and ordered her to serve him wine after his section had long been served.

Once the plane taxis, a kerfuffle to exit sets about. The three of us choose to lounge in our seats until everyone safely departs. Relieved that the commotion is behind us, we blithely exit the plane and out of nowhere comes a giant heat wave that engulfs us like a bushfire in the Harmattan. We aren’t prepared. The Murtala Muhammed International Airport heat hits different.

We head to international arrivals and reluctantly join a line that is meandering to about 10 metres long. A lanky airport official fairing about 6 ft, wearing a tan police like uniform with a fitted red beret charges towards us. “My sister why are you making grandma stand in line?” He fetches grandma a stool and summons me to follow him. Those still in line painfully scoff as I wiggle my hips to the front. I mean the order came from above. Who am I to defy it? I ask my mother to stay with nana. The officer asks both of them to give me their passports after which am handed over to the kiosk.

Four agents are seated in close proximity to one another. The first asks to view our passports and briefly interrogates me on who the other two belong to. I point to both relatives seated at close range. He swiftly glances at our passport pictures, does a brief survey of our faces and affirms, “It is you indeed!” He tosses the passports over to the next agent. The latter performs a flippant eye scan of our visas and hands over to the next agent who stamps them. Between these two, both tasks take a mere 10 seconds. The last agent asks us to fill out three forms and pay some fee whose purpose I can’t recall. All this while am doing double duty, tossing passports around and pondering the reasons an airport would need four people to perform a task that at the most would take one to two people to complete. What’s the purpose of having all this manpower with a line snaking to the entrance? As we leave the kiosk, my giddy grandmother brags how she can’t wait to tell everyone in Kampala that she was accorded the royal treatment in Lagos. She asks that I take her with me each time I travel so that I never have to stand in line ever again.

We are not ready for what awaits us at baggage claim. There’s an impassable human chain formed around the carousel that makes incoming luggage invisible to those standing outside of the tight circle. Mounds of people are wondering about scanning for their belongings in hot, humid and oppressive heat. I ask both my elders to remain seated while I run to grab a cart. Each cart costs US $1 which is about 380 Naira. I head to foreign exchange which is another worrisome line of about 20 people. When I return to the cart line, the woman running the show informs the crowd that all the carts are gone. Stowed away behind her desk are several stacks of carts that are clearly visible to all of us. Frustrated passengers whom I presume are well attuned to handle a pesky cart lady raise their voices and hurl insults. Threats are made to jump over the desk and grab the carts if she won’t release them. Seemingly frightened by the crowd, the woman whispers, “It not be by force nah!” She begrudgingly hands the carts over. “Naija O!” Bellows a pleasantly plump woman, enameled in elegant and vibrant aso ebi as though she’s fresh off a wedding reception. By the time we get our luggage and exit the airport, both my Zara boyfriend denim and tee are drenched in mucky hot sweat. I have a profound appreciation for Audi Q8 air conditioning. It’s the antidote for the humidity that we all needed.

To Magodo

The drive from Ikeja feels like I am diving deep into the canons of a Chinua Achebe novel. A behemoth of a city, Lagos is vibrant and pulsating with life. Each sighting is as captivating as it is mesmerizing. The deeply gratifying sight of melanated children playing in the park with neatly braided bantu knots adorned in impeccably tailored flowered Ankara dresses awakens sombre memories of my own childhood. Industrious African women skillfully balancing woven baskets of ready to eat plantain on pear-shaped heads simultaneously provide a free masterclass on how to cut through treacherous highways with the precision of a hunted gazelle. keke, a miniature van that comes in bright hues of yellow could easily be the 9th wonder of the world. Five medium sized people with bags of fresh farm produce fit into that thing! Am hauntingly surprised that keke never made its debut on topGear. Sprinting through traffic lights, my wandering eyes land on a freshly painted billboard marketing an app created to refurbish and sell used vehicles. A testament to the ingenuity of the African. Am both happy and relieved to finally be in Lagos, a city that I read about for most of my childhood and has since become a staple in my dreams.

The Inaugural Supper

The rich multicultural mosaic of North American Universities provided ample opportunities to indulge in diverse versions of jollof rice. Each recipe however mediocre came with a chef that bragged about not only being a pioneer but a connoisseur of this particular type of fried rice. Ahem! I had it straight from the source and reached the sober conclusion that all others were gentrified. Naija jollof is the type that went to graduate school and paid international fees! On another note, Nigerian food, like most African cuisines, is carb and grease heavy. This is the kind of food our ancestors used to fatten up a bride before she was handed off for marriage. Roasted goat or beef must be washed down with a bottle of Guinness and if you happen to be a teetotaler, Pineapple Schweppes or a fruity beverage of your choosing. Fried plantain, Cassava, Suya, Puff Puff to mention a few of my personal favourites are all worth the extra stretch marks.

Victoria Island

This majestic island is called Victoria for good reason. To get here, one goes through a serpentine architectural marvel that is roughly a 30 minutes’ drive from Magodo without traffic. If you’re to party on the island, book a hotel in advance because any sane African will tell you that a real parte after parte ends at 6 am. No one is courageous enough to do the walk of shame on a beautiful Sunday morning while most of your elders are in church praising the good lord for all his bountiful blessings.

We are chauffeured to the island at about 8 pm on a crisp Saturday evening that is begging for us to chop money. As per usual, I have my superstar outfit on and as my nieces would proudly say, am slaying the gods! African gods to be precise. Lighting up the sky is a delightful and luminous display of gigantic christmas lights that pleasantly welcome us into the upper echelons of Africa’s biggest city. The colourful and whimsical exhibit — that is akin to an enchanted castle — stretches about 10 blocks or more. Dying for their pictures to be taken, we pull out our iPhones and store away the magic.

Heels already itching for the ultimate turnup, we head to Hard Rock Café Lagos. Stationed in the parking lot are rows upon rows of top of the range automobiles that look and smell like money: Aston Martin, Mercedez Benz, Ferrari, Bentley Coup, and BMW. We pass through security and inside awaits a sea of melanin; sweet smelling melanin. Bubbly is flowing. Afrobeat bops are gliding on the turntables and piercing through the speakers. Am in my element. The DJ plays Burna Boy’s On the Low and the building sways. A brave adonis confidently inquires if the queen wants to dance. Am caught off guard and feeling a little shy but then again, who am I to defy orders?

Oh my Angeli, Angelina

Oh my Angeli, Angelina

Oh mi o da oh

Anytime wey I see you for the club, I dey television your body

Shey you no know say the thing wey you carry fit kill somebody

You know I feel a vibe, you feel a vibe, so baby whine it pon me