“My reality of Lagos long ago- as a greenhorn, was shaped by its glamorous depictions on calendars as- a city where people walked on metallic taped-in concrete flyovers; its arduous, but many elaborate interconnected bridges and the many shiny, resplendently tarred roads. The cute Carter Bridge, the flourishing Marinas, the swarm of people straddling the pedestrian lanes on these bridges, like discipline riders on their obedient horses kept my mind preoccupied with the exuberant satisfaction that indeed- Lagos was somewhere in the well developed overseas-and not some lousy miles away! Those many rows of tidy skyscrapers competing for spaces with the many pockets of blue cloudy skies; the many automobiles dashing about; and dazzling freely under the fiery sunlight on the major highways. The sprinkling showers of glowing lights coming from the zombie columns of streetlight poles awash the Calendar Lagos’s night with supreme brightness. The handsomely sculptured veteran soldiers, probably on some anabolic steroids stood on perpetual guard duty at Idumota; and the gushing water fountain at Tinubu Square; carefully embedded within a major street in precise, mathematically-primed giant walls of progressively interlocking circles. Race Course- a place of both a better’s heaven or his enduring hell- in due course to either win it all, or lose it all, or just some hypnotized pedestrian, self-summoned to watch in all awe while refilling his rush for Race Course’s sightly equestrian wonder! Then the Beach! Yes the Bar-Beach- where the imperial Ocean once ruled the land. The classic hot-spot for Combers and a place where horror momentarily visits- as dutiful military marksmen targeted officially-doomed men hopelessly tied to wooden beams, rigidly supported by sand-filled, dull-painted, cylindrical metallic drums. Thank goodness that much fun was recorded in the expanse of its open air-space, than one could poach lines of blood trickling downwards to mix with its grainy sand! A place where mythology fought facts and reality, and vehemently to a standstill! A place where some “white garment” congregations worshipped Christ; summoned cloaked, wingless Angels; celebrated Yemoja like a Superstar, acknowledged Olokun like a generous giver and served the lesser gods who either came to swim, watch the magnificent Ocean washed sands off other people’s feet or those destined to drown on any given day- with foods, fruits and other edibles on exotic, cute clay pots and bowls fashioned from dried-out gourds, while dancing to spiritual music- in frenzied gyrations, tapping mercilessly on voodoo drums and hoping to be visited by any cloaked, wingless angels in the heat of a spirited trance. Then there was the Amusement Park at Apapa where “lucky” kids were memorialized on glossy pages, frolicking happily on mechanized rides, or lovingly getting dizzy on colorful Ferris-wheels, or languishing joyously on Merry-Go-Rounds or ebulliently riding around on detailed miniature trains. Staged pictures of upscale families having weekend picnic, as the National Theater stood majestically in the background, innocently fueled my foolishness! Alas I was physically stuck at Ibadan- but managed to travel to Lagos every second of every minute for more than five years, while I stayed glued to the luscious pages of numerous calendars! Baba-Eko, a paternal uncle who visited frequently seemed to walk with an unblemished attitude. He talked funnily, in same Yoruba dialect- his own only resonated with a certain aplomb, but coated differently, definitely! Quite colorful, yet nasally accented; he furthermore seemed conceited. He favored putting on phony air. He ridiculously tagged everyone not resident in Lagos an “Ara-Oke”. Such a Doozie! He’d conveniently forgotten he’s from the same village as his brother- my father! He probably figured I was too young to know he left the village just a while ago. Or did he take my being a Kid then for being stupid?! Say all you want about him- his steadfast, shiny facade attracted girls to him like bees to honey. And I did my best to copy from his voluminous book of hip slangs, his flowery and sweet Yoruba accent and his “moonwalk” or “skipping” interchangeable gaits. For those many years, the pages of any almanac was my free ride to Lagos and back. Each kiddie photograph was all about me “happening” fluently in every fun-place on a darn Lagos minute…
…then many years later the Stationery Stores came to town!”
Wakilu: Baami, what’s “Sitesonari Sitoosi?”
Odolaye To Wakilu: go to bed, it’s too late to start that story tonight…hmmmm, remind me another time to tell it all to you!
