Short Story: Accents of Christmas

First it was Labake, and now Tokunbo. I was getting increasingly tired with the arrival of my “Just Got Back” cousins. Their idea of Lagos was narrowed to parties, champagne and lots of money being spent.  Each of them had a list activities they wanted to carry out while they were home for Christmas and it involved me.

Sadly, all I wanted to do on Saturdays was sleep. Well, that and picking my clothes from the dry cleaners. I had it perfectly planned out – dash in and dash out before the wedding traffic on Oba Akinjobi trapped me.  Tokunbo insisted on coming with me; perhaps we could stop by Allen Avenue to see one of his ‘mates’ from Secondary School? 

Oh my cousin had plans. He had lots of them.   No, his plans were not even the biggest problems I had. It was the incessant talking. He never stopped - always prattling on about how he’s very familiar with the city of Lagos and how we’re a bunch of party animals. He spent the time in traffic telling me about how he reads the blogs and keeps abreast of the social scene by the pictures online.

Yes, Tokunbo. Those are the true indices of reality in Lagos.

I must have grunted because he stopped talking – thank goodness. But only for a second.

“Tope, did you say something?”

I cranked up the volume of the radio. I needed something to help me zone out his annoying voice that came with all that affectation. Was it just me or why the hell did Toks have a bloody accent? I’m his cousin for crying out loud… and we lived in the same house for 17 years.  What is even more baffling is the fact that we enrolled in Imperial together, and we graduated at the same time.  5 years after graduation and he is speaking to me through his nose?  It is well.

Thankfully, I made it back home without my ears being talked off.  I was going up the stairs when I heard Mummy talking on the phone. From her side of the conversation, I picked up news that my Uncle Richard was coming this evening and he was bringing his new wife. Mum and Aunty Rolly were always gossiping about other family members but recently, Uncle Richard’s new wife was the butt of their everyday discourse. According to her she had an agenda and she was a schemer. Contrary to their thoughts, I quite liked her.

She was as quiet as a mouse but with her skin as bleached out as many of the people in the Nigerian entertainment industry, I knew she had a back story which was interesting. I wasn’t thrown by the façade of sweetness but it wasn’t a turn off. She was probably a diplomat who wanted to study her environment before showing her true self. She was well versed in the art of war. My mother and aunty needed to take lessons from her. They played their hands too early in the game and it was why they would never win this battle.

I was planning to sneak out of the house around 8pm but the lure of watching the family drama was too high. I figured I’d sleep for a few hours and if I felt better, I’d decide if to stay in or go out.  I turned on the air conditioning and I was drifting off into the blissful land of sleep when the power went out.

Oh how I hate Nepa. Well, not just because of the unbearable heat and the noise from the generators. Those are valid reasons, true but I hate it when the power cuts lead to more unbearable pontificating from the cousins. I was still midway in thought when Labake came into the room.

“Tope! The government really needs to do something about this power situation”.

I wasn’t sure if it was a statement of fact or a question, so I ignored her. Lord knows it took all the strength in me to bite back the retort that came naturally.

“Oh, are you asleep?”

This was my cue to pretend so she would get out but curiousity got the better of me.

“No, I’m awake. Do you need anything?”

She took it as a sign that she was welcome to sit. She wanted to know which telecoms company she could sign into with her iPad. She droned on about how the data plan she had signed on had been exhausted in less than a week.

“Tope, I’ve spent over 20,000 Naira on data in just a week. That’s almost 80 Pounds”

Oh thanks for doing the conversion Labake. I really needed to know the Sterling equivalent.

I smiled sympathetically and told her to cut down on the YouTube videos and the Skype sessions. Those things are enemies of Naija data plans.

I closed my eyes, hoping she’d take the cue and leave. I wasn’t so lucky. She decided to tell me how the Skype sessions were important to her relationship.

Yes, tell me Labake. Because, just one more time I need to hear about how in love you are and how you are so sad Le Boo didn’t want to come to Nigeria with you this year.

