6 Where I breathe a little

HADIZAT As Baba lucky drove through the streets of Lagos, I confirmed I had just arrived on another planet. Lagos was no New Zealand, nor New York, it was a whole different kind of new. There were no skyscrapers, or high city lights and romantic music playing in the back ground, but they were a handful of tall buildings surrounded by shacks, and houses with rusty roofs and sheets, scattered with barely any spacing from afar. The streets were barely paved and others needed renovation, exploding gutters, which were also used as waste dumps, and broken street lights. Stalls in every corner painted the colour of dirt, with writings like “Olamide for life,” “Akin AKA brave soul was here,” “ice block for sail,” and big red “x” marks which showed approval or remove. There wasn’t much electricity in the city, except for the tall buildings that were very bright, the rest of the city looked dim with orange lights, lamps and candles. The music playing at the background of Lagos was a mix of afro beat, Rnb, old Westlife songs, the sound of hundreds of tiny generators, honks, bleats, and roars from arguments. Together they created a sound of chaos, a type of chaos that seemed built with the city. While places like Paris and New York smelled like romance, Lagos was made up of a cacophony of the smell of gutters, oil, spicy foods, meat, sweat, petrol, smoke, hot air and dust. You could literally taste the smell at the back of your throat, the smell was overwhelming and actually nice, when the car was moving, but other times when we were stuck in traffic jams, or congestion as Baba lucky had called it, the smell was intolerable and I had to battle with myself whether I wanted to smell the fumes that poured from the engines of uncountable mini buses, motor bikes and tricycles, or smell Baba Lucky’s car that smelt like dead rats and rotten food. Ultimately, I was forced to smell Baba Lucky’s car that by the way didn’t have an AC, because the roads were too risky with hawkers pushing all sort of things through the window. One time when my eyes met with a short middle aged man selling panties and Bra’s, he immediately shoved them through the window and asked me to try a bra on. That was how slow traffic was, the hawkers would have time to move around and come back to meet you in the same spot. Baba Lucky seemed to love complaining about Lagos. He loved Lagos and its chaos, and would have nothing to talk about if Lagos wasn’t as chaotic as it was. He would occasionally wind down the glass of his window and rain abuses on the drivers of the mini buses, which he called Danfos and Molues, then wind up again and talk about how reckless drivers in Lagos were. After a while when the drivers got frustrated, some started honking continuously, and Baba lucky joined them, shouting “fly now” and spitting some words in Yoruba, soon the driver of a yellow cab came out of his car and went and grabbed the collar of a Toyota Camry driver, accusing him of scratching the back of his knocked up cab. As if on queue, other drivers had come out of their cars, and were trying to stop a fist fight between the Toyota driver and the taxi driver. If the “congestion” hadn’t chosen that time to move, I was sure Baba Lucky would have joined them. I was thankful we were finally moving. We passed a neighbourhood that smelled like fresh grass and fresh water, with paved roads and bright houses into a neighbourhood that Baba lucky called Ojuelegba, also known as The Devils Den or The Cursed Land, and insisted that all windows be closed. He narrated how he was robbed in the morning in front of the police once, and another incident when he was beaten black and blue for not having a ticket or money for ticket to pass through a particular street. I got chills when I saw what he was talking about, the streets were dim and busy, ugly and congested, cars moved very slowly as the roads were very bad, and touts lurked in every corner and the police looked like they were best friends with the touts. As if the curse was following Baba lucky, the car developed problems right in the middle of the streets of ojuelegba and he had to park and pour water on the engine. It took less than two minutes with Baba lucky hurrying like it was the end of the world, but when he entered the car, a dark policeman wearing all black clothes and shades with a baseball bat entered with him, and asked him to drive to the police station for parking wrongly. Baba lucky didn’t even try to explain, he simply apologized and brought out a two hundred naira note and squeezed into the policeman’s hand. The policeman quickly alighted the car, promising to deal with him next time. I had just witnessed bribery and corruption, and I had no questions to ask, I was still taking Lagos in. I would soon come to realize that that was how things