Seeing Lagos Read online

  The man handed Solá the bag and they both rose to their feet.

  Solá couldn't take his eyes away from the thief-catcher. He was particularly fascinated with the way the other man constantly licked his lower lip, all the while keeping his focused brown gaze on Solá.

  Solá was just about to ask for a name when someone bumped into him, knocking him against his helper. He felt warm arms hold him gently until someone yelled out, "Disgusting."

  The word sent a shock through Solá's system, and he and the other man jumped apart. This was Nigeria. A country that handed out jail terms to homosexuals. This was not a country where a man could admit to be tempted to kiss another man in public. Public Displays of Affection of any kind were frowned upon. A display of homosexual attraction was grounds for a lynching.

  "Thank you for the help," Solá murmured and tightened his hand on the strap of his laptop bag. "I'm Solá Michael."

  "I'm Dámilólá Adérèmí. And it was no problem," Dámilólá said with a laugh. "Although, I'll advise that now you are in Lagos, it's best you keep your eyes and hands on everything you have on you at all times. A man who is lax about his things and his environment is soon parted with his belongings in Lagos. And it's not every time you'll find someone come to your rescue like I did. Quite a lot of people will conclude that since you were stupid enough to be taken advantage of, then you don't deserve to have that item."

  "But that's not fair," Solá protested. "Why should I be blamed for getting robbed?"

  Dámilólá raised a hand. "Nobody's actually going to blame you for having your pocket picked. They just won't see the sense in running to your aid and helping to apprehend the thief. Everyone's in a hurry to get to their destination. They don't have the sympathy to help someone retrieve an object that he should have kept a careful eye on in the first place. It's just the way Lagosians are." Dámilólá shrugged.

  "Lagosians sound a lot like jackasses," Solá retorted, then inhaled sharply. Maybe he had spoken too harshly. This was the city Dámilólá lived in, and that made him one of the Lagosians being spoken about.

  Dámilólá laughed hard. "Well, some of us are," he admitted with a smile. "But you'll grow to love us and see the city as beautiful, enchanting and utterly engaging."

  Solá shook his head. "I do not intend to stay here for long enough to witness all the wonders of Lagos. I have a life to return to, a career. Plus, I do not think Lagos is actually the place for me."

  "Who said anything about months—or even weeks?" Dámilólá asked with an impish grin. "Give me one night. Just a night, and I'll open your eyes to some of the wonders of this city I call home."

  Solá stared at twinkling brown eyes, the infectious smile, and a lithe body that was presently balanced on its owner's heels and vibrating with contained energy. At that moment, Dámilólá looked like a big cat about to spring.

  Slowly, the lethargy that had been with Solá ever since he got to Lagos began to lift, although he still retained his doubts about Lagos being captivating. The Lagos he knew was filthy, loud, and annoying. He didn't see how Dámilólá could make him love the place. However, only a fool would turn down an invitation with a beautiful man as his guide, and Solá Michael was not a fool.

  He presented his hand to Dámilólá and said, "You have yourself a deal. Enchant me."

  Dámilólá laughed. "Sure. Your first lesson is this. People don't really shake hands on the streets, unless they're business associates. Rather, we bump our fists." Dámilólá indicated that Solá should make a fist, and they bumped fists. "Now, where should we start?" Dámilólá mused and tugged on one of his dreads. His eyes scanned the area.

  Solá however remembered his errands. "I need to pick up a dress for my sister. That was where I was heading when we bumped into each other. She said the tailor's shop is beside the First Bank."

  Dámilólá nodded his head. "I know the place. It's a good place to start." He began walking briskly.

  Solá followed him, wondering what could be fascinating about a tailor's shop in Lagos, and why it was a good starting point for getting him to understand Lagosians and fall in love with the city.

  *~*~*

  Solá dropped the bags containing his sister's clothes on her bed. When the seamstress's girls began to pack his sister's clothes, he had wondered if maybe they had miscalculated. His sister didn't need so many dresses made from lace—beautiful, coloured, fabric with holes meant to reveal bits of skin that tantalized men's vision; skirts made from ankárá—the locally made material with its richly-coloured patterns that showcased the artistry and imagination of the men and women who designed them—or jackets that were made of the sophisticated Guinea brocade. What was Solápe doing with so many clothes? Clothes that, more often than not, she rarely wore?

  Solá shook his head at the question. Women. He would never understand them or their burning desire to own as many articles of clothing as possible. They were a conundrum in his book.

