Lagos Living

The alarms are blaring again. 

It’s past 5 am and I’m tired; too exhausted to stand but too conscious of the consequence of not making it out of the house on time. These days I have noticed a subtle pattern my body observes: wake up, rub my bleary eyes, search for the kettle, boil the water, rush to shower, run even faster out the door, rush to the bus stop.

Rise and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

I am like clockwork; predictable in my initial slothfulness, obvious to the silent observer that no matter how hard I try, yes, I will be just slightly late. I run down four flights of stairs, half-panicked and half-calm, needing to constantly assure myself that I will make it on time.

I do my daily early morning chants. “God, I will not miss this bus” I say over and over again, eyes flickering first to the watch on my wrist, but it doesn’t work. That’s alright; the phone in my hand tells the time as well, my able timekeeper pointing out my fatal flaw: tardiness.

The buzz around me is familiar. These are the early morning “bird songs” that Lagos offers to the ever-weary traveller. Generators rumbling, engines roaring as they drive by, conductors half-yelling, half-croaking sounds I can’t quite make out. My ears have still not adjusted to the way they contort words in their mouths and practically spit them in your face. 

My ears twitch, my lips frown slightly. I look around me, and of course I am not alone. Frowning, tired faces, sleep-laden heavy faces, and deadpan stares of absolute detachment. We all stand outside, somewhat huddled but still apart, hoping to be the passenger that secures the next seat on the buses that flash by us, because time is ticking, and she’s a hard master, that one.

We look like a miserable bunch, I must say. I can’t quite understand sometimes the constant need for activity that Lagos seems to demand from its residents. My body rushes with an adrenaline that I should have no use of so early in the morning. My eyes are searching back and forth; peering into the buses that fly by, gauging the strangers beside me, trying to settle into a rhythm that does not make me seem like I was awoken by pure electrocution.

This is every other day. Moments of reprieve, we all desperately seem to desire as we stand there huddled like close friends. I can tell because I desire it too. But alas! Reprieve is still far away for the traveller unfortunate enough to be using public transportation on any day in Lagos, and you can quote me on that.

How can any form of rest or relaxation come from sharp, wooden and iron benches? How can one find it in a bus that screeches at every rough turn, forcing you to clutch something desperately just in case the vehicle should decide to vomit you out of the gaping hole that is supposed to be a door? 

But by now I am somewhat of a seasoned professional in the art of surviving public transportation. The key? Havse the sturdiness of a market woman with nothing and everything to lose at once. She sits comfortably in the most uncomfortable situation, but still, you can tell she’s alert. Watching the driver dare make a mistake that might cost her anything.

Or better yet, sit with the sprightliness of an over-eager old man. It’s ironic, but it’s true. Sometimes I watch them and wonder where such energy comes from. Past 6am now, and they converse in loud tones with the driver; “yabbing” the conductor lightly and offering advice no one ever seems to ask for. 

I thank God my trip is short. Maybe not for others, but for me, I just need to endure for 15 mins, and then sweet relief comes in the form of planned shuttle trips shipping me like semi-precious cargo to the office. My chants have paid off: I do not miss my bus trip.

I can sit in a seat that is more comfortable, and hope for an hour of silence. Silence that I love to have so early in the morning, but oh Lagos, you do not let me go a day without hearing the sounds you claim to be songs. My bus stop still looms ahead, but for the next hour I close my eyes to the new sound of soothing music, allowing my weary body to sink into the cushion of my seat. This moment of long-awaited reprieve lulls me into the warmth of a much-needed nap.

Eyes drift close as I pull my shawl tighter against my body to protect me from the chill of the air conditioner. I dream of nothing, and it’s exactly what I need. In this moment, time is literally just a construct. I don’t notice the seconds turn to minutes, and the minutes turn to an hour. When I open my eyes, I realize I have made a costly mistake; I am way past my bus stop, and it’s raining now. Hard, Lagos style.

‘What to do?” I wonder. I have no choice. I hop off the bus at the next bus stop and begin to journey begrudgingly back to where the bus stop beside my office building is.

 

“I can do this. I can do this.” I chant to myself, rain flooding down on my face and blinding my vision. My feet are soaked now, the shoes I wear acting more as sponges than actual protection from the puddles. Cars zoom by me, and I can swear that they intentionally drive into every puddle just for the joy of splashing me with the rainwater, from my thighs down back to already soaked feet.

By the time I drag myself into my office building, I am a drenched cat. Miserable, cold, and soiled by the filthy rain puddles. I must dry myself, put a smile on my face, and brave the next 9 hours of work; committing myself to the tasks of the day. 

Until the next day, and like clockwork, here comes the alarm again. O Lord!