Lagos
Hi BoBers,
Lagos is an enormous, sprawling city of 20 million people, the second largest in Africa. Everything here is done en masse. Cars. People. Animals. Buildings. All of it crammed into every nook and cranny. As with many places of such density, scams are rampant. I ordered doughnuts and watched as the final one “accidentally” missed the bag and fell back onto the pile. I bought a month’s data and got a day. When I argued, she said she bought it for a week. Prices varied wildly based on how vulnerable I looked to the seller. I quickly became less trustful and tougher, not a particularly natural or enjoyable role for me.
In contrast, some areas of the city are stomach-turningly rich. Rows of luxury apartment blocks with jetties and speedboats on the river. Luxury clubs with infinity pools. All in plain sight of those sleeping on the streets. I took a taxi that evening to meet a local friend-of-a-friend. The driver spoke rapturously of “dirty December”, when the Nigerian diaspora returns to Lagos to flex their foreign earnings. Like the cliché in the USA, I think he saw himself as a temporarily embarrassed millionaire, trying to win the game rather than change it. At the rooftop bar, beers were 7,000 naira. At a regular bar, they’re 1,200. It’s like paying fifty dollars for a Heineken in Australia. Absurd.
The cheapest hotel I could find was a “luxury” place (sorry for all the quotes, I’m feeling particularly sarcastic today), a microcosm of the surrounding city. My room looked out over the slums that encircled the hotel. The hot water didn’t work, but they called me sir while apologising. The breakfast was meagre, but was served by staff in crisp white shirts and bowties. Of course, there was also a pool and fitness studio.
One haven in the chaos is the Niké Art Gallery, absolutely stuffed with paintings and sculptures. I felt like I understood Nigeria better after seeing it through the eyes of a thousand artists. The effusive and theatrical Niké welcomed me and immediately dubbed me “the bicycle man”, introducing me as such to the gallery’s many guests, partly because I’m sure she forgot my name in the hubbub. I felt like a minor celebrity, but also like an object. Taking selfies, striking the requested pose, then being ignored the moment the photo was taken. I was just another flex. Later, Niké gave me a fan with her face on it and kindly offered for me to stay in her daughter’s apartment, still under construction, which I gladly accepted to avoid another night at the hotel.
I was glad to leave the city the next day, completely overwhelmed by its mess of activity and contradictions.
Classily divided,
J&BoB
