Thomas Finds Lagos Life Chaotic, Confused and Stressful

20 Feb Thomas Finds Lagos Life Chaotic, Confused and Stressful

Thomas was awakened by the grating sound of the green metal door. He had slept through the night. The officers had returned. The tall one called out his name.

“Go,” Kenny said from his throne, lord of this filthy kingdom.

Go?

Thomas was too frightened to move. The tall officer eyed him, and Thomas forced himself to stand and walk over to them. After he passed through the doorway, they tied his hands behind his back. Thomas was so scared he could not even feel the effects of yesterday’s beatings.

As they marched him down the hall, he heard their boots as he had heard them just before the three men had been shot.

Beads of sweat dripped from Thomas’s clean-shaven head, swimming into the streams of tears flowing down his cheeks. His breath sounded as loud as a bellows.

They forced him from the corridor into a room. He lowered his head, about to say a prayer, when he heard his name.

“Thomas Katta?” the voice demanded.

Thomas glanced around, trying to identify the man who had spoken his name so loudly. The room was shabby and shadowy, furnished with nothing more than a counter. Behind it stood a man in an official uniform, shielded by a pane of bullet-proof glass.

“Thomas Katta?” the uniformed man said once more.

Thomas nodded.

“The Deputy Superintendent of Police has dropped all charges against you.”

Thomas’s mouth fell open in surprise. “Really?”

The man behind the counter seemed indifferent to Thomas’s relief. His utter lack of interest suggested that he had seen so many unfortunates like Thomas that they were all one and the same to him.

“A local council cleaner found this bag on a city dump.” He reached behind the counter, retrieved Thomas’s battered bag, and pushed it through the small opening in the glass. “It contained some papers that identified it as yours.”

Thomas rummaged through the bag, relieved to discover that the thief apparently had no use for his teaching credentials or any of his other personal papers.

“The DSP immediately concluded that you could not have stolen your own bag,” the uniformed man stated flatly. “You are now free to go.” He shoved Thomas’s clothes through the small window, and then pushed through a five hundred-naira note. “The DSP has authorised you to receive bus fare and some food for your trouble.”

Bus fare hardly compensated for everything that Thomas had endured, but it was better than nothing, and it would allow him to continue on his journey to Ajegunle. He quickly threw on his clothes, which still displayed the tears and bloodstains from the beating, and shoved the money into his pocket. The sense of vindication energised his body. Perhaps life can be fair sometimes.

Thomas suddenly had no difficulty walking alongside the policeman as he was escorted out of the police station.

The morning sky was cloudy and bleak, but for Thomas the day looked beautiful and glorious. He drew in a breath of fresh morning air, inhaling as deeply as his battered ribcage would allow, and exhaled slowly. The many aches and pains now struck him as nothing more than minor inconveniences.

As he wandered onto the pavement, Thomas realised that he needed to concoct a plan for surviving his second day in Lagos. Before the angry mob assaulted him, Thomas had planned to take a bus to Ajegunle to meet up with his old friend from university days, Mani Datatta. Mani had studied Fine Arts and had since found gainful employment at a Lagos advertising agency. He also played his guitar in clubs at night. Thomas had arranged to stay with Mani while he searched for a job. Once he had established himself, Thomas hoped to find his own place.

As a child, he often envisioned that someday he would become hugely successful. When he did he would buy his family a big, fancy house, similar to the ones that belonged to the rich entrepreneurs or famous celebrities that he had seen in so many newspaper photographs. At the moment, however, such an extravagant purchase was beyond comprehension. He had always believed that every day gave him a chance to start a new life. Unfortunately, on this particular day he was starting with next to nothing.

With his torn bag over his shoulder, Thomas ventured back onto the streets. The sun had just risen, and the daylight managed to tame the furious city, at least a little bit. Thomas was surprised to find that he did not feel nearly as intimidated by Lagos as he had been when he’d first arrived. Then he realised that it was because he no longer carried anything of value. With his battered appearance and torn, dirty clothing, even the hard-looking men on the street had little interest in him.

