EKÒ - MY LAGOS STORY

PICTURE BY AUTHOR, TOCHUKWU DANIEL.

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A story on wits and survival in a difficult continent as Africa.

The city was always bustling with life — tight, clumsy, hard to breathe all at once. It was one congested place yet you could not leave it. You love to look at the trees and the hasty movements of the people. You love to spy at the pretty classy girls that walked the city. Nothing more beautiful than to stand at the bridge in Ikeja² in the evening and look down at the sight of several class of men returning from a hard day of work. The sight will take your breath and you will think there was no other view you will appreciate more. The men in large rolling agbadas³, women with their long head gear, men in fancy suits, and even traders on ragged face caps. No one thought now of the positions they held in their several places of work, though elements of satisfactory pride showed in their gait. Everyone was just eager to get home and they will trek a reasonable distance to achieve this, for the traffic is like the deep blue sea that drowns you before you lift up two hands. Even now the human traffic was hardly bearable. People seemed to occupy every available space in the Island.

People like me have no real places to call home, but still we joined the train of the moving crowd. For we loved the rush, it made us feel as one — both the rich and poor. I would wonder at the home they rushed to. I would imitate their happy smiles and their shrugs. I pictured their homes of having basements and chimneys like the American books that filled my small acclaimed library. For reading was one of my idle vanities. It took me to several places I had never been and gave me a life I never had.

So this evening I ordered for a piece of roasted plantain and fried groundnut. I did not squeeze it in my pocket like before. I boldly held on to it, swinging it proudly like I saw the men do — the way they swung the big flashy presents they bought for their children. Emeka, a friend of mine had told me most of those presents were imported from America. I always laughed at his childish enthusiasm of going to the glory land. He was obsessed with the thought that he swore to me of leaving the shores of Nigeria soon. And indeed thereafter, for close to a week I did not catch a sight of him. Later I heard rumors of his adventure through the desert. Perhaps he will get to Caanan!.

The clouds were forming fast and so I hurried. I must get a comfortable space tonight to lay my head. We changed apartment everyday here, under the clumsy bridge. My whole possession was carefully tucked in my bag. I had arranged everything as though my bag was like a safe cupboard in a brick mansion. The books came first, and after a few sorting, you will see my creased clothes and then in a small corner was a soap and a toothbrush. It was over six months I had gotten this prized bag. While hawking News dailies down the busy road of Lagos, a good Samaritan had winded down his car glass and gave me much more than the amount, nodding his head sadly while he said, “such a smart boy”. I was schooled enough to know what he meant but too happy to notice the sad note in his voice.

Since I came to Lagos a year ago, I had paraded this beautiful city of Ikeja. First I had begged for a living and then from my savings which was quite difficult, seeing I had to eat from it, I purchased my first set of dailies. Over the months, in my bid to improve, I had bought books, imitated the intonation of the big men and ladies I met everyday in the busy streets. One had even gotten me a pocket dictionary. I was fairly educated. It was while I was in primary five my mother died leaving me as an Orphan since my Dad died the year I was born. Left in the care of one of my uncles, it was clear I was unneeded. The brutality that proceeded was one the mouth could not tell fully. So the first opportunity I got to leave the village, I took it. I had seen pictures in our white and black TV set of Lagos, and the way people spoke of it. It sounded like a safe haven, a place where all your dreams could be achieved.

After I found the right spot under the bridge, I threw a wrapper all over me and started munching slowly my dinner. I thought of the moon above me and several stories filled my head. My head always seemed to be full of water in nights such as this. Now I connected one or two scenes in my head, making it into a colourful story. And then I slipped into one of those my dreams. I was suddenly standing on a platform among a sea of faces and they all had happy smiling faces, applauding me. The colour blue teemed everywhere in the building and I felt my teary eyes mirrored the stars in the big hall…

Foot Notes

Eko: Lagos

Ikeja: a place in Lagos, Nigeria
Agbadas: a Yoruba attire

EKÒ - MY LAGOS STORY | Ecency