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.

When my aunt picked up that call and heard "Good afternoon, Aunty", she screamed in so much ecstasy and replied, "Ebus of all people called me today. Heyyyy! What an awesome Christmas!

Ebuu, How’re you doing?

I’m good, Aunty, and you, Ma? I replied.

Ah! I was slightly having a bad day, though, but with this call, Ah! Trust me, this is one of my most fantastic days this year, she said. So Ebuka even calls people, eh? A few days ago, I was discussing with my sister, your mom, over the phone and was asking her what kind of unnephewable son she gave birth to that doesn’t call, chat, or even visit at all. And she was making excuses about you being choked up by school activities, but for all I know, school is not 24/7 stuff. You can still squeeze out time to call, at least. Ehh, Ebus? ......................

All the time she kept on talking about my unnephewable behavior, my response remained, "I will do better; I’m sorry, ma. I will do better. I’m sorry, ma.

Well, when she was finally done and after I had said the final "I’m sorry, ma" with a deeper, more apologetic voice, I completely grew cold feet and spirits and couldn’t bring myself to tell her the main reason for my call. How weird was it going to sound that I was requesting assistance from someone I had never called in my life? Was I not the real leech and parasite at this point?

For about 30 seconds, I went completely numb, now wondering whether to just end this whole thing at this point and just pretend I had called to greet her. I will probably just return to Linkedin and resume my IT hunt and vacancy application there instead of seeming and sounding like a free-loading leech.

Oh! God bless that moment my aunty broke that troubling silence and asked “Ebus, this one you called, I’m sure something’s up. What is troubling you? And extra blessing be upon that heroic side of me that mustered courage to stutter “Aun….ty, I’m sear..ching for a place to do my I.T?

And that was it, people. Gbagammmm!

Long story cut short, my aunt called back two hours later and broke the exciting news that she had gotten a content/copywriter position for me at one of Lagos biggest radio stations and was even asking whether I liked the radio station or had a preferred one in mind. Lol! Imagine asking me, who would have happily accepted the job of a cleaner at "Gutter FM, whether I would love this presidential position at the Almighty Classic FM. Ah! With all pleasure, gratitude, and adoration, Biko.

So, brothers and sisters, that was how I started planning a trip to Lagos, which I have been badmouthing and calling overrated for the past four years. I can’t tell if it’s pure extreme dislike or a mere case of low self-esteem, but bruh, I have never felt comfortable around these ill-disciplined Lagos boys in my school. They were too razzy, annoying, and uncultured for my liking. They can form ehhn. Pride is their nickname. Even the ones that came from the slurs of Agejunle and Surulere would almost make you think that their dad owns a street in Lonon. The way they always bragged about growing up or being in Lagos was even the main thing that pushed my malice and resentment notification button towards them. The way they will talk, brag, and hype their Lagos would sometimes almost make the inferiority-complex Kaduna-born me want to hide myself inside the y.an.sh of a three-week-old agric fowl.

Well, this same Lagos antagonist was now booking a public bus ticket to Oshodi with so much excitement and was one of the first people to arrive at Peace Mass Transit Motor Park at 5:30 the next day.

My journey to Lagos was generally hitch-free, fairly okay, and quite hilarious as well. A brawl had almost transpired between our driver and this Igbira woman with seven tribal marks on each side of her face. I actually had headphones on when the argument started, but according to what the guy close to me narrated, Igbira had asked the driver to stop at a junction where she wanted to buy a few items—foodstuffs, I guess—but the driver stiffened and hardened his heart like that of Pharaoh, refusing to stop.

Of course, y’all know what the book of Proverbs says about a scorned woman. Not only a scorned woman, but an Igbira one with several tribal marks. As expected, she poured fury and breath-taking foul languages on the young, promising man. And at first, our driver wanted to form Starboy Wizkid (Zero Responder) until this woman described him as a god-forsaken ex-herbalist who left his village to come to Enugu town for greener pasture. Omoor, that one unleashed the Davido in our driver, and before we could say Jack, our driver was teed off like Burna Boy.

The argument between the duo later ensued to the extent that myself and a few other passengers, who were yet to make their ways right with the Lord and were skeptical of their destination should a soul-drenching catastrophe occur, begged the driver to please park and battle it out with his fellow wrestler (the Igbira woman), while we picked a delegate that would peacefully steer us to our destination. Well, after we had parked, the mature and more sensible men in the bus resolved the altercation between the duo, as against my wish, which was for us to allow the low-budget John Cena and Brock Lesnar to display the capability of their muscle. We will probably just hire the services of a passerby who will serve as the referee for the mini-WWE clash while we proceed with our journey.

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We finally got to the Oshodi bus stop past 11 p.m., tired and as weak as the arm robbers that were chased from Kagoro to Rumuosi by newly recruited overzealous civilian JTF members. Nigerian potholes and Lagos traffic had sucked out every essential joint and component that made me human; I was literally packing my bag out of the boot half dead. Looking at my pale face, any compassionate human could tell that I needed even more than 6 cans of Lucozade boost drink, Amstel Malt, 8 lemon ginger drinks, and 54 bulbs of onions to resuscitate energy. I was so tired that I had to wait several minutes before calling to notify my aunt that I had arrived, so she could come pick me up at the bus stop.

Omoor Lagos is bustling! This was 11:57 p.m., and activities were still on and moving as it was 2 p.m.Cars, humans, businesses, buying and selling, pick-pocketers, everybody, and everything else was agile and active. Around this same time in Edo State, all of Auchi’s metropolis would have been as silent as a newly erected cemetery with just two lifeless bodies, and of course, two or three witches would have started flying around the shops of Igbos around Benin. By this same time, somewhere around Otukpo and Gboko, different robbery squads would have already started waylaying people at T-Junctions and making their money and gadgets a thing of the past. But By the same time in Oshodi, Wa’ashere and Oloun were still flying around like mosquitoes.

Read more exciting and hilarious contents on my blog here-----------https://www.arealproblemkid.com/2023/08/first-time-in-bustling-city-of-lagos.html