A burnout had Sola Michael taking some time off and returning to Lagos for an extended holiday with his sister. An almost robbery and a gorgeous rescuer have him seeing the true state of Lagos: the chameleon that never sits still and never sleeps.
Seeing Lago
By Alessandra Ebulu
Published by Less Than Three Press LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Cover designed by Megan Derr
This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
First Edition April 2014
Copyright © 2014 by Alessandra Ebulu
Printed in the United States of America
For Kathleen
SEEING LAGOS
Alessandra Ebulu
Dámilólá woke up with a jolt to the screeching sounds of the alarm clock. He buried his head in his pillow, hoping against hope that the act would mute the volume. A minute later, he accepted his fate that he wouldn't be getting any more sleep, and pushed off from the bed, until he rested with his thighs curved beneath him.
He blinked owlishly and looked at the clock. Five thirty in the morning. He suppressed a groan, unfolded his legs and climbed out of the bed. He had an interview for nine, and he was already running late.
With the speed of one accustomed to being late, he rushed through his morning wash, brushed his teeth and got dressed. He glanced at his wristwatch that now read 5:45 a.m., grabbed his keys and wallet and ran out of the house. "Bíódún, lock the door," he shouted to his roommate and jogged to the bus stop.
It was pitch black and the cold air had his body breaking out in goose pimples. Dámilólá rubbed hard at his chilled arms and took a deep breath.
The harsh glare of an oncoming car's headlights illuminated the area, and he put out his hands to signal to the driver, praying fervently that the lights he saw belonged to a dánfó—a commercial bus—and not a privately-owned vehicle. The sooner he left Ìkòròdú, the sooner he would be in Ìkejà, and the sooner he could run his errands at CMS. It was going to be another busy day. He wondered if it was too much to hope for something surprising, relaxing and out of the ordinary to happen to him today. Something to help him snap out of the rut he was presently in.
The dánfó came to a stop in front of him and he hopped inside. The conductor called out in a shrill voice, "Mile twelve, Kétu, one fifty; Ojóta, two hundred; Maryland, two fifty; Yába three hundred. Mú chángè e dání. Mi ò ní chángè lówó o."
Dámilólá rolled his eyes. That was the usual closing phrase uttered by every conductor and cab driver in Lagos. They never had any change. If a person was going to Yába and handed a one-thousand-naira note to a driver, that driver would complain, spew out some curses about one's family and, with a lot of grumbling, reluctantly hand over the person's change.
Some drivers were rude enough to ask that a passenger forget about the change because they didn't have any. Yet, if the reverse was the case, the conductor or driver would not leave their change with any passenger. It was just not possible.
Dámilólá took out a two-hundred-naira note from his wallet and handed it to the conductor. All that was left was for him to get some breakfast and some sleep. It would take him about two and a half hours to get to Ojóta, considering the traffic, and there was no way he was going to stay awake for that period of time.
The bus crawled from the Ìkòròdú garage to the Agric bus stop, where it had to stop to load more passengers.
Dámilólá noticed a girl with loaves of bread and called, "Bread."
She immediately rushed over with her tray and began to push her wares at him. He decided on eighty-naira bread and seventy-naira Àkàrà, along with a sachet of water.
He settled back in his seat, cut off a bit of bread, and placed an Àkàrà ball in between the bread. He bit into his food and his mouth was filled with the delicious taste of bean balls fried in palm oil and spiced with pepper and onions. Dámilólá moaned and polished off the rest of the meal. With a few gulps, he emptied the sachet of its contents. That done, he rested his head against the windowpane and dozed off.
He woke up to a light tapping and opened weary eyes to stare at a fellow passenger who pointed outside. "We're at Ojóta."
Dámilólá mumbled his thanks and alighted from the bus. He joined the crowd of people who were all heading to the dánfós who were in a queue. Ìkejà was a busy part of Lagos. It was an area that housed a lot of companies, so everyone was heading towards the Ìkejà dánfós.
There was a lot of pushing and curses, and the stench of the Ojóta waste disposal vans permeated the air. Dámilólá walked around a crippled man begging for alms and called out, "Allen Avenue."
The conductor for the Allen Avenue dánfó waved his hands and pointed at his bus.
Dámilólá glanced at his wristwatch and then hurried onto the bus. He only had fifteen more minutes before the interview was to start. This was the sixth advertising agency he had applied to. The others had informed him that they would get back in touch with him, but never did.
It was a surprise when he received the phone call from S, O & U asking him to come in for an assessment test. It had been a bigger surprise when he was informed that he had passed the assessment test and therefore should come in for an interview.
He had his fingers, toes and even mid-section crossed with the hope that he would finally receive good news and employment with a respected advertising agency.
The level of unemployment in the country was high, and to make matters worse, companies were always requesting employees with 'experience.' Any time he saw a vacancy ad in the papers or on the Internet and saw the dreaded tagline "…Years of experience wanted," he felt the need to slam his fist into something. How the hell was anyone supposed to get any experience if they were not even offered the opportunity to gain the experience in the first place?