 I was literally saved by the bell when my phone rang. I held it up as a sword, hoping she would take this as her cue to leave my room. She smiled and nodded.

Urghh!

I got up and ran into the bathroom to take the phone call. God bless your soul Michael. 15 seconds into the call and it cut off. Four more attempts at connecting the call and I was able to get the entire message. Michael wanted to hang out this evening. He also had a couple of friends from London who had come home for the holidays. They needed to be entertained and he didn’t want to have to sit through it alone. I figured I might as well go. If possible invite my thoroughly bored cousins, they might enjoy the company of Michael’s friends and I won’t have to pretend to enjoy the company of our entire family.

I gave up on trying getting any rest and decided to put my freshly laundered clothes in their place. Thankful that Labake had left my room before I finished on the phone, I gladly welcomed the solitude.  I opened the windows, to let in some fresh air – if you call the air with the fumes from our neighbor’s noisy generator fresh.

Next on the agenda? Pick out an outfit for the evening. I didn’t want to make an effort but I didn’t believe in going out looking like a pauper.  When you have a mother like mine, attention to dressing is a trait that you ingest with breast milk. Left to my mother, I’d only go out in heels as she could not understand my obsession with flat sandals.  I was tempted to remind her of her current battle with arthritis and how she secretly had a pair of flip flops in the car everywhere she went.  No, I didn’t want to end up like my mother so I tried to be fashionable with a bit of sensibility.

I finally settled on a short pink Ankara dress with a mono strap. Nothing says it’s Christmas in Nigeria better than a deluge of colours and prints. My dress was cinched at the waist and flowed down from the pleats.  There was no need to pretend I didn’t have slightly bow legs so I embraced it by trying out things that were not long and dowdy.  Tiny pearl studs from another time and place to match the cream sequins the tailor had lavished all over the dress. According to her, they were the justification for making me pay 8,000 Naira for the making of fabric that cost a third that sum. 

Ah! The tailor – that was another errand her cousins had insisted we had to run together.  Labake’s last shopping trip to Balogun market had her hauling in 13 different fabrics.

“They’d be delightful in the summer” she said.

Yes, tell me about it.

I didn’t want Iya Fatai to start getting ideas about scaling up the pricing for her services, so I haggled properly. My cousin’s exaggerated appreciation of all things Africa was not going to be a reason to start paying 10,000 for sewing a dress.

We told my parents that we were going out for drinks and wouldn’t be able to stay for dinner. Shame, I’d miss the drama with my new aunty.

Mum said we could have her driver for the night. It was an offer I wasn’t about to decline because if the night went well, I was going to be in no state to drive. If the night went badly, I was surely going to find solace in booze.

We got out of the car and Toks, who sat in front promptly, came to open the back door for us to get out.

“You look really lovely, Tops”

My cousin was the quintessential gentleman.  It was a shame that he was extremely annoying. I couldn’t wait for these ‘returnees’ to leave my city.  I led them towards the entrance of Sip where Michael said he and his friends would be. A quick scan of the room and I saw him waving his hands frantically. Standing next to him was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.  He stood about an inch taller than Michael who was comfortably 6ft 2”.   Grey eyes, firm nose and a mouth that looked like they belonged on mine. Oh, did I mention he had the most disarming smile?  All of a sudden there was nobody in the room and I felt the firmness of this man’s torso against my skin.

Has it really been that long, Tolutope, get a grip!

One foot ahead of the other, I walked towards them, knowing that Michael would make the necessary introductions.

“Majid! This is my best friend Tope. This is Majid”

I knew I was supposed to say something smart and intelligent, but I couldn’t form the words. My head felt empty. No, not empty, just filled with extreme lust.

“Hi, Majid, welcome to Lagos. Are you staying for Christmas?”

“Oh wow! Tope, that’s quite a strong London accent. How long have you been back?”

Fuck! I’m just like the rest of ‘em bloody Returnees!