  Dámilólá had laughed at his amazement. Solá though, hadn't been offended. His attention was captured by the busyness of the place: little girls rushing about carrying bolts of fabric, older girls threading sewing machines, their legs working the pedal as the machines made stitches on the materials; still-older women with their needles, creating intricate embroidery on ready materials; and finally, the head seamstress who moved around, giving advice and help, until she finally settled at her own sewing machine and continued with her work. It was artistry, speed, organization, a dramatic scene; with the end result, the joy and praises that came from satisfied clients who took their packages and left.

  Solá had also spent part of his time staring hard at a little girl of about twelve, whose hands moved steadily and well over the swatches of fabric she was embroidering. She spoke animatedly with the other girls, laughed at their jokes, but like the others, there was no misstep, no mistake in her work. She went through the swatches quickly, but it did not affect the quality of the work she was creating. The women all worked hard, mastered their craft, enjoyed their work and were relaxed.

  He and Dámilólá had been caught in mild traffic whilst they headed to his sister's house. Dámilólá had expressed disappointment at that, but cheered up saying that the traffic they would encounter heading out of Lagos island would make up for it. The scandalized look he had given him made Dámilólá laugh, before Dámilólá said, "There's no need to worry. Lagos traffic at its height is one that every Lagosian has to experience. Especially traffic on the Third Mainland Bridge, and you'll soon see why."

  Dámilólá's voice from down the stairs jolted him out of the memory. "How long does it take to drop off some bags? Hurry or we'll miss the show."

  "I'm coming," Solá replied, shutting his sister's door and hurrying out the door, all the while wondering what show they might be late for. The only thing Dámilólá had seemed excited about him seeing was the Third Mainland traffic. How was that a show?

  *~*~*

  Third Mainland Bridge at night, in the thickest of traffic, was a sight to behold. Cars covered every inch of the bridge, and with their headlights shining strongly, the bridge was ablaze with colours, and cars that looked like tiny ants moving slowly. The lights reflected on the ocean, multi-coloured flashes dancing on the surface of the water. It called to him, entranced him.

  The cool air breezed into the car, cooling them off.

  "It's beautiful, isn't it?" Dámilólá asked, grinning brightly. "This is how a lot of us relax on weeknights. Seeing this, listening to music and being tempted to jump into the ocean that calls to us to forget our worries and sorrows."

  Solá shook his head. "I have no plans to jump into any water, thank you very much. I happen to value my life a lot."

  "Just because you feel the urge doesn't mean you should give into it. It's enough to feel the call and know that you're one with nature."

  At his disbelieving look, Dámilólá cranked up the volume, and the voice of the radio presenter filled the car. Solá, though, was focu
sed on where else Dámilólá wanted to take him. He hoped it didn't involve jumping into the beach under some misguided notion that it was a way to connect with nature's force.

  "We'll soon get there," Dámilólá said, interrupting his thought process.

  "Where's there? And what exactly are we going to do there?" Solá asked.

  Dámilólá smiled. "There is Yába. And we're going to watch a rendition of Olá Rótìmí's Our Husband Has Gone Mad Again, whilst devouring a plate of hot àmàlà and àbùlà soup and drinking gourds of palm wine. It's an experience I want you to have."

  *~*~*

  Lagosians definitely knew how to enjoy themselves. That was the thought that went through Solá's mind as he cut a bit of Àmàlà—a thick paste made from yam flour and hot water—and mixed it with hot Àbùlà soup—a mix of Gbègìrì and Ewédú soup. He tossed it into his mouth, followed by bits of fish and meat. He took the meal with copious amounts of palm wine that left him feeling hazy.

  This feeling contributed to his enjoyment of the play and he laughed hard with the audience at the hilarity of Léjokà-Brown and the way the return of his American wife, Lisa, threw his entire household into pandemonium, causing him to say good-bye to his political career and his traditionally-married wives.

  By the time the actors and actresses gave their final bow, Solá found himself on his feet, clapping along with the rest of the crowd. Hell, he wished he could contact the playwright so he could congratulate Olá Rótìmí on a story well written.

  "I can see you're having fun," Dámilólá breathed into his ear. "But the night is just beginning. Next stop is Ozone cinema. Let's watch a movie."

  Amidst Solá's protests that they just finished seeing a play, Dámilólá dragged him to the cinema, where he paid for both their tickets. Soon they were seated in the back of the hall, waiting for the movie to commence. As they waited, Solá looked around.

  People had big bags of popcorn and drinks and held on tight to their movie partners. There was a hushed reverence as the movie started, and the hush continued till the end of the movie, letting up for a couple of times when the audience was sympathetic to the characters on screen. The audience laughed when the scene was funny, shouted at the action scenes, and remained quiet otherwise.

