It's the Life We've Got

That’s the thing about this city, it's the gradual way the unceasing hustle and bustle creeps up on you, and becomes a norm of your life before you even notice. It's Ikorodu, Lagos: the most popular and populous city residing in the commercial hub of the nation of Nigeria.

With the brief illustration given, you could probably glean that the most defining thing about the city is its markets. The act of trading is an undeniably oversaturated venture, yet still prosperous enough to keep steadily growing with more and more breaking into the business by the day. Every street, every corner, every alley, there's a shop strategically and desperately set up to capitalize on the arbitrary whim of a passer-by to suddenly purchase some item. Whether a glamorous well furnished store with polished walls and glossy paint, or a precariously erected shack of rotted wood, there's never a shortage of sales points.

You might happen upon the central market square in Ikorodu called, 'Garage,' which despite what the name might imply, is not a location serving as a parking space for vehicles. It is in fact an ironic title given that the presence of vehicles is comparatively minimal, far outweighed by the sheer mass of people unceasingly milling about said space. You can get virtually anything there, no matter how obscure you might imagine it to be. There's always a place for it and a person willing to sell.

But just because there's a bountiful number of sales stalls spanning the perimeter, be under no delusion that shopping is by any means a simple activity. When there; you'll flit from stall to stall, bargaining for better prices and quality for your items, feeling increasingly restless and dissatisfied until you might miraculously reach the exact standard of product you're wishing for.

You'll walk, trudging tirelessly through the sandiness of untarred broken roads that twist and turn, winding every which way. The everlastingly hot sun, characteristic to the region, is a constant harsh weather condition you will never become truly accustomed to, but will nevertheless be forced to adjust to and gradually build a tolerance towards. Your once perfectly kept hair - braided, brushed or otherwise - will inevitably succumb to the torrid temperature, turning bristly and brittle in the dry dusty air. And if you absentmindedly run a sweaty palm over it, you might feel an almost static shock buzzing over its surface courtesy of the oppressive heat. The roots of your hair will further simmer in the sweat of your scalp, with rivulets of the salty fluid liberally dripping down your face from the cavern of humidity atop your head. There's no respite from the cursed perspiration still collecting unfortunately under your collar, armpits, across your brow, the small of your back, and even around the width of your waist. The scorching sun is determined, and cannot be dissuaded from its sadistic mission to slowly bake you alive.

You'll be further assaulted with a cornucopia of unsavoury smells too as you amble along, smells made all the more potent under the sweltering heat of the environment. You don't need to possess a particularly refined olfactory sense to be able to pinpoint the source of the various odours wafting through to your nostrils. There's the smell of raw meats still dripping blood, and fish too, whether uncooked and smoked - both concentrated unmistakable smells tainting the air. You'll take in the earthy smells of vegetables and fruits in carts manned by salespersons with sallow sullen faces, having had to resort to displaying their items on the easy-to-move transport system of wheelbarrows, for better mobility and visibility among the throng of people relentlessly moving about. You might keep walking by, perusing pile after pile of other perishable produce allowed to go slightly putrid but still prettied up to a passable point for sale. And you would look to your sides, seeing waste piled high in heaps, with the expected accompanying reek of the fetid fluids seeping out, consequent of an accelerated decomposition after being subject to the constant heat. On either side of the path are crudely constructed gutters left uncovered, with flies basking in the stench of the stagnant rank water. And sometimes, you might also take in the sharp acrid note of some unfortunate mechanical malfunction - the whiff of something unpleasantly electrical like naked wires or plastic burning. The crown jewel of the horrible smells however will still remain the unfortunately highly perceptible odour of unwashed bodies tightly packed together in a space far too small for all.

You'll walk past children with prematurely aged faces, a permissible resentfulness splayed across their features considering their circumstances. Atop their heads would be whichever ware they were hawking for the day. And their semi-tattered clothes hanging off their starved frames would flap limply in the breeze as they brushed past you, walking briskly by in a bid to complete their clear mission to coax as many into purchasing from them. You wouldn't be able to help but feel empathy well up inside you; it's a near instinctive emotion of any functional being when regarding the unfortunate plights of others.

And the accompanying noise would make it all very hard to think; the rumble of voices, from sellers loudly proclaiming their wares - some with the aid of megaphones to be all the more noisier, and others simply relying on their powerful throaty voices to carry across the din - to the people muttering to themselves as they stride past, and even to the livestock loudly clucking and lowing away in their exhibited cages. Sometimes, you might even hear the voices right by your ears, as overzealous sellers try to forcibly shepherd you to their stores, operating under the not completely erroneous belief that if they could somehow get you to their stands or stores, you would feel pressured into patronizing them. You'd hear a desperate pretence at familiarity and congeniality, accompanied by an address with familial titles, ranging between, 'Mommy,' 'Sister,' 'Auntie,' 'Uncle,' 'Brother,' and even 'Daddy' sometimes for the aged men.

The whole environment is generally unbearably tumultuous, countless shacks lining either side of the already constrained lane, leaving little room for manoeuvring of both the people and the vehicles still squeezing past in the limited space. There's no possibility of moving so effortlessly, and the more you buy, the less unencumbered you get. Therefore, it's extremely pertinent to check carefully before crossing the road, looking first to one side, then the other, and repeating the action before any attempt. It seems surprising that for a place with such few vehicles, one need worry so much about the chance of a vehicular accident. Less vehicles, less issues, you might expect. It's completely contradictory though; the vehicles are seemingly emboldened by the lack of challengers, and the ones present tend to move about carelessly, endangering the people about in their recklessness. You might not even have time to properly process it before you hear the warning beep or blare of a horn as a driver cuts through suddenly and assertively through the throng. Like a divining rod come to part the sea of people. Its presence is often unexpected, swerving through the people with careless navigation borne from an unhealthy confidence, and forcing people to hastily sidestep it with practised ease, the sort of ease or normality from facing such situations several times before.

And now an entire exposé has been given on the market situation of Ikorodu. But what about the other fields that are no less saturated than the trading sector, also prominently playing across the landscape? Because Nigerians are notorious for co-opting other ideas and stamping a false seal of originality upon their own ventures. And so a field quickly becomes dense with copycats, once again adopting the negative ideology of quantity over quality.

The answer to these other oversaturated fields are the schools, the churches, the restaurants, that fill up almost every available space in the city. Churches especially pop up seemingly by the second and it is little surprise as the nation of Nigeria is one known for its highly religious population, with majority either within Chriatianity or Islam, and others involved in tribal worship. To an extremely lesser degree, there are other faiths but none that command anywhere near the level of visibility that these mentioned major ones do.

Frankly speaking, you will find that the religious places of worship have majorly descended into primarily commercial ventures, as opposed to their actual purposes for moral and spiritual upliftment. And they also tend to be extremely noisy, chanting and singing at any hour its congregation pleases. Noise complaints are never taken seriously by the already ineffectual police force, and religious places take full advantage. You might wake up irritable and unrested early in the morning, or even from a midday nap or night doze, having been unwillingly brought to consciousness by the blare of a megaphone as either a pastor or imam takes the time to launch into a recitation of prayers and praise. It's especially undesirable for the early work goers, the crack of dawn being a popular start of work time for some in Lagos.

All in all, the city of Ikorodu takes some getting used to. It's not the best, it's not the worst; it's just the life we've got.