Lagos! Lagos!! Lagos!!!





That name used to sound as thunderous as the second coming of Christ. That big name occupied more space than the previous, before-surgery size of Eniola Badmus would. Lagos, that name that my people in Umuchiakor town, Ebonyi State, used to think was one of the streets in Heaven’s Avenue,

Back in the 70s and 80s, Lagos, as I heard, used to be the dream location of the then-aspiring Elon Musk boys. Before the advent of Yahoo- Yahoo, Lagos, as they said, used to be HK, where hot-blooded young people hunted clients, cashed out, and returned to their hometown six months later to start the foundation of a 3-bedroom flat.

Back in its relevancy days, before it was watered down like the structure of the People's Democratic Party (PDP), and before it turned into a place where every Tom, Dick, and Harry could access with a 3500 Naira transport fare, this Lagos, according to what I was told, used to be strictly by invitation.

Unlike now, when anyone from whichever state in Nigeria or Africa can get into Lagos with 1,750 Naira and start up a small-scale retail business of Gala and cold soft drinks, you either prayerfully wait for one of those business moguls, who usually return during Yuletide or a special event, to take you to the heavens of Lagos as a spare parts apprentice (Nwa Boy), or you wait for another big man to take you there as a semi-apprentice mechanic. When luckily picked, the ball was now in the court of the said person to either humbly serve his or her master well, get settled, start up his or her own enterprise, and return mad, or embrace hooliganism and return mad. Of course, the family of the lucky winner of the yearly "Take Me To Lagos" back in Umuchiakor would make sure they sounded notes of warning before their ward left.

Whether you later returned made or mad, back then, the one thing that was sure was that one’s entry into Lagos automatically meant a change of level and status for his family. Talk about preferential treatments, respect, titles, and more; all were accorded to the family of whoever’s son, daughter, or sibling had the grand opportunity to be selected for Lagos. Of course, so that when the said apprentice-turned-rich returns seeking to pick his own apprentices, those in his or her family’s book of life would be recommended.

According to what I heard, those who had wards, children, relatives, or siblings in Lagos back then almost behaved like demi-gods and even became the new African colonial masters. You dare not argue, quarrel, or attempt to struggle whatsoever with them, be it a 700-hectare parcel of land willed down to you from your 5th ancestral lineage, for fear of getting your family back-listed from the golden share of Lagos. Of course, what sense did it make to struggle for an ordinary piece of land worth a chicken change of 400k and then jeopardize the future prosperity of yourself and your kids?

Unfortunately, despite how my grandmom vigorously asslicked all of the Lagos royalties back then, none of her kids were still found worthy to be selected for Lagos. According to a story my mom once told in the past, her mom (my grandmom) had at one time singlehandedly cleared over 15 hectares of land in 7 days for the family of one of Lagos biggest boys, Ekene, who used to import foreign clothes from places like the U.S. and Canada into his designated shops at Alaba, Iyanu Ipaja, Surulere, Oshodi, and other parts of Lagos. My grandmom had labored for those seven days with the hope that her third child and only son, Chekwube, could be considered for an apprenticeship at one of their son’s many boutiques. But all these labors were just as vain as those of the Labour Party in the 2023 presidential election. The slot she had labored for for the sake of her son was allocated to another boy, whose mom had cunningly rigged it out for him. I could just imagine the pain of the poor woman, who did a job ten able-bodied men would have done for 7,500 each alone, all for the purpose of wanting her nuisance of a son to have a better life in Lagos, all in vain. Most annoyingly, she had no right to complain, protest, or ask for monetary compensation since the initial agreement was broken. She dey craze to say, Speak the author and finisher of her son's destiny?

It was in 1998, four years before I was born, and several years after the "Whole Lagos Craze" had watered down in Umuchiakor, that my mom’s immediate younger sister, Chioma, was picked by one so-called Ijele-Nwanyi, who owned several saloons in Lagos and was searching for young, talented hair stylists to fill in the vacancies in her saloons. Graciously and without any form of lobbying, my grandma’s last child, Chioma, was picked up and taken straight down to the streets of Surulere.

Fast forward to 2023. Sadly, Lagos is now the city for not only the Dicks, Toms, and Harrys but also for the ants, squirrels, and bush meats. It is now grossly overcrowded and now sounds as average as every Nigerian state. Lagos is now also the capital city for agberoism, thuggery, cultism, and alayeism, but on the brighter side, that ancient veil that restricted just anyone from coming to Lagos has been unveiled, and its doors of opportunity have opened to all and sundry, including a local shoe cobbler from Damatru.

Fast forward to 2023, and 24 years later, my grandma’s daughter, who was sixteen at the time she was brought down to Lagos as an apprentice hair stylist, was now a huge name in not only the hair industry but also in the beauty and skin care industries. She had several hair saloons and beauty stores around Epe, Mushin, Ijesha, Apapa, and the exorbitant Lekki.

Asides from being a successful serial beauty and skin care specialist, Aunty Chioma was also a consultant and an ambassador for several notable fashion and beauty brands and had even grown to the level of being featured and interviewed in beauty and fashion-related magazines.

As a 39-year-old single and successful woman thriving in her field of specialty, of course, as expected, leeches and honey-hungry bees flunked around her daily. Aunty Chioma has no doubt had her fair share of horrible scam ordeals with properly trained Yahoo boys posing as intending lovers and has severally told my mom, her elder sister, about several other fraudulent transactions and businesses she had dipped her hands into. But another set of bees who she never really talked about enough were my cousins, who had made her house as busy as the Kpekus of a newly ordained Calabar s*x-worker, with their infrequent visits here and there, and other uncles, aunties, and relatives who had turned her into a microfinance bank.

There was virtually no time of the year that at least one or two of her nieces and nephews (my cousins) were not in her house, or any month when any of those alcoholic uncles did not swallow a shovel and were not looking for money to treat themselves from her. I had vowed never to be part of this parasitic-leeching clique. I had self-respectfully sworn never to visit, call, or chat with Aunty Chioma for the best reasons known to me.

But after another disappointing "We appreciate your interest, but... mail from the 7th organization I had sent my Industrial Training (IT) application to, I knew right then that it was time to drop my so-called quest for self-respect and not allow this soap entering my eyes to cause partial blindness. How could I have a big aunty in Lagos, who, according to what I heard, was a regular guest on several radio stations in Lagos, and I be here squabbling for an intern and an IT position in any available media outlet? AH!

I will call! I will call

I will call o, I will call

If I don't call, this pride will make a mess of me.
Continue reading-------------------https://www.arealproblemkid.com/2023/08/first-time-in-bustling-city-of-lagos.html

Bravo!

I'm impressed with your write-up.


Are you a linguist?

Interesting article, loved every bit of it.