  Solá briefly let his eyes sweep across the room. Everyone in that room, man, woman and child stared intently at the screen, completely captivated by the plot, and Solá realized that in Lagos, the cinema was almost a religious experience. Be it a stage drama, or people on screen, Lagosians liked a good story.

  "Next stop is Ìkejà. You need to see how we move and our clubs," Dámilólá whispered in his ears as the credits flashed on the screen.

  The cool air on his ears caused Solá to shiver slightly. He turned to Dámilólá, "I've been to Ìkejà before. There were no clubs there."

  Dámilólá grinned. "Of course there weren't clubs at that time. Ìkejà is a corporate area. Offices are a dozen a mile there. What you saw was serious Ìkejà in the daylight. I want to show you Ìkejà at night. The chameleon that changes its appearance to suit the environment. That's Ìkejà for you. It's the perfect representation of the average Lagosian spirit. We work hard, but when work is over, we're quite capable of transforming into party animals who want to relax, with as minimal effort as possible."

  *~*~*

  They'd been to three clubs already, all within a time frame of four hours, and there were three things the clubs all had in common. The lack of lights, the music of Nigerian stars like Iyanya, Terry G, Timaya, Psquare, Wizkid, et cetera, and the throngs of bodies pressed closely to each other. Bodies that moved sinuously to the music.

  Alcohol—beer, spirits, and wine—flowed freely, and everybody in the clubs had that half-dazed look of the drunk. Men ground against each other, women made out with women, and heterosexuals fucked in the corners all over the room. Nobody made a fuss. The haze that had descended on the clubs made everything seem normal. Couples that would have otherwise hidden during the day came out freely at night. It was like the entire city let down its hair and was more receptive.

  At the moment, Dámilólá was grinding against him to the hard rhythm of Timaya's Málonògèdì. He had his ass placed just in the right place in front of Solá's jeans.

  Solá tried various images to get out of thinking of his companion's ass, but Dámilólá spun around and covered Solá's lips with his. Before Solá could moan, Dámilólá's tongue had gained entry into his mouth and began to slide against his tongue. Solá's hands drifted to Dámilólá's hips, bringing him closer, as they ground together to the beat of Timaya's song until it ended, and both their jeans were soaked.

  The switch to Psquare's more upbeat Alingo had Solá jerking back in panic. What had he done? He hadn't even confirmed if Dámilólá was okay with it, before he had grabbed the other man's hips. The amused look in Dámilólá's eyes reassured him somewhat, though.

  They walked in silence to the car, the reverberating beat of the songs playing in the club still reaching them at the car park. Dámilólá leaned his folded arms on the top of the car and asked, "So what do you think of my city?"

  "It's beautiful. I can see why you like it," Solá replied honestly, his mind flashing back to the sights of Lagos. He smiled as he remembered a little girl they had come across, dancing in front of her mother's shop. They had caught sight of the girl at a traffic point, and it had been entertaining watching her move and grow more confident as people congratulated her skill.

  "That's just a little bit of Lagos. I wish I had the time to show you more. Show you the great bargains you can get at Balogun market, watch the carvers at Lekki, dance with the musicians at Surulere, eat the mallam's Mishai—a breakfast of bread and fried eggs with tomatoes, peppers, onions, garlic and seasoning—at Agege. I wish you could see the Eko festival with the canoes coursing across the ocean, or the Eyo festival with the masquerades. I wish I could show you Oshodi and where you can get designer knockoffs at Abé e Bridge," Dámilólá's eyes flashed. "I wish I could show you so much."

  "Well, you still can," Solá smiled. "I'm not leaving yet, and I'm sure there's ample time for you to show me everything. And when I do return to Lexington, you can come visit any time you're around, so I too can show you my own home, the wonders that await at every corner."

  Dámilólá's grin was wide. "You've got yourself a deal. And I might just take you up on that offer sooner than you expect. I'm processing my Master's application into the University of Leeds. If it does go through, you can return the favour." He looked at the rising sun, looked down at the car timer that read 6:05 a.m. and said, "Time for you to get a taste of the Mishai and get some shut eye. We have more wonders to see today and more living to do in the city that never sleeps."

  THE END

  About the Author

  For as long as she can remember, Alessandra Ebulu has always had her nose buried in a book. The characters appeal to her, and it is not uncommon to find her talking to the various characters in her head—both the ones she has read about and the ones she has created. When not reading or writing, Alessandra can be found watching movies, sitting in front of her laptop (watching anime, reading manga, or surfing the Internet), or listening to all the genres of music that make her life complete.

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