Fostering A Culture of Laziness

Writing Monday Morning Banter used to be a lot of fun for me. It was light and easy; I didn’t have to worry about depth or pseudo-intellectuality. Just keep it simple, and you’d be fine. However, two years later, I’ve found myself asking questions about purpose and essence. So, I’m caught in this place of keeping it light, and trying to pass a message across – leaving a mark with one person . Now, it’s about that domino effect.

I ask myself questions about the effect of what people read on my column in relation to lifestyle and cultural change. How are we shifting the dynamics of what we know to be ‘norm’ and how are we making things better? If we’re to be a part of the change we want to see in Nigeria, Africa, or Black people in general… how much are we doing to open our minds to the ideas for change and impact?

What are those tiny things which we do as rote? Why do we do them? Have we ever asked why we do what we do? If we try to do these things differently, will we be better people?

One of such things is the idea of sending subordinates on errands. Earlier on this year, someone on the TalkNaija WhatsApp group told us about how she was in such a hurry to get to work that she forgot her shoes. Luckily she had a spare pair in the car so she asked her house officer to go get her shoes from the car. Then, I asked why she couldn’t get her own shoes? If she absolutely had to send someone, then why didn’t she send someone whose job description included running domestic errands? She retorted that as the house officer’s boss, she could send him/her on any errand. She further cited the hippocratic oath, stating that it was part of the subordinate’s job to ensure the boss could perform effectively.

As I am not a doctor, I do not know the nuances of the profession; however, I have been on the receiving end of being sent on all forms of errands by virtue of being the youngest person in the room.

A lot of people say that being the last child comes with a lot of perks. There’s a belief that the last child is spoiled rotten, and doesn’t have to experience the strict regime of the parents. {We explored the different things associated with a child within a family here}. Nobody talks about the fact that you’re an automatic subordinate and therefore subject to being sent around. When I was younger, my cousin Abemu specialised in the art of SENDING! On days when she was at home, we (the younger children) found creative ways to make ourselves scarce! She fancied herself as a clean freak, so on Saturdays she would sit down and start ordering the minions. “Clean the window sill”/”Did you get that space behind the TV?”/”If I look at that glass, will my teeth sparkle?” At the end of the day, she would complain of extreme tiredness! Ahn ahn! Sister, tiredness from sending your younger relatives on errands?

As Nigerians, the ability to boss other people around is one of the perks of seniority. From secondary school, you’re anxious to become a senior so that you can mete the evil done to you (by seniors) on junior students. {Remember ‘Senior Pangolo’?} There’s that sense of entitlement that comes with a position of authority. It’s one of the reasons why a lot of students are terribly unhappy when they’re transferred to another school just as they’re about to attain the ‘Senior’ status.

In all of this, we find this attitude spilling over into adulthood. But it begs the question of how we’re fostering a culture of laziness. Or is it simply our culture – you’re older/in a position of authority and as such every other person beneath you is available to do your bidding. It can also be argued that delegation of duty is an important part of people management. Some people argue that they need to delegate to subordinates to effectively manage time resources.

So if I’m on a conference call with clients, then it makes sense to ask my staff to buy me mobile top-up for my phone. Or if I’m about to perform important surgeries, it’s more effective to send my house officer to bring my shoes from the car.

Where do we draw the line between delegation and just taking advantage? Do we have this innate culture of ‘this is how it was done to me, and I must do it to people coming after me’?

I know a lot of people who have said one of the reasons they don’t like living abroad is the fact that they don’t have cheap help with domestic activities. In Nigeria, there’s the acceptable culture of servitude. “Your boss is coming, rush and carry the encyclopedia he’s holding, because he’s going to pull a palm muscle if he holds his own book”. Are we subconsciously continuing a culture of laziness?

What do you guys think? Is this OUR WAY and we should deal with it? Is this a form of delegation? Should people start doing things by themselves or are some questions best left unasked?

