Lagos City by Teniola

The hot afternoon air, carries with it the stench of neglect, frustration and disgruntlement. With cars held up in traffic, lined bumper to bumper, as if awaiting judgment from forces above, the occupants grow wearier with exhaustion and frustration. The sun beating down through the windows of the cars, does absolutely nothing to improve the state of the drivers and of the passengers as it has immobilized the air conditioners. In situations like this, Lagosians will find their minds wandering far and wide, to bigger and better cities. They begin to consider relocating. It will be very easy of course, just a phone call away. For the upper class, that is. 

      

        Photo: www.ufok-africa.de

For the middle class, a phone call or two away and for the lower, they begin to curse the day they were brought into this unfair world filled with such evil. And then, the cars move at a snail’s pace and stop after a minute and then, the process repeats itself over again, maybe asides the thinking.

Outside the window, a female child hawker can be seen. Probably called Ifeoma or Salewa or if the madams are feeling excited and maybe a bit fanciful, they opt for Roselyn or Nora. This little angel has probably not been privileged to lay eyes on her mama and papa since last Christmas. She resides in the sitting room or backyard or toilet or store of her madam’s house. This madam who charmed her parents when she drove her black SUV with loud music, blaring from the speakers to the dejected village of this poor girl. She promised her parents heaven on earth and the next Sunday, the parents gave thanks in Church. Empty promises, with the most catchy one being that she will ensure Ifeoma or Salewa or Roselyn or Nora gets an education and becomes a damn successful woman in the future. She stands at the edge of the road, taking shade under the big tree, exhausted from running after vehicles, and awaits the call of a buyer. After what seems like two years, a black Honda halts to price her juicy agbalumo. They argue endlessly, until the buyer finally agrees to pay the three hundred naira. At about five o’ clock, she packs her goods and begins the long walk to her madam’s shop to present her with the day’s earnings.

        

       Photo: womennewsnetwork.net

Adjacent the barber’s shop lies Baba Mulika’s abattoir. He slices the meat into buyable and eatable sizes, unaware of the flies dancing around the meat, as if to the beat of an imaginary song. But, is the song really imaginary or just audible only to the flies? And is Baba Mulika actually unaware of the unwelcome presence of these creatures? Or does he just think it unnecessary to make an effort to press the stop button on the stereo so as to disrupt the dancing of the flies? Baba Mulika cuts like he has not a care in the world. But, does he? His wife is having an affair with his best friend, has had one for a while now; his first son finds standing at the side of the road hailing females and watching their buttocks move up and down, North to South, East to West and getting a beer or six with his no future ambition friends, more important than getting an education. And his last daughter, Halima is pregnant.

Alhaji Sanusi’s daughter drives past in her father’s sleek G-wagon, oblivious to the fuel tank on E but, more interested in the going-ons of her environment. Her glasses are wound up tightly, with Beyonce’s “Drunk In Love”, blaring from the speakers. She notices the packed lorry with goods threatening to descend under the force of gravity and the different hawkers, with bells, shoe racks, laundry baskets, waste baskets, even wall paintings and comes to the conclusion that it is very easy to furnish one’s house in Lagos traffic. She also notices that there are two categories of policemen – the carefree ones with a smile playing on their lips to light up their eyes and who tend to socialize with almost anyone and everyone and the stone-faced frustrated ones who have seen more nights than day. She also notices how she has been in the traffic for over an hour but, when she eventually moves, the road is as free as can be and the cause of the traffic has evaporated into the atmosphere before her arrival. She sees the wheelbarrow pushers with destinations unknown; the ghetto girls with mismatched earrings and red hair wearing boots and skirts, the people cramped together with beads of sweat trickling down their bodies, to read the dailies; the cars with a wide-awake driver and passengers immersed in their sleep and the little child carrying a table on his head. She also sees the jobless people that arrive at the scene of an accident right on time and she wonders whether these individuals always stand in tow, awaiting something to happen, or just find themselves at the wrong place. She then comes to the conclusion that there are just some things you’ll never know.

Teniola Oriola

Teniola Oriola is a 15 year old Nigerian girl that writes beautifully as you can see. She is the future of literature in Nigeria.