by Tope Sadiq

Life can be challenging in the city of Lagos, the turns and whirls of everyday living can drain our funnier side of life but like any good song if you know the rhythm of the city and rhyme with it, then Lagos’ struggle doesn’t seem half bad!

It begins with cacophony, always.

The cocoon of silence is broken by the rhythms of a breaking day. The time is 5.07am and I begin my morning ritual of getting ready for another day in the city of Lagos.

5.32am, I’m done with my toilet and out the door. The sounds have morphed to chirps of birds and cautious vehicular movement; I need my early starts to avoid Lagos traffic and the draining numbness of it as my bread is buttered on Victoria Island.

I am at my desk by 6.40am.

Mrs. Da-Souza, my supervisor in my world of IT, usually arrives late but heralds the beginning of a full day’s job

Today, again, the NYSC damsel in the office (she works in graphics and hangs out with the developers) seems to have been giving me some very long looks, don’t know what they mean but she does have very white fangs!

Finally, close of business.

It’s 5.30pm. Mrs. Da-Souza has already left. Her need to pick her children or one other domestic chore always makes her leave before 4.00pm; precludes the rest of us from such luxury and exemptions.

I’m excited?! I’m heading to Freedom Hall for a fix of poetry, music or comedy and the timing of 7-10pm saves me from the harrowing traffic that clogs all motorways in this window. Life can be challenging in the city of Lagos, the turns and whirls of everyday living can drain our funnier side of life but like any good song if you know the rhythm of the city and rhyme with it, then Lagos’ struggle doesn’t seem half bad!

Wait a minute, that’s the damsel from my office. Here in Freedom Hall! She’s shepherding a gourd of palm wine; interesting to note. She hasn’t seen me.

Time is 8.44pm.

I’m going over to talk to her. I step behind her; I say hello; she turns; she smiles and time flew ….

It’s 10. 15pm. Freedom Hall ends on the dot of 10 and, like clockwork, every night closes with a prayer.  I’m heading home and the roads are free and I’m tired but fulfilled. I surf radio channels and reminisce on the evening; I thank God for another day.

It’s 10.46pm. I’m home, there isn’t power. The roar of my neighbour’s generator fouls the atmosphere. Reluctantly, I nullified it with mine.

It’s 11. 22pm. I am showered and in bed, flicking through news and music video channels. I fall asleep till my installed siren of PHCN power woke me. I get up and switch over and promptly fall back to sleep.

It’s another day, I wake up to my accustomed cacophony. In my nook of Lagos, the time is 5.07am.

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