Book Review: These Words Expose Us - An Anthology

As part of my new year resolution to update my blog regularly... here's a book review of the book compiled by the guys over at TheNakedConvos.com. I hope you enjoy it.

Words: those little things that give life to our feelings, our depth and our identities. Words are what tie this eclectic anthology together. The title These Words Expose Us: An Anthology gives one a sense of the expectation of an emotional strip down; and indeed, the book does that.

16 stories, 13 writers, this anthology was curated by Wole Talabi - an editor of The Naked Convos – a place where young people are given a safe space for expression in all media. These Words Expose Us, can easily be finished in one day if you put your heart to it. Or the stories can be read one a day and last two weeks if you prefer it that way.

The book starts with The Thing With Mr. Lawal, by ‘Pemi Aguda.  As I am a huge fan of ‘Pemi’s work, I am not surprised that I enjoyed reading this story through the eyes of a reviewer.  Telling the story from the 2^nd person narrative gives the reader a deep sense that the writer is talking directly to you. This style of narrative, not commonly employed is very enjoyable because it feels like holes are being bored into the reader’s soul. You. You. You. The Thing with Mr. Lawal is a story of love, infatuation and attraction, told in a slow layering of characterization. It’s not a plot driven story and its highest selling point is the slow unravelling of Mr. Lawal. Pemi has two stories in the book, the second being ‘Naming’ which is similarly toned.

The decision to have Business as the second story seemed spot on. Uche Okonkwo’s style of story telling is quite special. ‘Business’ takes you into the life of a female commercial sex worker - ‘Bee’ and one of her unique clients. With clear and concise language and narration, the reader there’s a certain tug emotion for the Bee. I like the fact that she’s ‘unnamed’ – this adds to the allure and secrecy that comes with a University student who has an ‘unsavoury’ night job.

The editors own major story contribution, A Certain Sort of Warm Magic was a delightful surprise. Having read Wole Talabi’s work in the past, I was expecting some sci-fi, some fantasy and a dash of supernatural.  A LOVE STORY, WITH NO MAGIC OR STARDUST. It was simply a story of a man who was afraid to confront his feelings.  I had to go back to check that the story was written by Wole. After a few dictionary checks for some unfamiliar words, I started to think ‘Maybe it is Wole after all’. While the story itself did nothing for my literary, story loving spirits – it had all the trappings of a love tale: lonely man looking into the horizon, meets fly girl in bar, gets her number on the napkin (yes… very filmic I know) they date, he is stupid enough not to love her back, he loses her, they break up. Wole goes on to inject Hollywood meets Nollywood in these types of stories – insert terminalesque disease.  (It’s okay to make up words!). But in writing this simple story, Wole Talabi consistently highlights that universal human characteristic that makes us go through life wondering if we’re fitting properly into the box of definitions with sentences such as:  

“I suppose I would have become a professional surfer or a lifeguard if those were acceptable things for young Nigerian man to do with his best years and if I wasn’t so scared of drowning.”

Many of the stories in this anthology do this. They take snippets of everyday life and blow them up. We see our triumphs and our failings, our losses and our gains. We see the fragility of humanity behind the cloak of societal expectations.

There, I Said It by Wale Adetula is simply brilliant. I finished the book last week, but I have gone back to read this story like 25 times. While it’s not my favourite story in the book (No, we’re coming to that). It’s flash fiction on steroids. 

The Ballad of Mulikat, is told from the point of view of Kevwe and shows a day in her life as a Lagos street trader. The importance of Mulikat to the plot is not very defined and I wanted to see more of her, either directly or through her relation with the narrator. It didn’t happen till the very end and by the time it did I was already tired. The story was rather long.

As much as I laud the attempt to maintain authenticity of the settings, there were a lot of expressions/phrases in the story that can only be understood by a Nigerian who lives in Nigeria. While that might seem very petty, it is important that stories should be well told and narrated in their proper context in order to cross borders.  The first time the word ‘container’ came up I didn’t think of a ‘freight container’, thus I was surprised that human beings were spilling out of it. 