He certainly did not appear to be a well-educated young man hoping to find his fortune amongst the urban elite. And his disguise felt strangely comforting, granting him a sense of anonymity.

From one of the many people hawking mobile phone services under giant umbrellas, he finagled a call to Mani and asked him to wait at a bus terminal in Ajegunle. Then as he walked through Oshodi, Thomas suddenly developed a sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach. It overcame him so quickly that he had to lean against the back of a kiosk. For a moment, he was sure he would vomit right there on the pavement.

He looked around and saw that he was standing just yards from the very spot where his nightmare had begun. His eyes had glanced upon his own bloodstains, splattered on the concrete, the result of the angry mob kicking, punching, and beating him until he was nearly dead. Although he still felt nauseous, his legs carried him quickly out of the area.

At the bus station, Thomas squeezed through a crowd toward the bus, or the molue as they were called, that would take him to Mani.

As he boarded, he uttered a short prayer under his breath, hoping that the battered vehicle would make it all the way to its destination. The molue did not appear to be well-maintained, but neither did any of the other buses coming or going from the terminal. The yellow paint on the outside of all the vehicles was scratched and faded, and the frames and bumpers displayed many dents. The tyres had worn treads, and some were completely bald. The molues, like many of the people — like Thomas himself — had been scarred by the chaos of Lagos.

As the bus navigated the teeming city, Thomas sat back and watched the buildings, the people, and the rest of the scenery shift slowly past his window. This was the first day since he had left Moso, and the first moment since he had arrived in Lagos, that he actually felt relaxed. He no longer felt the need to clutch his bag against his body. It made no difference anyway. As he had already learned the hard way, if a thug wanted his bag, Thomas could do nothing to stop him from taking it.

The driver eased the molue through Oshodi and edged it onto the Apapa-Oshodi Expressway. Thomas leaned forward to take in the view. He had seen photographs of this area before, but he had never ridden on an expansive dual-carriage freeway. Compared to the rural roads back in Moso, and even the busier urban streets of Ife, this was like suddenly entering the modern world.

Cars weaved back and forth between the lanes, zipping past the big yellow bus as if it were standing still. The landscape also became more interesting as the miles passed. The houses and business structures along the route displayed contemporary architectural designs with angular shapes and large windows filled with vivid reflections.

When the molue reached the Mile 2 area of Lagos, Thomas could not help but flinch. The openness of the landscape had dissolved and, once more, he found himself in dense city congestion. Car horns blared and foul-smelling smoke blasted out of the never-ending line of exhaust pipes, kindling a fierce headache. The bus became mired in gridlock, and the passengers were quickly preyed upon by relentless street hawkers. They pounded on the windows and waved their goods in the air. Thomas slid as far away from the window as he could, and avoided making eye contact with anyone.

The bus remained trapped in traffic for about thirty minutes, but, to Thomas, it felt like an eternity. His head throbbed, his ears rang, and the feelings of anxiety that had accosted him when he first arrived in Lagos returned in full.

When the bus finally lurched forward, Thomas closed his eyes and tried to relax. As far as he was concerned, the bus could not leave Mile 2 fast enough.

Unfortunately, the scenery outside the window became even more repulsive as the molue made its way into Ajegunle, home to more than three million people. With most of the inhabitants living well below the poverty level, Ajegunle had become infamous as the largest and most dangerous slum in Lagos.

Thomas had been warned that Ajegunle was a place where smart people watched their backs. Even smarter people got out of there as fast as they could. Despite the fact that the area was associated with crime, hardship, and destitution, its name ironically translated as ‘Residence of Wealth’ or ‘Land of Commerce’. Because of the millions of rundown shanties, bad roads, and poor sanitation, in Nigerian culture the word Ajegunle had also evolved into a slang term meaning ‘grinding poverty’.

