Lagos hustle 101 - by Oluwatoyin Odunuyi

I always thought my cousins were dramatic when they said Lagos was not for the faint-hearted. When I arrived from Ghana, they told me to get ready for “hell on earth.” I laughed heartily, thinking that Amala-obsessed Bidemi and Woman-wrapper Jide were pulling my legs. They weren’t joking- in fact, they must have downplayed the situation of Lagos. I think God created Lagos to punish people. He probably said,” I need a place where people can suffer for disobeying me.” Probably one of his angels suggested a state in Nigeria, and gbam! Millions of people found their way here. The question is, what did I do to deserve to be sent down here? I truly blame my Ghanaian mother, who had many options for dark, beautiful men to marry in our hometown, but chose to get a man with a zest for life and women with chubby backsides. I had barely seen my father all my life; the last time I saw him was on my 13th birthday, 10 years ago. While everyone was celebrating me, he chose the occasion to give me a talk about life, “Get tough and hustle, Ajua. Life is not easy.” That was rather mean to say to a 13-year-old who just wanted to eat cake and open her presents. It was when I got to Nigeria that I understood what he meant. I’ve always been fascinated by Nigeria ever since I was in Ghana. I had seen videos online about the culture, beauty, and trends. The largest city in Nigeria was Lagos, a place where all madmen weren’t dressed in rags. When my mother suggested a vacation to find my roots, I wasn’t upset; I was thrilled to discover my father’s hometown. My father’s estranged sister, Jolade, who happened to be my mother’s best friend, offered to take me in for three months. She had three children; Bidemi was as fierce as a lion; she could snap anyone’s bones in half if she wanted. Jide was the definition of a male prostitute; He loved girls as much as he loved breathing. Aunty Jolade knows that if she hears about her son’s death, the next question would be “Which woman killed him?” The lastborn was Derin, the sharpest 10-year-old I know. I’m years older than her, but she’s smarter than me. Right from the minute I stepped into Lagos, a different life began to present itself; a life filled with “God-abeg” and “see-finish” as Bidemi would say. Before I located Aunty Jolade at the airport, I went through hell. I didn’t find my luggage. I had reported the missing luggage to the authorities. This woman with the huge mole on her forehead blew her bubble gum in my face and said,” Oh, eh-he? Really? You can’t find your luggage?” I was confused and grew mute for about three seconds, and then she snapped at me,” So, you cannot talk to me now, abi! Can you not speak out? Because you’ve come from Yankee? You think you’re better than me?” From where to where? She started shouting that young people didn’t respect workers; her outburst drew many reactions at the airport. If I didn’t care about the luggage, I would have left because I’m not the kind who loves attention. Long story short, she helped me. Right after, I got my luggage, muttered, “Thank you,” and was ready to leave. The bubblegum-chewing, frustrated airport worker stopped me and said with the sweetest smile,” Shey, you won’t give me something for the weekend?” I was stunned by the quick personality change. I didn’t grow mute this time; I dipped my hand into my pocket and brought out the 200 naira I had. That’s when I knew Lagos workers were very frustrated in life; the word “help” seemed like a hard chore for them, even though their role was to cater to others. The female workers either snap at you for not greeting well, or the men become nuisances by demanding to know you better, even though they are very “happily” married, and it’s not their job to be so flirtatious. Let’s get to a part of Lagos that seems so difficult to believe- the living situation. In Ghana, there were homeless people, but people in Lagos were chronically homeless; train tracks were like beds where out-of-school children and addicted youth usually lay. It hurt to see mothers by the roadside, urging their children to go beg for alms. I once saw a Lagosian rudely chase one away and wondered why he was so heartless. But there’s always another side to the story. I later learnt from Bidemi that children often use the money to do “juju,” meaning they take the alms to traditionalists so that a spell can be cast on cheerful or forced givers, in some cases. Bidemi raved about the despicable things that went on the road, and I couldn’t believe it. My first time in public transport was one I will never forget; I had hailed a keke napep from Adeniran Ogunsanya to Ojulegba. Not knowing the fee was 200, I gave this man 500 naira. I didn’t realize it until the fourth time. I thought, “Why? Why extort people?” When I got to Ojulegba on that fateful, dreadful day, I boarded the rusty-looking, dead-rat-smelling bus and waited for the journey to start. The conductor had told me that we would board soon. His “soon” was in fifteen minutes after I stepped in. This man wanted to wait till his bus was full. Initially, I left the bus because I was tired of pleading for us to move. Imagine how lucky I felt when another car passed. I hailed it; this scatter-teethed conductor noticed me and told me to come. However, the bus was still moving, so I hurried my steps but in a princess kind of way, maintaining my ‘steeze’. I was almost there, but all for this conductor to hiss, look forward, and the bus drove away. I was lost, wondering what had happened. A passerby said,” When you’ll be catwalking nko.” Defeated, upset, and tired of waiting for another passing bus, I retreated to the waiting bus parked by the side of the road. When the conductor saw me, he took a break from drinking his herbs and cackled maniacally in my face. “Fine girl, you don come back?”To read the full article, please head to this link <a class="tc-blue" href="https://oluwatoyinodunuyi.substack.com/p/lagos-living-101-hustle-oh?r=i5649&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&triedRedirect=true" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">oluwatoyinodunuyi.substack.com/p/lago... </a>

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