Chinedu’s car sinks into another pot hole as he deftly maneuvers his way through Glover Road heading toward Cameron Road. I am on the hunt for fresh vegetables and we are looking for a new supermarket that just opened its doors in Ikoyi. In a perfect world, our trip should have taken about 5 minutes. But alas, we are in Lagos and perfection is an anomaly in this city, so the trip ends up taking 20 minutes because of the atrocious roads, impatient drivers, traffic lights with unending wait times and a slew of other obstacles.

On a particularly bad road, I look to my left and see an impressive, towering block of serviced apartments – all currently lived in judging by the lawn chairs, parked cars and opened curtains – and I call Chinedu’s attention to the irony. Serviced apartments in Ikoyi usually start 1 million Naira, and for all the luxury and ease they provide, I can’t help but wonder how the residents drive on this road without any resolve to make some kind of change. If 20 residents decided to each chip in some money into developing the roads on their street, surely some difference could be made? But then again, I consider the fact that getting anything done in Lagos is a chore. You have to jump through countless hoops, grease a few palms and throw your moral compass out of the window. Perhaps the residents are too stressed by their jobs to worry about the potholes outside their gated shelter.

One week home and I cannot help but think about the 7 years I spent in New York; the first 6 years in quiet Long Island and the last year spent in bustling Queens. I think about the spacious LIRR train rides I embarked on when I left my Long Island home for a night out in raucous Manhattan. I think about the crowded 7 train during rush hour on the way to work and on the way back to Flushing, Queens. I think about the dirty subway tracks, the homeless men who slept in subway cars, the artists who sang, danced and played for money on the train, the loud screeching sounds when the subway pulled up and how hot the platform got dangerously hot at the start of summer.

One week home and I don’t miss commuting 45 minutes into Manhattan, sandwiched between two unsmiling men or seated next to a wriggling child. I don’t miss the rush, the noise, the dirt, the bagel stands, the cold office, the brutal winters and the balmy summers.

One week home and Lagos is still Lagos.

Prior to my arrival a week ago, I hadn’t been to Lagos in three years. It wasn’t on purpose – I missed Lagos in those three years – but my Masters program was hectic and I simply did not have time to spend three weeks staring out of my bedroom window or shuffling into overcrowded night clubs during the populated Christmas season. Three years away from Lagos and nothing significant had happened. A number of restaurants, clubs and lounges had opened to feed and pamper the privileged  and leave the proletariat wanting, but I still pass by dilapidated buildings, houses and banks in need of dire renovations. Falomo bridge is still Falomo Bridge. Awolowo Road is still thick with traffic. The fuel scarcity still rages on – the fuel lines snaking so far back, I have to stretch my neck to get a glimpse of stationery cars waiting their turn. The car horns are still loud – maybe even louder since I have been back home. There are still two sides to Ikoyi – The one side with the beautiful houses and terrible roads, and the other side with the terrible roads and the decaying buildings where tenants hang their laundry on their balconies while they hustle to work on the other side of the Island. Ikoyi still reeks of too much money and hypocrisy.

One week home and the sun rises with vengeance. I miss the rains that terrorized us while I was still in New York and a few days into my arrival home. The rains provided a cool breeze that we so desperately need everyday in Lagos. The heat threatens to drain every bit of sweat from my body and I strongly believe it is the number one reason why drivers, especially the ones who drive with their windows down because they are trying to conserve fuel, are so impatient on the roads.

One week home and people are oddly discouraging about my decision to move back for NYSC. On one hand, they cannot stop themselves from emphasizing how desperately I need my NYSC to work in Nigeria, but on the other hand, they shake their heads sympathetically and wish me luck at camp in the most patronizing voices – as if I am too fragile to handle anything that threatens my peace of mind. Make up your mind people.

One week home and I know I must learn how to drive. I know I must overcome my fear of Lagos roads and find a way to move myself around. My family admonishes me everyday, hounding on me to find a driving school and be some kind of useful, not for their sanity, but for mine.

One week home and my writer’s block pushes against my brain.

One week home and I find myself struggling not to complain about Lagos, but I made a promise to go through the year without posting one complaint on social media. I cannot complain about the man who winked at me in traffic or the man who stopped me while I was walking home, aggressively asking me to pull out my phone so he could give me his number. I cannot complain about the reckless Molue drivers and how everyone frowns at you when you approach them with a question. I cannot complain about the over-saturated job market and the too expensive gyms.

One week home and I am happy, sated but still wary. Lagos is a pleasant dream some days, but most days, it is a nightmare pulling you into a restless sleep, forcing you awake and then softly pulling you back down again for a few more hours of tossing and turning.

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Koromone Koroye is writer for Mashable.com, she is also a spoken word poet, and you can hit her up on Twitter.

Op-ed pieces and contributions are the opinions of the writers only and do not represent the opinions of Y!/YNaija.