Here,
the city hardly slumbers or pauses to catch a breath; memories are formed in shanties behind barbed fences and smoke-stained walls / the soles of many are stained by expressways and one-way streets;
Lagos is fuelled by vibes / drawn-out prayers that you will hear for miles and miles and miles;
Here,
day and night are synonymous with work and play; long commutes / short tempers; high-life music / Kuti’s saxophone;
serpentine bridges link mainland history to island beaches / distant aunties to nieces who have long separated from their childhood homes;
while the sky is still dark and tree branches are wet with dew, morning begins for those who work with their hands and backs; mother bends over an open flame at 6am, a spoon in one hand / dreams in the other;
streets are like runways / street style looks like locs and cargo pants / the best minds are hidden like diamonds in the dark / and they only see light in a studio or recording booth.
Here,
the city is an endless surge of bodies and cars and three-legged vehicles and voices occupying every inch of space; you will hear tales and stories under moonlit stars;
Ada will tell you about being a daughter and a model;
Femi will spill the tea about checkpoints and Apple devices;
And Aminat will recollect a memorable trip from her quiet Northern state to a vibrant city;
Lagos is an open book waiting to be filled by those who know the city so intimately; the center of culture, music, and blended languages — pidgin, patois, & Hausa — ; Muson Centre plays and Fela’s shrine.
Here,
Lagos hardly slows to a stop;
but why would it?