The only people from Ajegunle known for achieving any amount of wealth or productive commerce were the young men and women who managed to develop successful careers as footballers or musicians. And even they were forced to leave there to pursue their talents. Few ever returned.

Most of the young people who remained in Ajegunle found themselves consumed by social vices, including drug-running and prostitution. They saw these crimes as their only means to buy a few days’ worth of food and clothing — and their only hope of breaking out of Ajegunle for good.

Thomas looked at the foul environment and wondered if he was crazy. He had actually left home to travel to an area that most Nigerians were desperate to avoid or escape.

When the molue finally pulled into the New Road bus stop at Ajegunle, Thomas bit his lip, closed his eyes, and prayed. This looked as bad, if not even more dangerous, than Oshodi. At least this time he would not be facing the hazards of the city completely alone.

He looked out of the window and spotted Mani sitting on a bench. His legs were stretched out in front of him, head thrown back, and his arms were folded across his chest. He looked frazzled and exhausted.

Thomas tossed the strap of his travel-worn duffel bag over his shoulder and shuffled out of the door with the other passengers. As soon as he broke free of them, he gingerly jogged over to meet his old schoolmate. After all he had been through in the past twenty-four hours, he was ecstatic to see a friendly face.

But Mani was fast asleep on the bench. The small shed, which served as the bus stop, had been taken over by hawkers and two ladies roasting yam. The cracked floor was covered with litter and the stench of urine from behind the shed was choking.

Thomas gave Mani a playful shove on the arm.

“C’mon, Mani,” he prodded with a laugh. “The sun has risen and a new day has dawned.”

Mani’s eyes immediately popped wide open, as if he had been jolted out of a trance, and his body lurched forward. “Damn!” he yelped.

Thomas let out another laugh. “I can’t believe you were actually asleep in a bus terminal in Ajegunle. You are either wickedly drunk or just downright mad.”

It took Mani a few more moments to truly wake up. He rubbed the crust out of his eyes and blinked a few times. “I will explain. I am also a musician.”

“You have always loved music. I’m so happy for you.”

Mani yawned. “Thanks,” he said as his eyes landed on the cuts and bruises on his friend’s face. “What the hell happened to you?”

Thomas had been so relieved to finally see his old schoolmate that he had completely forgotten about the injuries that covered his body. “Oh,” he said as he patted the bruise alongside his left eye. “I ran into some trouble in Oshodi.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Mani cracked.

“I suppose, but does everyone get accused of stealing their own property?”

Mani’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean?”

Thomas recounted every moment he could recall, from jumping off the bus in Oshodi to the final step off the bus in Ajegunle. Mani listened with fascination. Even though Thomas’s story included moments of great pain, fear, and trepidation, Mani could not help but smirk as he spoke. Irony and humour were better than bandages for some wounds.

Mani pulled himself up off the bench and stretched his legs, shaking his head at Thomas’s misfortune. “I’m sorry this happened to you,” he said quietly. “It’s terrible and completely unfair. I’m not surprised, though. That’s the way it is in this city. I’m sure the thief saw you coming blocks away. As for the police, it was much easier for them to arrest you on the spot than it was for them to chase down the actual criminal. There are so many crimes in Lagos that the police can’t keep up with them all. I often wonder if they even have any desire to do so. In many ways, the officers are like everyone else in the city. Many of them take the job not because they have a yearning for law enforcement, but because they need the work and it offers suitable pay. I suppose I can’t blame them for that, but it doesn’t give them the right to harass innocent people: especially when there are plenty of guilty people around for them to hassle.”

Mani reached down and picked up Thomas’s bag. “Let me carry that for you,” he offered. “You’ve taken on enough weight for the time being.”

Thomas smiled. “Thank you, my friend. You’re a sight for sore eyes…and sore ribs and sore hands, and sore everything else.”

They both laughed.  Mani leaned over and gave Thomas a hug, careful not to hurt him.

“I’m glad you finally made it here, Thomas.”

“Me too.”

Mani and Thomas began walking.

