Me.
Lagos- it's the Mainland of tired dreams and the Island tolling bad memories. Here, everything keeps changing, and quite strange I find myself writing again. This time about a love that breaks my spirit, a joy unfolding into loud laughter, a smile coming into life by the warm presence of those who have chosen not to leave, and legs learning to dance. My anecdote is not good with endings but I miss the nightlife in Freedom park and men who stray into strangers' arms- their potbellies are testament to Lagos' altruism.
A
a love that breaks my spirit
Remi used to be the girl of my dreams till my teenage years stole the innocence of adolescence, and I stopped dreaming. These days, I remember her in nouns and adjectives not in verbs: her black skin, her long hair, her white pupil with little dark spot, the innocence in her voice, her absence, this I've come to know so well. Once, we met on a Monday morning that holds no brief for gossip or old times, exchanged numbers, faked laughter over half-baked jokes, and promised each other never to be strangers again. We lied.
But isn't this what Lagos is all about? Gives as much as it takes. I was twelve when Rejoice sneaked a love letter into my hands, eleven when Temitope bought me a birthday gift, the first I ever had from a girl, a note. And I will write her name in the full length of that sixty leaves, the flyleaf had nicknames we called ourselves. But in hindsight, I wonder what Lagos makes of their dreams. I wonder if Tope has found a tall, black and handsome man to fall in love with, I wonder if she graduated from Unilag, if she named her first daughter January like she promised she will. With Rejoice, there are four kids with different dads.
I had my first taste of alcohol when I was fourteen, my poor choice was a favorite mixture of Calypso and Lacasera each working day of the week till I was fifteen, till I fell in love with Opeoluwa. She had boys camouflage behaviors, and wear their good deeds on their sleeves. She was that beautiful. This was when Dagrin's songs used to be the anthem across Allen Avenue to Club 10 on the Island, when boot cut was a thing. I stopped drinking just to win Opeoluwa's love amongst many other casualties. Thinking about it now, I believe our love was never meant to take flight. It was short-lived like Friday nights in Lagos bars.
B
a joy morphing into loud laughter
This time, I have gone the full circle of my teenage years. I am grown. I am in love again. I find myself listening to Brymo and Asa, meeting both at intersections. On a very quiet night in Ile-Ife, you'll find me in the company of Passenger or sharing lyrics of Luis Armstrong with Lake. Whatever the mood is, I'm listening to great songs, healing.
Melody came when I was least expecting and God knows I have cultivated bad habits. I pray she never leaves. With her, love is both nouns and verbs: the complexion of her skin, her diastema, her aura, the kind that could leave Shakespeare short of words, the taste of her lips, her intelligence, {sorry, I'm drifting making a list]. We met in a class WhatsApp group arguing about dead men thesis, about what's right or wrong, weighing Ceasar's righteousness, and finding love in Brutus friendship. She stayed after.
We fell in love in the least way we could have expected, and like the rain in the time of Noah, we have been building rainbows ever since.
C
smile knitted by the presence of those who have chosen not to leave
Love could be violent too.
I'm writing about my aunt in past tense. I'm writing about my mum breaking tears each time she remembers her. God knows I still don't know how to react to grief. It comes without a warning sign. I was on my way to the Island when I heard she was taken to Luth. At this point, I knew I had to rely on my faith and the miracle in God's existence. I would often start each prayer with the things God had done through me- he healed a young boy with insanity in Bayelsa and I was so sure God was going to heal my aunt. Worries would lead to prayers and most prayers ended in tears. I was breaking apart and I needed miracles. But Lagos' carefree attitude kills dreams, and my aunt became a statistic. God knows my faith suffered, so he had to reveal himself to me. I'm smiling again, but I'm struggling to find words to explain this.
Mansi left also, but this time it wasn't death. I owe a lot to her.
D
legs learning to dance.
I am meeting new people at random places in Lagos, learning to smile. Occasionally, I am on the Island dancing to pop songs that irk the nostalgia of the 80s. On weekdays, you'll find me behind a laptop making jokes with Chiamaka, telling Ini I can't wait to see her, and sending voice notes to Shalom that I miss her too, even though we haven't met. This is my new normal, working from home.
Everything around me is teaching me to dance, to exist, to breathe. Chiamaka calls often interrupt a boring day, Paul's messages say a lot about bro code. When the chaos and beauty of Flutterwave hits so hard, I escape into the streets of Lagos, living my life to the fullest.
E
postscript
Olaoluwa, Zainab, Cynthia, Jadesola, and Deborah deserve more than a mention too.
