What Makes Lagos

This city is the biggest city on the continent. We both know that's a big lie. It's the smallest state in the country. Small like a room that houses a family of 6— it houses over 18million people on 3,557km²— a number so disproportionate it spurs craziness. How can it not be crazy when the exchange of toxin makes the inhabitants susceptible to multiple personality disorder and everything in between.

Forget the yen yen yens. What makes this city so important? It's small, remember? But when you want to describe this city to your cousin in the village, you exaggerate with every adjective that makes 'big' shy to come out— large, megalithic, tremendous, gargantuan, Brobdingnagian etc... Like Dangote, this city is the richest in the nation. But that doesn't still satisfy your curiosity. It's excellent like the remark from your primary school report card. But then, you still ask "What makes Lagos, Lagos?"

Is it the dandelion yellow buses that drags recklessly through the restless asphalts? Or the pompous traffic jam that chokes you unreasonably till you set with the sun and get home to fall on your bed like an overripe mango? Or the BRTs that drives gently on their lane like your neighbour who always minds his business?

Is it the kind hand of Gala extended to you in go-slow? The one mother told you never to accept because they teach you how to be a spendthrift. Or the looping sound of soft drink advert that joins the car hoots in symphonic melody? The kind of melody that tells you that you don't get hungry in Lagos traffic— soul and stomach.

Is it the constant struggle for survival at the bus stops?
The struggle that reminds you that you don't need a ceremony before your hands clench to your pockets in an unwavering matrimony.

I guess it's the street urchins. The ones that puts you in constant fear of being duped, beaten or worse— being an uncle so soon. Or it is the the green and white uniform men (Agbero) that reminds you, not only policemen and LASTMA officers has to right to make a Danfo driver fearful.

Is it the bridges that hover over you to keep your fate concealed like sardines in a tin or the ones that connect you to the Island from the mainland— the same one that constantly opens up to remind you of the black hole? It's not just a reminder of the black hole. It reminds you of your neighbour's daughter who talks too much, her mouth no longer closes. The sound she makes freezes you to death.

Maybe. Maybe not. It is the stellar look of luxurious places scattered all over Ikeja and the Island that makes Lagos. Or the slums of Mushin, Ajegunle or Agege.

You've spent your whole life here, but these questions still remains unanswered. Maybe all of those things make Lagos after all.

©Shomade, Abdulazeez. 
#ANSANonFictionContestofTheWeek