Surulere is largely water-logged. The corners of every street has fungi-infested gutters with a billion, cute tadpoles wiggling to the current. When it rains it's the worst--we swim through the streets; car tyres buried six feet under, pedestrians soaked from the knee down. When the ablution is over we buy pure-water sachets from the kiosks in the neighbourhood and rinse our legs with them, heading on our way.
Lagos, so far, has been an experience; I'd have called it an adventure but, the thing is, when I'm walking down the streets of Lagos, I never feel the need to uncover a mystery; I simply experience it in a state of vertigo--in sepia,--staring at the orange horizon, bridges, and yellow vehicles like nothing is new to me and everything flashing past me is, simply, deeply reminiscent.
Maybe Lagos doesn't give me the euphoria I'd hoped for because it's a place I grew up in, a place buried with dark childhood secrets. And now, at twenty seven years old and at my first major attempt at independence, I have become the child who grew up in this budding city all over again--the sometimes fun-loving, mostly reserved, but exuberant and lonely wanderer.
In Lagos I live in a duplex with nine, very passionate people. There's a Liberian among us. Every morning we get up to converge in the parlour, where we sing and pray to God, something I haven't done in years.
Living in Abuja I was secluded, tied to people who know me, love me, and care for me. There I am tied to people by blood, here, in Lagos, I am tied to people by time and chance.
You get to know so much about yourself when you start living with strangers. You realize you're a gossip, that once-in-a-while you secretly enjoy talking about people's behaviours--good and bad; you realize you find it hard to say No, because you don't want to be talked about behind closed doors; you realise faith isn't such a bad thing, it's okay to say a prayer for the road; and you realise there's no such thing as bad people, there are just people with wrong morals.
In the beginning, when we started out praying, half of the time I felt disconnected; I couldn't connect to the essence. But now, two weeks and counting, I don't think it's such a bad idea to commune with people in prayer and worship. I'm starting to see how it can set things in perspective. Yes, people will go on doing bad things, being unsympathetic to the vulnerable and weak, but for me, what prayer has, so far, done and will continue to do, is set my ideals in perspective, every day.
One of my housemates is Telena, a twenty six year old girl. She is tall, chocolate, and very pretty. Every once in a while we take a stroll to a bar close by, where we hang out, watch TV, and have ourselves pepper soup. Telena is temperamental, she tells me every time. And she confirms it every time I remind her that she is temperamental. Take last night, for instance. One of the girls in the house complained about the smell of weed. She said she could smell it coming from Telena's room. When I asked Telena if she was smoking in the house, she flared up, running down the stairs, yelling:
"What?! Eh, what?! If anybody has a problem with it they should come and tell me to my face!"
Following Telena down the stairs, I caught her hand and said: "Sssh. Calm down." I motioned with my palm, bringing her palpitating heart to a steady simmer, and walked her back to her bedroom. "Telena," I said. "That is not how you handle conflict. You don't go about creating enemies. First, you must understand the circumstances surrounding the news."
Laughing sarcastically, she said: "Malachi, are you trying to psychoanalyse me?"
"Why are you being defensive? I'm only looking out for you? We're here to study film-making, and the terms of the hostel accommodation contract says that smoking is prohibited in the hostel. I'm only looking out for you. I'm no goody-too-shoes myself," I said.
"But I wasn't smoking, Malachi," she said. "Look"--she stood up and reached for a plastic bottle on the top of her shelf--"I was only burning incense."
"Then you could have just said that. It's just the contract I thought you should consider."
Bursting into tears, Telena said, "I don't know why nobody likes me. Every where I go it's me they complain about, even when I'm all alone, in my room, hurting no one."
I had tears in my eyes at the mention of this. I, too, know someone dear to my heart who has suffered retribution as Telena. So I said to her:
"You must understand that you have a strong personality. You are bold and beautiful. People will be intimidated by that, especially people with low self esteem. As a result, people want to approach you but they can't, and that makes them lash out at you in unseeming ways."
"Then that is their fucking problem. I'm an amazing person!"
"You're doing it again: being temperamental, defensive when all someone wants to do is connect with you."
"I don't fucking--"
"Ssshh... Breathe. I'm not the enemy here. Just so you know I, too, have major flaws. I carry grievances in my heart. A lot of times I want to fix my misunderstandings with people, but I just don't know how to go about it."
"People like you are dangerous. I run away from people like you."
"And I run away from people like you, too. I had a temperamental friend who I offended once, and he wouldn't rest until he smashed a brick on my head. How do you expect me to feel about temperamental people now?"
"Hmm." She reflected on it.
"All I'm saying is, acknowledge your flaws when people bring them to you, don't be all defensive. You might as well say, 'Yeah, I know, and I'm working on it.'"
"Okay," she said, resolutely.
Walking out of Telena's room, I had tears brimming in my eyes. I thought about my friend, how he once complained of people not liking him everywhere he went, and I decided that I'd be a good friend to Telena, not out of pity, but because I know what it's like to be disliked by the majority, when all you desire is to be loved.
Surulere isn't entirely tadpoles and gutters. In short, for the most part, being here is like living in a movie: the many people with distinct appearances, malls, restaurants with good food, barber shops, and the tightly- knit-together houses. Every night before I sleep, I reflect on my reason for being in Lagos. I tell myself: Malachi, this is the only decision you've made concerning your studies that was all you; all other times it was Dad. You're not a kid anymore. Make this work or you're going to be hungry for the rest of your life.