My Journey to the City of Lagos

I went to bed late thinking of how I would tell my boss that the Academic Head would be absent from work the following day. I had told her before but a reminder seemed like an impossible mountain to climb. She had called me angrily via her phone earlier in the evening. She was upset about a fellow teacher that had gone to Lagos without making sure his duties had no loopholes. The mere mention of LAGOS to her could stir up more chaos, it was wisdom to swallow the reminder within waiting for the dawn of a new day to birth an idea, and so I slept praying for wisdom.

A few minutes past six Ebere called, she was the cousin of the bride.

“Hello!”

“Good morning Mr Mathew, I am ready to go, where should we meet?” she asked.

“Good morning Ebere! Madam was angry yesterday about Mr Eugene’s journey to Lagos. Can you wait a little while? Let me rush to school and put things in order, I will be ready in a few minutes past seven.” I replied.

Ebere insisted she would come to school. I hurriedly packed my bags and left for work. It was a five minutes walk to school at normal speed, but in less than three minutes, I was writing my name in the signing book, not too long Ebere was with me. I made sure everything was in order and so did Ebere, we greeted our colleagues and left for the park.

AT THE PARK

Ebere and I sat on the bus, we had our tickets with us, and wrote our names in the manifesto. This was not my first time going to Lagos from Benin, but it was my first as an adult. I remembered the places I had been to as a child in Lagos: Maryland, Mile 12, Ojota Park, and my childhood Lagosian friend, Baby Joe. I have heard of the terrible traffic in Lagos, the homelessness and various vices. “Well, it’s only for a couple of days,” I thought.

“Give me your ticket, give me your ticket!” the bus driver shouted.

“You give me ticket?” the young man protested.

I looked at the rugged-looking young man. Although I knew better not to judge a book by its cover, I had decided in my mind that this one could possibly be up to no good. “It is better if he does not enter into this bus,” I told Ebere. She smiled and looked at him. After the argument with the driver, Mr rugged book cover was seated in my front and we were ready to go. I took my phone out and sent a message to my boss. My phone ranged as the ticking second(s) hand of the clock, each time I was attending to issues from work, sending messages and calling. I was mentally at work although my body sat in a bus going to Lagos.

We had left Ore, we were in Ogun State and had to battle four hours of traffic jams at Sagamu. From two to six was no joke, busy me told some jokes, we chatted and had fun, we spoke about the inflation in the country, the effects of the economy on both youths and old, married and unmarried. Alas everyone followed the biblical instruction of “To thy tents oh Israel” when we eventually prevailed against the traffic jam battle. It was past six and we stopped at Berger and so did ticket boy. Ebere’s cousin had warned her to hold her phone cautiously because of theft, I had listened as if I was the original receiver of the information. I held the message dear to my heart and mind, making sure it re-echoed continuously in my subconscious. My first adult steps on Lagos soil were unforgettable, everyone was running as if they were in a Marathon. The skits I had watched on YouTube were an IRL activity before my eyes, from the voice of the conductors to the behaviour of the crowd, I knew I was no longer in Benin.

“We are going to Abule-Egba, can you please help us?” Ebere asked Ticket boy.

“Yes, that is exactly where I am going too,” he replied.

“Could this man be trusted? Well, I have no choice,” I thought.

“Taking a direct bus to Abule-Egba is not advisable because of traffic, let us go to Agege and then from Agege to Abule-Egba,” counselled Ticket boy.

We agreed to follow him, all this time my hand surrounded my phone like a serpent, as I walked, I saw everyone as a potential phone thief, those behind, in front, and beside me. I looked at both old and young. “They are all after me, and ticket boy is leading us to an impending doom,” I thought.

I thought about Ifesinachi, the bridegroom, and my BSc and MSc course mates who will be at the wedding. The reunion I had envisaged in my mind, getting there will be a miracle, even if ticket boy is authentic, we may get there very late, I imagined.

We crossed and stood waiting for a bus going to Agege.

“Why are they all running into the bus?” I asked ticket boy.

“E be like say you wan sleep for here,” he replied.

He did not have to tell me twice, I had positioned myself in an AT YOUR MARK, GET SET position for any Agege bus I see next. Sleeping in that kind of terrible strange place was a big no for me. Not too long, a bus came. Three of us ran into the bus and sat down. The passengers were all speaking Yoruba, I concluded in my mind that I would learn the language if I should stay in Lagos in future.

We came down at Agege and I closely followed Ebere as she closely followed Ticket boy (Ebere had stayed in Lagos in the past, she even advised me on how to speak in a vehicle so that I would not be tagged as a JJC- Johnny Just Come). I lost sight of Ebere twice but eventually found her and ticket boy. Ticket boy decided to go in another direction and singlehandedly stopped a tricycle going to Abule-Egba for us.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Yemi!” he replied.

“Thank you very much, Yemi!” I said.

I told Ebere to collect his phone number and we entered into the tricycle. The driver stopped us at Charity Junction and the rest was easy from there. Ticket boy was my saviour. So I resorted to NEVER EVER judge a book by its cover, this was what I believed until I saw Ticket boy, but after I read the contents of this book, I reclaimed what I first believed.

Yes, people are complicated, some are phone thieves and will pounce on JJCs but there is good in people, it may be an iota, but I have learnt to focus on the good in people.

HAPPY MARRIED LIFE IFESINACH!