The next 6 stories take the book to an entire new height of discovery with different characters. Sometimes, the point of view of the narrator shifted quickly in some of the stories, but overall, the momentum of the stories were good

When a writer spins you into the fabric of her story and you find yourself asking the question “Am I who I know I am? Or am I who I’m told I am”, then you know that the writer has done a good job. This was me, after reading Osemhen Akhibi’s Orange Tree.  Exploring the themes of seeds, roots, Osemhen weaves the story of a woman whose identity is tied to a tree planted in her homestead.  The troubled relationship with her mother, was a good string to keep the story moving. It was also a great way to ensure that the tension was amped to the peak at the very end.

The Affair by Marilyn Eshikena told the story of two people, having an affair for 20 years with NO SEX.  They meet for a few hours every year to hold hands and sing Kumbayah! Well, I made the singing bit up but that’s how I felt about the believability of that plot.

I will confess that 3 of the stories didn’t do very much for my pleasant reading experience.  ‘Ghosts’ by Bankole Oluwole, ‘An Afternoon at the Palms’ by Wale Lawal and ‘Kin’ by Edwin Okolo.

With Ghosts, I just didn’t understand it. I tried to read it again with fresh bright eyes the following morning and… still a brick wall.

An Afternoon at the Palms quickly lost the plot after one page. It didn’t help much that it ran on and on and on and on and on and on and on. No, seriously the story went on forever. 

Imagine my relief when I saw the title of a new story ‘Kin by Edwin Okolo’. I wasn’t very lucky with this either. The story was littered with ‘Cos’ as a replacement for ‘Because’ and it was very distracting.

Then I saw ‘I just want to lie down in my room off-k’ and it was impossible to take the story seriously after that. However, I have been told that are acceptable when they’re used within speech marks. I guess this is where personal preference comes in.

It seems only right that I round off this review with my favourite story in the collection: Apparitions by Gbolahan Adeola.

Apparitions is the simple story of death and then life. Maybe it’s my fascination with all things morbid, but there’s something about Apparitions. It is the story of a regular woman and how she reacts when death knocks at the door of her household, and takes her precious love. Then, when the grief seemed to take away the entirety of her sunshine, she realizes that apparitions are not totally bad, because they give back what was once taken from you.

Many of the stories in this anthology are powerful. They reflect variety of the young Nigerian experience and the impact the words we exchange every day can have on our lives. These Words Expose Us: An Anthology – life, words, love and everything in between. 

Lagos: City of Hustlers, City of Dreams

Happy New Year!!!!!!!!! DING DING DING!!!

So, as we roll into this new fabulous year, I'm thinking of better ways to improve my profile... nyeh! Not really but hey... sounds good on the Resolution Sheet.

Anyway, I'll try to blog more often. I bet every slacking blogger says this. But wo, my own... eez condition that use toh make crayfish bend oh jere.

I hope you had a fantastic Christmas and New Year holiday? Well, I did. It was sooooo chilled out and I ate like food was going out of fashion. Nobody told me to carry my trainers and enter road... biko... I don't wanna 'add'. lol Honestly that expression cracks me up... 'ahn ahn... you've added oh!' Added what? Awon mathematicians!

Anywayzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz today's blog post is something I wrote for my non-fiction class last year. We were asked to write a psychogeographic piece about a place we're familiar with. So, I wrote about Lagos. I woulda written about Ilorin but... nyeh.. I think I have spent more time -- cumulatively in Lagos than out of it. plus I was born there. Hehehe. Lagosian by Origin. Ogbomoshoan by Heritage. Of which my progenitors are even confused as to where they're from sef. Some say my Grandpa migrated from Ilorin to Ogbomosho. My own is... which state is giving bigger Bursary? I coulda claimed Niger State. In Law School northern states were paying big time... Oyo State only gave us 50k. I don't know why my papa didn't just stay in that his born and bred Niger State. We for dey claim home town - Kagara - by now.