“You’re lucky this is Wednesday,” Mani stated. “It’s my only day off. If it were any other day, I would have to be at work right now, and you would’ve had to trek through Ajegunle to my place by yourself. With no town planning, this ghetto is like a maze.”

Thomas blew out a deep sigh. “That qualifies as the luckiest thing that has happened to me so far,” he said. “Believe me, Mani, I can’t thank you enough for waiting for me. I don’t know if I would’ve ever made it to your place in one piece. Is this the route you usually take home?”

“No,” Mani answered. “My place is down the other way. We need to stop somewhere first.”

“Where?”

Mani laughed. “At the private clinic. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you are in dire need of medical attention.”

The waiting room was packed with patients, including many elderly people and quite a few parents with small children.

“I think I’m all right, Mani,” Thomas insisted. “These people need a doctor much more than I do.”

“I really think you should have a physical, Thomas. You never know what kind of problems might be brewing. You could come back to my place and start coughing up blood, and I wouldn’t be able to help you. We’re here anyway, so let’s just wait.”

Almost an hour passed before Thomas saw a doctor. During that time he and Mani took the chance to catch up with each other. They talked about what they had done since leaving the university, and Mani told stories about the women he had met over the years. Thomas had a feeling that some of the stories were greatly embellished, if not outright lies, but they were fun to hear anyway. They took his mind off his horrific night in the holding cell, and his uncertain future in this large, strange, dangerous, and impersonal city.

When Thomas finally saw the doctor, a blood culture was taken and he was examined quickly. After listening to his heart and lungs, and then checking his blood pressure, the doctor said that Thomas’s vital signs were all good. He wrapped a bandage around his bruised ribs, provided him with a prescription painkiller, and sent him on his way, no questions asked regarding the cause of his injuries.

They walked quietly down streets lined with shacks and people hawking their meagre belongings. All the drainage ditches were blocked from the previous day’s rain, and the sewage had overflowed into houses and across streets that were thick with sludge, sacks, scraps of clothing, and plastic bags. The stench and grim surroundings made Thomas wonder whether he should have ever left home.

“The usual life in Lagos can best be described as chaotic, confused, and stressful,” Mani broke the silence in a serious tone. “Poor people just like you and me travel here from all over Nigeria, as well as from other African countries. They pour into the city with the belief that it is the land of vast opportunity. They wear their hopes and dreams right on their sleeves. As soon as they arrive, they are met by gangs, thugs, and wayward youths who threaten to kill them if they don’t relinquish their valuables. Sure, these travellers don’t have much, but anything is valuable to the thieves. It’s impossible for any of these people to enter a public place without being harassed by street urchins. We call them ‘Area Boys’, and they certainly manage to take over the entire area.”

“I saw many of them in Oshodi,” Thomas cut in.

“It is said that only one person in twenty actually secures regular work, but from what I see, it may be less than that. For those who do work, many different kinds of predators lurk around every conceivable corner. People who want their jobs are willing to kill them to create an opportunity. People in need of money, and that’s almost everyone, will learn when the working people receive their pay cheques and then follow them to the bank to accost them after they’ve cashed them.” Mani paused to jump a pool of water on the street.

“I, myself, have come up with many creative ways to ensure that no one follows me to the bank. To top it all off, the more money one has, the more likely he will be the target of extortion. One way or another, the thugs will learn something about someone and find a way to use it against them.”

Thomas shook his head in disbelief. “If you’re trying to make me feel welcome Mani, you are failing miserably.”

Mani patted him gently on the back. “I’m just being honest with you, Thomas,” he said. “There are opportunities here, but they are often hidden, and one must manoeuvre around a land full of mines to find them.”

Is this what I really want to do?  Walk through a minefield?

Beatings, extortion, muggings and murder. Jobs as scarce as hope.  Lagos was turning into a horror, and Thomas had spent less than twenty-four hours in its brutal embrace.

Even with Mani by his side, he felt more vulnerable than ever.