A Lagos Morning.

Photo by Stephen Olatunde on Unsplash.

You woke up, drenched in sweat, to yet another morning of darkness. NEPA or PHCN or Ikeja Electric—or whatever they called it these days—had failed to supply electricity for the past three days. And of course, that also meant there was no running water.

You said a quick prayer of thanksgiving to God for the new day and begged Him to let it be a life-changing one.

It was 5:30 AM, so you had about two hours and a half before you had to leave home and join the rat race to get to work.

Well, today, it wasn’t just work; you had an interview at an investment firm you had always dreamt of working in.

You weren’t a fan of this city called Lagos. In fact, you were one of its biggest closeted haters, but it was the place where you could truly actualise your dream of becoming a financial analyst baddie whose sheer acumen, and beauty, made people swoon.

One day, you would walk into a top Lagos firm in the highest stiletto heels, with a bone straight weave, clad in a power suit that was worth some people’s salaries, smelling like wealth.

You had always wondered what perfume the Wealthy Women’s Association of Lagos wore, but you knew that one day, you too would be let in on the secret.

And today could really be the beginning of that. You sort of sleepwalked through the first 3 stages of the application process for this job because you couldn’t believe it was happening, but now you were here, at the final stage.

You had only applied as an experiment, but somehow, you had fooled these people into thinking you were all that, so maybe you were. Maybe it was high time you buried your impostor syndrome and let yourself believe you had earned your dream.

Imagination was about to kill you, so you snapped yourself back to reality. You had enough time to fetch water from the drum on the corridor, get dressed and whip up a breakfast meal that required as little water as possible to prepare.

But first, you put in your earbuds, opened your Spotify app and played some Afrobeats music.

You liked to imagine your life was a movie that required a soundtrack frequently playing in the background.

This morning, some upbeat Asake music was what you needed to elevate your spirit.

Yes, Lagos sucked and your life in Lagos sucked, but Asake? Ololade e could never suck.

As you picked the two empty buckets from your bathroom and headed out of the 3-bedroom apartment you shared with two other women, you tried to give your Asake performance as quietly as possible—light stomps and ad libs in hush tones, not enough to wake your roommates, but enough to make you feel awake, or alive.

When you got back to your room, you put your earbuds back in its case and switched to your speaker.

With both your room and bathroom door shut now, you could finally unleash your performance in its full glory.

When you were done with the bathroom and Asake, you switched to your Amapiano playlist to set the tone for getting dressed.

You picked one of your numerous wash-and-wear shirts and trousers—a wardrobe essential for Lagos living—and brushed your wig.

For a brief moment, you wondered what it would be like to be one of those babes who had a full face beat on at work every day.

You wore makeup most weekends and special occasions, but the dedication required to make that an everyday part of your life was something you never thought you could grasp.

“Well, maybe when I’m a big woman and one Mr Wasiu is waiting to drive me to my office that’s just 15 minutes away,” you thought aloud.

For now, you worked in Onikan, lived in Ketu and had to walk and then catch a series of buses to get to your office.

There was a time you dreamt of working remote, but you soon realised the dream did not make sense since there was no light at home.

Your office had constant power supply, courtesy of the generator, and Wi-Fi, which you often used to download everything downloadable.

It made sense to go to the office every working day, however stressful it was. The firm you were interviewing for was also in Onikan.

After downing a few slices of buttered bread and some water, you switched to your Gospel music playlist, a subtle reminder to fear God as you dealt with the much-too-many mad people on the way.

You made your way out of your compound to the filthy, narrow road. Another thing that sucked about your life in Lagos was that Lagos was God-abeg filthy.

God abeg, why does it stink so bad?

God abeg, why is there so much trash on the road?

And particularly for the path you walked to the bus-stop, God abeg, why is there always a rat’s carcase on this damn road?

Living in Lagos was a constant series of bated breaths and somehow, after 3 years, you had never fully exhaled.

You would escape to your parents’ house in Ibadan as often as you could just so you could fully exhale.

The treasured train made those quests for peace, sanity and fresh air in Ibadan that much easier.

Also, Ibadan didn’t have traffic. If you could write a book about the troubles of Lagos traffic, it would be titled “Epp Me, Epp Me, Lagos traffic dey Carry Me Where I no know oh!”, or something along those lines.

But Alas, Lagos was a necessary evil if you ever wanted to make any real headway in your career.

Until you could be that corporate baddie, you would keep your head up and make strides with as much dignity as possible.

If you were going to join the rat race, you would at least enter as the more cultured rat that people let in their houses, or was that a mouse? Those ones Oyinbo people fed and treated like pets.

Sha, you wouldn’t be like those gutter rats that always got killed on your way to the bus-stop.

So, this meant you never rushed and fought with people to enter buses. You would wait till you could walk into a bus like the cultured mouse that you were.

And maybe sometimes, you would book an Uber to a certain point—you definitely could not book one all the way to Onikan because as an astute philosopher named Teni once said, your Papa no be Dangote.

Once you got to the bus-stop though, all that idealism was tossed into the gutter. There were way too many people, a sign that it was one of those days of mind-boggling bus scarcity. And unlike other days, your new life was at stake here so you would have to be a rat for today. Just for today.

You paused the Gospel music. You had to be on high alert, ready to run once you heard a bus conductor yell your bus-stop name from afar. You had to win the race.

In the span of 20 minutes, only 3 buses had passed and none of them were going to the Island. You were already breaking a sweat from panic, worried you would arrive at the interview drenched in sweat.

On the one hand, it could be a plus if they smelt the stench of desperation on you and handed you the job out of pity. On the other hand, it could be a disastrous (physical) first impression that would make them sure you were too “ghetteaux” to belong there.

The grating shout of “Obalende!” quickly snapped you out of your thoughts. You ran as fast as you could and squeezed through the small crowd in front of you.

It was chaos because some passengers were trying to alight, but you couldn’t give them too much space and risk losing a spot. You stood your ground and finally secured a seat.

Now, you prayed, with bated breath, that Lagos traffic wouldn’t cost you your new life today. Then you continued playing music, anything to calm you down.

You were in between songs when you heard the bus driver singing along to the RnB music that was playing from the radio. The biggest surprise? This man could actually sing.

You looked up and got a good look at him. He had a short afro with a sleek side parting and wore big, round shakommended glasses.

In another life, you imagined walking into a bar and seeing this man serenading the audience with his band. Maybe, just like you, he was working his way up to a Lagos dream too.

Until then, he would perform for this bus full of antsy Lagosians, and you would be his audience of one, at least till you had to alight and get to your next bus.