Hey... see how I have digressed!

Oya let me paste the Lagos article. I hope you enjoy it. Please read, share and leave a comment. Yes, this is a new year of blogging...I gast be doing what other serious bloggers are doing na.

Ngwa byeeeeee

Oh and yes, I want to start coming out of the comborduu small small ... so maybe I will start putting my picture on the internet *shudders* okay maybe not now.

In the meantime... manage my Cheerios and M&Ms
***

To imagine that I can write comprehensively about Lagos is to assume a certain arrogance which is uncharacteristic of me so I won’t attempt to do that. What I hope to do with this piece is to give you but a tiny glimpse into the city of my birth – a place I call home.  It is fondly referred to as Eko Akete – Ilu ogbon (translated to mean, Lagos, the city of wisdom); or Las Gidi by young people (The origin of this word is rumoured to be from the American city, Las Vegas. It is often shortened to ‘Gidi’ – depending on who is speaking).

When you land at the Murtala Mohammed International Airport in Ikeja, Lagos, the first thing that hits you is the pulse of the city. Your measure of the vibe is one thing that doesn’t change, irrespective of the time of day you arrive. If you land at night, the view from the sky is a large sprawling sea of darkness with little specks of light from buildings – in no particular symmetry.  Nigerians refer to it as the scourge of NEPA. NEPA is an acronym for the Nigerian Electric Power Authority; or in less formal circles, Never Expect Power Always. The battle with random power cuts is a protracted one in Nigeria. It has formed the basis of many election campaign promises; and with every new regime or political dispensation, visitors to Nigeria are welcomed by the absence of consistent power supply.

Lagos State sits on the edge of the Atlantic on the west coast of the amazing continent of Africa. It is this special location that made Lagos commercially attractive during the colonial era. The sea and air ports therefore made it a magnetic hot pot for Nigerians from every corner. Lagos is the city of dreams; it is where Nigerians from all over Nigeria come for hope of a better life. Lagos is the city of firsts! Either with new music or a new fashion fad, residents of Lagos are always in the know.

Lagos was also the political capital of the country until the mid 90s when the seat of power was moved to Abuja, the Federal Capital Territory. There is very little evidence of the Federal government’s operation in Lagos, but there are various liason offices at key locations because old habits die hard. People expect to come to Lagos and get things done.

With respect to property in Lagos, the houses are made of stone, blocks, sand, and cement. An aerial view of the old developments will reveal brown corrugated roofs, but as you go on to the newer developments, you see more modern red roofing sheets.  Presently, Lagos does not boast of having any specific town planning. Areas designated as residential by the colonial masters have all become industrialized; houses, schools and churches have sprung up in the last 20 years in areas that were designated to house businesses and government offices.

Loosely divided by a 10KM bridge built in the 90s, under the military administration of General Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida, Lagos has its ‘Mainland’ and the ‘Island’. On the Mainland, we have Ikeja, the State capital. The local and international airports are situated in Ikeja. Ikeja is also home to Governor’s office.

There’s not one unifying style of buildings, as houses of all shapes and sizes spring up on that side of the Lagoon. It is rumored that real estate is cheaper on the Mainland. However, that is debatable as rent in the old Government Reserved Areas is just as high as on the Island. The valuation of property in that area runs into hundreds of millions of Naira. Personally, I believe that Ikeja GRA is the home of ‘Old Money’, while areas like Lekki and Ajah are the being touted as the place to be for the upwardly mobile young professionals – New Money.

As with other parts of Nigeria stricken by the plague of bad leadership, there has been very little infrastructural development in Lagos.  However, it is notable that with the commencement of the current governor’s administration, poles with street names were installed, and lights were fixed on major highways within the State.