were settled in Lagos. It was about 9:00 nine pm when I got to Bar beach, tired and moments away from breaking down. The entrance to the beach was rowdy, with traders selling everything from food to clothes, one trader was even selling shades. Some women were selling corn, bean balls, fried yam and many other fried foods that I recognised only because of Shade who took me to African restaurants sometimes and the other ones I was going to find out about soon. Some men on another side were grilling fish and meat. Some other men were arguing at a corner, while others were drinking and smoking. Most of the children were gathered in a circle playing on the sand. There were prostitutes in skimpy clothing and heavy make-up, doing well what prostitutes would. There was a long queue to the beach with a bunch of boys dressed like they were in a 90’s hip hop music video, collecting money from the people on the beach. One had to pay money to get into a beach in Lagos, I marvelled. I decided to ask for yellows shop before entering the beach, and no one would know the beach better than traders, I thought. “Good evening,” I greeted the big, dark, kind faced woman selling roasted bananas. “Which one you want?” she pointed at some of the bananas on the grill, “make I put pepper well well.” I nodded because I wasn’t sure what exactly she was asking but I knew she wanted me to buy bananas, “yes. Ok but only one” I blurted. She picked up one hot banana with her bare hands, cut and poured grinded pepper with palm oil on it, and then she wrapped it with a newspaper before putting them into a black nylon bag. I grabbed a five hundred naira note from my envelope and asked her to keep the change. She studied me like I was strange for a few seconds before smiling and thanking me repeatedly. “Where can I find yellows shop? Is it close?” She looked at me but didn’t answer, instead she yelled out a name “Kenny” and a girl came running to her. Kenny was a tall, caramel skinned girl with small face. She wore a sleeveless top and a wrapper. She had very long braids that were almost reaching her waist. The woman told Kenny something in Yoruba language. The girl smiled and greeted me. “Anty good evening, how may I help you. My mum doesn’t understand English well,” she said maintaining her big, pretty smile. I couldn’t understand how I had suddenly become everyone’s aunty but I pushed the thought to the back of my mind, maybe it was a Nigerian thing. “Hi, my name is Hil...Hadizat,” I extended my hand forward for a handshake. “Can you direct me to yellows shop please?” “You must be a visitor, everyone here knows yellow. Come with me, I’ll show you.” She took my hands and pulled me lightly past the bunch of Jay z wanna be’s. “We didn’t pay,” I started wondering what the reason was for such special treatment. “Pay keh?” she laughed almost hysterically, “those fools are just my idiot neighbour and his friends. They think they own the beach, but they know who their mate is,” she spoke like she was ready to fight, and I just thought of how she still hadn’t let go of my hand. Inside the beach there was a party going on, men and women drinking , dancing and pouring alcohol on each other, it looked like the kind of party you would wake up and find yourself buried in sand with a terrible hangover. We passed them to a place with lots of purple tents. She took me to the only yellow tent there, it was large and crowded, mostly with men, but a few women were there too, sitting on yellow plastic chairs, drinking beer and chatting, while watching soccer on a big black screen . “We are here,” she grinned. ‘I’ll leave you here now Deeza, bye”. She called me Deeza, and I thought it was cute. “Ok, Kenny. Thank you so much for your help. I hope to meet you again,” she hugged me briefly and waved goodbye. She was the most comfortable person I had ever met, considering the fact that I wasn’t much of a people person. I looked around the place for Imran but I couldn’t see him, then I heard someone whistle behind me. I turned around and I saw Imran. Tall, dark and good looking. Big eyes, slender nose and pearly white teeth. Nothing had changed about him, except the new low cut, it looked better on him than the old afro did. He wore a navy blue v neck shirt that hugged his body and dark jeans. “Hey, hey, hey short woman,” he smiled with his arms open wide. I was so excited to see him; I didn’t know how much I had missed him until I saw him again. I walked slowly towards him before jumping into his arms like a wild woman. I hugged him tight, oblivious to the sudden attention we were getting from the people around. He hugged me back for a few seconds before pushing me away slightly. “Hey you want to ruin my reps?” I laughed; he was still the same cocky and funny man I knew. “Nice meeting location,” I said sarcastically. “Well