I was born and baked in Lagos. My family’s Lagos story began in 1945 when my grandfather, a police officer, was transferred to Lagos. Nearly every member of my paternal family has called Campbell Street in Lagos Island, home. We’ve had front-row seats and sometimes backstage passes, to the ever-evolving drama of this megacity. One of us even became the chief of a well-known Lagos family house.
I earned my Lagos badge the gritty way: inhaled the pungent mix from clogged gutters, sang praises with scourges of mosquitoes, devoured asáró, Ewa Agayin and Agege “buredi” from street vendors, and played barefoot “monkey post” football in alleys. I watched from the sidelines at Campos Mini Stadium and witnessed the last of the “Agbepo” night-soil men on their ghostly rounds.
These lived experiences fascinated me and made me curious about how a megacity functions. What does it take to govern a place like Lagos? That curiosity deepened during my postgraduate studies when I audited a course titled “New York City Politics.” Then, I understood how cities use policy, planning, and emerging technologies to shape more livable urban environments. Courses like Leadership & Strategy by Doug Muzzio and Mapping for Policy by Deborah Balk were also central to my learning.
Tag Archives: Lagos
ON MY LOST PHONE MATTER
On the 11th of November, my phone was stolen at a restaurant in Lagos. This is a brief audio narration of what happened and how I recovered the phone.
TAKE BACK YOUR HUMANITY
I woke up on the morning of Easter Monday, floating back to earthly life from deep thoughts on unspoken matters. I had just been re-energised by simple meditations on beautiful and uncomplicated things, inspiring my heart with a positive outlook to life. My mind was on fire with all the songs I had just finished singing from the previous nights’ concert, and I still could literally feel the bellows of the Church organ resonating in my bowels. Still longing for my bed, I had to wake early to go see my sister, whose birthday it was. I didn’t mind. My legs were tired, but my mind was alive.
Spoiler Alert!
I’m usually alert to spoilers, but not on this morning. I was revelling in unguarded pleasantness, until I scanned through my Twitter feed. Usually, I search specifically for informative content, particularly from individuals who have a history of tweeting articles and following it up with a great conversation. Sadly, my feed was plastered with commentaries on a recent statement made by a traditional ruler, which set Nigeria’s Tweetosphere ablaze. So many tweets were flying around the subject matter that I had to carefully trace what exactly prompted all the vitriol. Unfortunately I followed the Rabbit trail (all in a few minutes of siting in the car waiting for my sister) and realised later that I had squeezed out almost every ounce of joy in my heart.
How did that happen? While I sat there amazed at how people turned on each other over someone else’ comment, I was ignorant of how the bile had seeped into my mind and cast a dark showdown over my thoughts. I was now thinking on how this might spark electoral violence, ethnic rivalry, and a series of unfortunate events in Lagos. By the time I arrived at the local Catholic church with my sister for the Mass, I was a different man. I had lost the sense of the beautiful I woke up with. I sat in church contemplating Nigeria’s troubles, rather than enjoy the strange art of worship I wasn’t used to. I had just swallowed the bitter pill that online social media serves us daily.
Thoughts of a Calabarboy. 