Public transportation in Lagos was traditionally via black and yellow buses locally referred to as ‘Danfos’. With the new government came the introduction of a better mass transit system called the Bus Rapid Transport or ‘BRT’ as we Lagosians call it.  The colours of the busses were an indication of the route they plied and they had specific bus stops – this was a welcome development from what we had when the Danfos ran free without any form of regulation or restraint - not to mention conductors dangling from open doors. Speaking about transportation in Lagos will be incomplete without the mention of commercial motor bikes locally called “Okada”. Residents of Lagos are heavily reliant on these bikes because they run routes that are not catered to by the ineffective bus service. They also are a welcome respite from the heavy traffic jam situation that is characteristic of Lagos. If you have an important meeting to get to in Lagos, you have to be open to the idea of getting out of the comfort of your air conditioned car, into the hot sunny afternoon and getting an Okada to take you to your destination. They’re guaranteed to get you there faster than your car or a taxi. The State government is trying very hard to eliminate these bike riders, however, in the absence of an alternative; Okadas are in Lagos to stay. 

One important aspect of the history of Lagos is the hub of the slave trade in Badagry.  Badagry is a quaint little town very close to the border of Nigeria and Benin Republique. Badagry is the home of the slave museum. Relics of the horrific slave trade that took place in the 1900s remain till today – shackles and cages where people were kept pending their transport.  A lot of Lagosians who live there now have Portuguese and Brazilian heritage, as their ancestors were returned from slavery in Brazil. They now have Portuguese names and eat Portuguese food. This is an area of Lagos called the Brazilian quarters.

On the Lagos mainland, we have a certain group called the Ilaje people. They live in houses built on stilts by the bay of Makoko. The Makoko is a site of heavy pollution as the people live, feed and defecate in the stretch of water. The residents of Makoko get about in canoes and from an early age, their children are taught to fish and fend to for themselves within the constraints of this water. {You might find the BBC Welcome to Lagos Documentary interesting}

Many of the young professionals in Lagos, who can’t afford the steep rent on the Island live on the Lagos Mainland and commute to the Island for work. The Island is also home to the rich and vibrant social life of Lagos. It is commonly said that “There’s no party like a Lagos party”.  This is very true. Our love of the champagne fizz as well as our loud music is well known.

Although Lagos Island is home to one of the oldest cathedrals in West Africa, it is also home to the future. The architectural advancements are quite daring especially given the below par infrastructural development. Real estate on the coast of Lagos is valued at hundreds of thousands of Dollars with more and more foreign investment being pumped into the development of the skyline of the Lagos Island coast. Yachts litter the coast of the Lagos Lagoon as well as speed boats for affluent Lagosians – as will be seen in any coastal city.

With the completion of the Eko Atlantic City – the proposed business capital of Africa – Lagos is set to be the Go-To place for business in the next decade.

The streets are narrow, and where they are wide enough to give access to dual carriage of cars, there is often double parking and street trading. Street trading is an essential part of the geography of the city. It is right there along with the incessant traffic congestion.  Someone is always selling something. It is called The Lagos Hustle. If you’re not careful in Lagos, someone will sell the air you’re breathing to you. There’s a running joke that you can buy anything, from pots and pans, to fruits and vegetables, on the streets of Lagos.

Being able to navigate the roads of Lagos is a skill one learns from having lived there for decades. It comes from knowing how to avoid the thick bottleneck traffic as well as the pickpockets.  Sometimes, life in Lagos can get really hectic; from spending hours in traffic, to not being able to find a restaurant with good customer service. However, whenever, I get away from it and think I really need a break from it all, I find myself wondering why everything else is so slow. I wonder why I have to go a long distance to find someone who is proficient in repairing phones or even a good hair dresser who knows what style is in and hip. The pulse is unmistakable, it is a lifestyle.  It is in the air and it says “You Snooze, You Lose!”

Birthdays Are No Achievements! Look Into The Mirror

So, it was someone's birthday on Monday and one wrote  something different. Lol One has been told that it's rather depressing. Lol But one wrote honestly and as truthfully as one could muster. Maybe one is truly a sad person inside inside inside.

One shall let you be the judge of that. Okay?