you know me, I always go for the best,” he smirked, wiping away non-existent dust from his shirt. “Why didn’t you come to pick me, do you know what I’ve been through today?” I hit his shoulder slightly, “I don’t even have a phone now.” “I couldn’t risk being seen at that airport, besides Lagos was dying to introduce itself to you.” “Trust me, no one would have seen you at that airport,” I said reminiscing on my horrible experience. “I’m hungry.” He took me to a fancy tent called “The Shrine” where I was served rice and a soup with assorted sea food. There were shrimps, prawns, cat fish and what not, while he ate the bananas I had bought earlier with soda. As I ate hungrily, Imran teased me just like he always did whenever he caught me eating meat, because when we were in college, I had pretended to be a vegetarian to impress my sorority sisters. After three months of not being able to eat meat, I gave up when I realized that I loved meat more than I loved a bunch of strangers I called my sisters. We chatted for a long time, before he decided to take me to my new home. He didn’t bring his car because he had just washed it and couldn’t risk driving through the streets of Obalende, where he was taking me. “We’ll take an Okada,” he informed me, when we were finally outside the beach. “What’s that?” He pointed at a motorbike and I was sure he saw the fear that was flashing through my face, and if he didn’t, then he must have heard it from my voice when I told him I didn’t want to die. “Relax, it’s totally safe. At least most times, and you can finally cross it off your bucket list. It was on your journal.” I wasn’t even surprised because I always suspected that he was reading my journal in college. We drove through the streets of Lagos, with my luggage in front of the driver and with me clutching his jacket like I was going to rip it off, the fresh smell of water, meat, and the cold dry air stood out amongst the smell of gutters, and grappled through my clothes and veil. I lost myself for a moment in the sound and smell of Lagos and I was able to not think about falling. I wanted the ride to never stop, but it did when we reached Obalende. A place that seemed alive and in sync, like everything was a piece of art. Forget the rowdiness, and congestion, the life and splendour was over powering, the colours were beautiful, and the chattering of people calmed my soul. Maybe it was the food, the bike ride or just my Americana genes setting in, but I saw Lagos in a different light, the beauty in chaos, and the serenity in the cacophony of distinct voices and loud music. We stopped at a street called Keffi Street and then we entered a building. The gate to the building was broken, and the cemented floor was wet. It was a complex with similar looking apartments, ten all together. Each facing one another. Some rooms had buckets in front of them, others benches and two or three of them were decorated with flower pots with wilted flowers. It was quiet and looked like no one was around. “Here’s your room,” we stopped at the last room in the complex. I stared at the front of the apartment, not exactly what I was feeling. “Look, it might not look like it’s the best but it really is; It’s the safest”, he said holding my shoulder. I sighed and groaned, “it doesn’t look very safe to me. Don’t you think this is way overboard? It’s not like those people are going to follow me all the way to Nigeria and kill me, so why can’t I at least be comfortable while I’m here?, everything is starting to feel like a spy movie” “First, your Dad is broke, you, you’ve always been broke, houses in Lagos are expensive, you can’t live with me because I live with two other men like beasts, so be calm agent Hilal,” he chuckled and unlocked the door. The inside looked better than the outside. The living room looked comfortable with a purple love seat, pink rug and small plasma TV, the room was moderately large; it had a bed, a fridge and a wardrobe. The kitchen was pretty small and the window was small too. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. “Imran, where’s the bathroom?” I asked looking around the room. He picked up his bag, moved his head in a slow motion, smiled, and then said, “You’ll find that out on your own. Now I have to go, there are some things I need to do, and places I need to be. Everything’s going to be totally fine,” He winked and started walking to the door, “take care, I’ll see you tomorrow. Fridge is stocked. Bye,” he rushed the words out and blew kisses. I sighed and caught his air kisses, “bye.” I sank on the bed immediately he left, feeling very lonely. I thought about my father, what he was doing and whether he was okay. I performed ablution with water from the fridge, and then prayed. I sprawled on the bed, and fell asleep seconds later with tears strolling down my face.