"Employ me, so I can gain the bloody experience, damn it," he always felt like screaming.
Dámilólá took in a deep breath. No need to get all worked up before a major interview. He needed to keep calm. Hopefully, this interview would go well. If it didn't, well, he would have to find something to do. The rent would soon be due, and he needed to give Bíódún his share.
He kept his eyes on the Ìkejà landscape as the driver drove into the heart of Lagos' heartbeat, and in his own heart, he kept a prayer that things would turn out well.
*~*~*
Solá buried his face in his pillows and pressed his hands hard against his ears. When that didn't work, he turned around until he was looking up at the ceiling and released a frustrated shout. The thump-thump sound of the pestle hitting the mortar was grating on his nerves.
It was made especially worse because it was still six thirty in the morning. Nobody deserved to wake up to such a racket. It was completely inhumane. Human beings need sleep. And little children need a balanced meal that would fill them up, give them energy, and provide their bodies with the nutrients for development, not the crap Mrs. Bólújòkó fed the little ones. Someone should set her straight. Solá rose from the bed, yanked on trousers and a shirt, and ran down the stairs. He was just the right person to do that. That woman's ignorance had to be rectified.
Outside the Bólújòkó's house, he could hear the racket even more clearly. Early risers, who were headed to work, didn't even seem to notice. Some were focused on their phones and others had their ears plugged as they all drifted towards the end of the street where there was a bus stop. They'd probably heard the pounding sounds for so long that they'd gotten
used to it.
Solá knocked and heard shuffling sounds as someone approached the door. The door swung open and Solá glanced down at the little boy. His school uniform had obviously been recently thrown on, and the buttons done up haphazardly.
"Is your mother at home?" Solá asked. It was silly, because they both knew that the boy's mother was around. Who else would be pounding yam so early in the morning?
The boy nodded his head, jabbed a finger behind him and disappeared into one of the open doors, leaving the front door open for Solá to come in.
Solá made a mental note to tell the boy's mother about the boy's carelessness with security. The world was not so safe that a child should give anybody easy access to his home.
He spent some time glancing around the living room. There was a fourteen-inch television on a wooden cabinet, with a DVD player in the slot beneath. A standing OX fan provided the space with adequate ventilation, and on the walls were framed pictures of people of different ages; probably members of the family. The walls were a pale blue, and the worn curtains were a royal blue that matched the rug that lay in the middle of the room, on which there was a small table that held various remotes and glasses.
After he had spent enough time observing the room, and no one had appeared yet, he called out, "Mrs. Bólújòkó? It's Solá Michael. Solápé's younger brother. I came to talk with you about something."
"Come to the kitchen. My hands are busy at the moment," a female voice called out.
Solá shrugged and followed the pounding sounds to the kitchen.
Mrs. Bólújòkó was a short woman with a slim physique. Her arms however, were heavily muscled, and she handled the pestle expertly, tossing slices of boiled yam into the mortar, and pummelling the pieces into a paste. As he watched, she added some water, turning the mixture with the pestle until the mixture's consistency was acceptable. She scooped it out and dished it into a big cooler.
That done, she straightened up and looked hard at Solá. "Aunty Solápé's younger brother you said? The one visiting her from London?"
You mean her crazy brother who was advised by his shrink to take some time off because he couldn't seem to turn his brain off and would soon suffer from exhaustion? The one who doesn't want to be in this country and simply wants to be back in London with his friends.
Solá kept his thoughts to himself however and nodded. "Yes"
"Well then, what can I do for you?" Mrs. Bólújòkó asked and wiped her hands on a clean napkin attached to the wrapa 'round her waist.
Just as Solá opened his mouth to reply, she held up a finger and shouted, "Gbémi, Lékè, come and take your food o. It's already fifteen minutes to seven. You'll be late."
An older girl and the little boy who opened the door came running into the kitchen. The girl grabbed the steaming bowl of Ogbono soup and carefully carried it out of the kitchen while her younger brother carried a smaller bowl in one hand and two small glasses in the other.
"That's actually what you can help me with. Mrs. Bólújòkó…"
"Call me Détóún," she interrupted.
"Détóún. I understand the need to have your kids fed, but at six thirty, I'm still sleeping, and the pounding sounds are too loud. I don't know if others have mentioned it to you, but I just wanted us to talk about it," Solá said, watching her eyes.
"Really? I didn't know that," Détóún said.
Solá observed that she looked genuinely surprised. Obviously, no one in the neighbourhood had come out to mention that her pounding was a nuisance. "Besides, no offence meant, but pounded yam and soup is not the most nutritious meal to serve to young kids at this time of the day."
Détóún's eyes hardened slightly. "Are you trying to tell me that I'm not feeding my children properly? E mà gbà mí? Have you seen how strong they are?"
Okay. I don't think my words came out the proper way. She seems very pissed. What does E mà gbà mí mi mean again? Oh yes! Please save me. Okay, I need to rephrase my words before she starts ranting in Yoruba again.