You stir; it's the morning of your birthday and that's the first thing that floats into your consciousness. The bed is warm,but your toes are cold - you forgot to wear your socks before sleep came. Blame Blacklist - so engrossed in the show that you were too lazy to grab your cozies. You remember it's your birthday again, and soon your semi-numb toes are a distant memory.

Your phone; you reach for it. Nothing. Check pillow two? Pillow three? Nothing. God, please don't let it have fallen during the night. Argh! You're forced to open one eye. You don't want to, because it means admitting an awareness of this thing called getting older. Oh well! You have no choice, you have to open your eyes if you're going to find your phone. Remember it doubles as your time piece, and you need to know how late you've slept in on what's the beginning of your thirty-third year on earth. For a fleeting second, you wonder whether you should get yourself a watch. You hate the full glare of your phone's LCD - another reason why you can't wait for the iWatch

Your gym; you promised yourself you'd wake up early enough to make the gym 5 times a week. It is part of your self discovery in the art of dedication and tenacity. You think it is a good trait to have when one is in their early thirties. So, you want to do this. For you. Oh My God! 6.30a.m! You panic at the thought of having overslept, then you remember - the clocks went back yesterday. You can make the gym and come back in time to write Banter. Yes, you can!
***

Growing up, I was told over and over and over, that birthdays are no achievements. It was drummed into my ears so many times that I have become that adult who never gets excited about her birthday, or anyone else's. I was told that I neither participated in the decision to bring me into this world, nor did I make any conscious effort to ensure that the birthing was successful, thus, I was not entitled to celebrate any achievement on the 27th of October. So year, rolled into year and I did what I was 'allowed' to do. Be grateful to my creator for the privilege of existence and preservation. I stopped praying for 'long life' for personal reasons. It didn't matter one way or the other - it was more pertinent that the years count for something regardless of their number - something that transcends my lifetime.

***

The mirror; at some point in the day you find yourself staring at it. You see the woman staring back at you and you wonder if she's anything like the person inside of you. She looks familiar. Same round head, same natural hair with eroded edges. Lord! when will these edges fill out? You look closer and you see a neck that is longer and more defined than it was 8 months ago. You smile - the first one since the dawn of the day. You remember that this is the slimmest you have been since you were 18. You stand, arms akimbo and you think about the work that needs to be done on your arms. Still, you're pleased with the reward of your hard work and dedication. You tuck in your almost smug smile, you don't want the Universe to think you're a gloating irritant.

The suitcases; three of them littered around your room, waiting for you to give them attention. As much as you hate packing, it has to be done. Another phase of your life is over; you chuckle at the melodrama of it all. As one door shuts, another one opens. Or something along those lines. You can't think that far ahead because you're afraid. You're afraid of the monster of failure. What if you end up being poor for the rest of your life? What if you're that friend who keeps trying to keep her head above the water and nobody bothers to call for a contribution to help dying children? But... you hear it - it's a still small whisper. What if you do make it? What if you do find a way to do what you love to do, and are financially rewarded for it? What if you do make bucketloads of money?

The silence; broken by the loud hum of the kettle which you clicked on because you need your morning fix of coffee. No! Not coffee. You are on a coffee detox. Tea. Green tea. With cinnamon sticks and star anise seeds with a dash of lemon. Okay, more than a dash. A proper squeeze through. But, 'dash' sounds more like what a writer would write. Right? 

***
So what exactly are birthdays if they're not to be celebrated as achievements? It's a day for you to take stock - how far you've come, where you are, and where you hope to be.

I have come to realise that contrary to what was ingrained in me, I can choose a reason to celebrate my birthday. For starters, it's a time for me to bask in the glory of ME!

Your birthday is that one day of the year when everything you do has a special tone to it. It is that one day when people who love you send you messages and gifts and ensure that you know that someone somewhere loves you. It's that one day when you are totally allowed to be self-centred, because it's your freaking birthday.

Peace, love & cabbage strips!

Toodles!