"I didn't mean it that way, Détóún. I just meant that pounded yam is a heavy meal. Eating such a meal in the morning will make the kids very tired and they won't be able to assimilate what they're being taught in school as well as they should," Solá backpedalled.
Détóún took in some deep breaths. "But that's what I've been feeding them for so long. And no one has complained. Their grades haven't turned bad."
"I'm not saying that they will suddenly start failing. I'm just saying that they won't perform as well as they should. Just try something different for some months. Try some cereal like Golden Morn or cornflakes. Give them oats, spaghetti, rice, and occasionally boiled yam. It will help."
Solá held his breath as he watched multiple emotions flash across Détóún's face as she considered his words. She finally nodded. "All right. I will do as you suggest. Although, what is also helping your case is that my pounding yam disturbs you in the mornings," she added.
Forty-five minutes later, his stomach full of the pounded yam and Ogbono soup that Détóún had insisted he eat, he entered the house. He spotted the note that his sister left on the centre table.
I've gone to work. Whenever you can, please can you help me out by picking up some clothes and books at CMS? There's a tailor's shop just beside the First Bank branch at CMS. Just ask for Adéòtí. Tell her I sent you, and she will hand over the package. I've already called her, and she's expecting you. I really do need them today, but it will be too late for me to pick them up. Take the time to enjoy Lagos a bit while you're at it.
She'd included a smiley face at the end of the note. Solá shook his head at his sister's silliness and placed the note in his back pocket. He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. It now read seven forty-five. There was no need to rush. He would watch some reruns of Law and Order and be on his way at about four.
*~*~*
Lagos in the evening was loud. It was like a rock concert, with the screeching and the horns representing instruments, and people's movements like dancers. The conversations, arguments, and shouts were all lyrics to the song of people who live in and have grown to love the city.
Solá could see it in their eyes, in the jaunty way a majority of them walked. They loved Lagos; every part of it. Their excitement couldn't be faked.
He'd reconsidered the wisdom of driving around, constantly halting in the middle of the road to ask where the First Bank was located. Besides, with the narrow routes that were all too common, there was a chance that he might have to walk to get to the tailor's shop.
So he'd decided to park his sister's car and asked for directions from a bus driver who pointed out the road he should take. Solá thanked the man and immediately began to walk. He'd been walking now for about ten minutes and he still hadn't gotten to the place that the driver had informed him was just "round the corner".
The sun was high in the sky, and the heat turned his shirt into a soaked mess that he was sure did not smell anything like it had when he left the house. His throat felt parched as well. Immediately he had the thought, he motioned at a little girl with a bucket of drinks on her head and asked, "Do you have Teem?"
She reached into her bucket, which was still on her head, and brought down a bottle of Teem, the condensation on it indicating the coldness of the drink.
He downed the drink in quick gulps and handed her the money. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and scanned the area, looking for the familiar white elephant set in a blue background, the logo of First Bank.
Solá caught a glimpse of something blue in the distance and began moving forward, with the hope that he had finally gotten to his destination.
He was so focused on the building that he paid no attention to anything around him, not even the person who bumped into him. There was nothing unusual about the act. CMS was teeming with people and everybody was in a hurry to get to where they were headed. Bumping into others was inevitable during the ever-present rush hour. Sometimes, he won
dered if Lagosians ever went to work. No matter the time of the day, the roads were always busy and traffic congestion was forever a fact.
It took him a while to notice that his shoulders had been relieved of a great weight. By the time his brain processed the information, the young thief had covered quite a distance with Solá's laptop bag in tow.
"Thief! Thief!" he screamed and watched the young crook race away with his bag. He mentally went through the valuables he had kept in the bag: his wallet full of cash and his ATM cards, his external hard drive, some gum, an extra pair of shoes that he planned to have a shoemaker—the local cobbler—to fix for him and most importantly, his laptop.
Solá debated running after the boy, but the thief had gotten quite a head start and had chosen the most opportune time to carry out the theft. Cars were moving swiftly, and he couldn't start chasing the boy through traffic. None of those who were behind him did anything to help apprehend the thief, either.
Solá chewed his lower lip and contemplated returning home to tell his sister about the theft when someone raced by him, bumping into him in a hurry to get to wherever it was the other person was going. Solá swallowed an expletive. Today was just not his day.
He stooped down to pick up the package of books that had dropped when the pedestrian ran into him, when two sneakered feet walked into his line of vision. Solá's gaze travelled up.
He saw well-worn grey jeans, a T-shirt depicting a beach scene, a face brightened up with a smile, deep brown eyes, and a head full of dreads. The man's dark skin was a beautiful contrast to his white teeth and was set off nicely by his eyes.
Solá was so caught up in the man's gaze that it took him a while to notice that the man had his stolen laptop bag swung across his shoulder.
The stranger stooped down and picked up a copy of Sun Tzu's Art of War that had slid away from Solá's reach. He brought the now-torn paperback to Solá and said with a sheepish look, "I'm sorry I ran into you. I was in a hurry to apprehend the thief and it didn't occur to me that at the speed I was running, I would bump into you or damage your books."