The Fame Factor

  That's the thing about this city, it throbbed with life. A fast-paced and unashamedly colourful life. The life force of big cities. A life force that flowed... Or rather rushed into you, filling up your veins, shutting out every other background, filling you up with it's varied life. A life force that transformed you from whatever you were into something different, something wierd, a Lagosian. It didn't matter who you were or where you came from, Lagos transformed you, turned you into a fast-paced, fast-talking, fast everything Nigerian.

   The bus jerked for the umpteenth time, the beefy hands of the nearby guy, a drunk guy with a tattoo, shifted into my lap. I gently shift it away again, reminding myself that we only had a couple more miles till I get to my bus stop. I yawn tiredly, softly. I look at my watch, 8:30 pm. I yawn again. In Lagos, you didn't feel tired, till you were off work. It seems improbable, but it's true. You were up at 4:00 am to beat the impossible traffic, and when you got to work, you worked like a machine. You rested if you had time, but you never looked at the big wooden clock in the reception area every two seconds. We sometimes forgot that it was time to go, till the fat, jolly gate man came to "check on us". I roll my head around, feeling the fatigue now.

   The mother next to me unstraps her baby to feed, bumping my hand. "Oh my dear, sorry oh." I nod, smile. I don't mind. She sticks a worn-out looking breast in the eager childs mouth. As she reclines back, the evening sun cast revealing rays on her face. And I notice it for the first time. Her face. At first glance, it looks old, tired. But when you look closely, past the tired wrinkles, you see a baby's face. Unapologetically young and once innocent. Not too long ago, an innocent Lagos teenager playing in the rain. Now a mother, "Iya baby". I see the bags by her, she and her little one had probably spent almost all day at the market. Looking at her unsettles me, she is probably around the age of my younger sister. I shift my gaze beyond her, out the window she is leaning tiredly against, dozing off quietly.

   Eko at night was beautiful, breathtakingly beautiful. The city of a thousand lights, the city that never slept. Whenever I went back to my small town, I held my head high. I was a Lagos babe, a city girl. I boasted about the sites, the people, the places. Whenever I told one of my numerous Lagos stories, my mum laughed at me. "I thought you never liked big cities. Now look at you, Jael. Telling all these stories, like you were born there." I just join her to laugh it off. But, she is right. I never liked big cities. The traffic, the crowded streets, the never ending city routine, lack of natural life, strange people. I could never stand so much noise and bustle, or so I told myself. I worked better in a quiet place, with a simple life force. Streets you could stroll in without seriously clutching your bag, roads you could cross without thinking of "Left, right, left again".

 The bus lurches to a sudden stop. Alarmed, I look up quickly. And then, I relax. It's not my stop. A fat, elderly woman ambles out slowly. "Madam, you neva give me my money oh," the driver calls out impatiently. The old lady is slow, her hands shaking badly. As she gives him the money, the driver starts pouring insults on her. She, totally and surprisingly no-nonsense, goes at him with her own choice words. All the baddest words you'll ever hear, all in Yoruba, a language I'm not proficient in yet. As we speed off again with a massive jerk, everyone in the small bus grumbles at the young driver. This was Lagos. We jerk again. How did I get here? Me, a crusader against the fast-paced urban living, in a tight, bad smelling ( was that an onion smell? ) "danfo", with touchy drunks, too young mothers, rude drivers and cursing grandmothers. Me, a simple shy girl from a little town in Edo State, here in Lagos ( The great Eko ). What brought me here?

  The Fame factor. I relax on the hard bus chair, the bad smelling drunk now actively asleep. Yes, it was the fame factor that drew me in, lured me in. What that means is, I wanted to be known for what I do. Not necessarily to "blow" as they said, but just to get recognition, to work for the big guys. A simple life couldn't give me that. So, here I was trapped. Trapped shuttling through Lagos, in yellow danger cans, the Lagos Danfo. Death traps flying at break neck speed through Lagos, to the background music of Naira Marley, and reeking of street touts, alcohol and bad driving ( what can we do? )... I was trapped. Trapped into existing in this city like a refugee, a tiny apartment in Obalende, a shared bathroom and kitchen. An existence that I didn't even encounter in my father's house in Ekpoma, an existence I was forced to endure because housing in Lagos was more expensive than leaving the country. Landlords were haughty, "No be you wan stay Lag." So, I had to endure it and slave it out. Yes, working at a job I was unsuited for, awaiting my big break. It was the Lagos style. If you don't get what you want, you make do with whatever is at hand. And maybe if you work hard enough, you will eventually get to do what originally brought you. If not, "Any work na work".

  For me, making do with I had meant working as a PA to a someone very rich. You see, not all Lagosians had to endure this kind of pitiful existence I endured. Lagos was efficiently split into two, the people I spent most of my day serving and the ones I stayed with. The ones I served were the only people who could enjoy Lagos, and did. The 1% of the 1%. The Bling Lagosians. Eko Royalty. The Lagos Aristocracy. The people who stayed in the fancy buildings, rode the vintage cars, owned the expensive assets. The people with all the foreign surnames. Oh yes. All the Briggs, Hernandezes, Prestons, Craigs and Coles. The popular ones, the one who ruled the roost, who only had to snap their fingers to get what they wanted. The class of people my madam belonged to. Lola Adesanya Cole.

  All of a sudden, I'm back at work, back in my little chair at the end of the conference room, taking notes. I look at her, deeply engrossed in business talk, the tough-looking suit-wearing business men surrounding her, nodding briskly, awed by her intelligence. She, in her pink power suit ( she even makes pink look professional ), Flawless makeup and no-nonsense, unhurried air, commanding easily. Impressively schooled at one of the most prestigious high schools in the country, from there to Harvard Business, then Stanford. Majoring in Business Management and Advertising. C.E.O of her own firm, Lala Brands. I come back to the bus, with another bump. I yawn. Lagos belonged to those ones, who sat on top of board meetings in plush chairs in heavy skyscraper-like buildings, playing around with words that could give a serious heart attack to a poor man. Anyway, my own there is to earn my salary and find my own way. I look out, the lights have dimmed into local house lights. I'm almost home.

  I alight quickly at my stop, I didn't have the strength for insults. As the danfo rattles off, I cross myself. I have survived another day in Lagos. I turn and head home. The streets smell nice. The fat "Akara" woman, heavily surrounded, doling out sumptuous paper wrapped bean cakes. Her little girl collects the money, sharp and smart. The "Bole" woman doesn't compete, she has her own crowded share of customers. The plantains turning a beautiful brown on the local grill, sending out nice scents that follow you, almost into your own home. The "Suya" man near my house, gists with his customers, as they throw sweet looking little pieces of the meat delights into their mouths. I enter my compound smiling. I don't know how I came to enjoy all this, but I do. With an almost guilty pleasure.

  That's the thing about this city. It sucks you in. Your life, aspirations, goals, dreams. It was like being thrown into a vast, deep ocean with no experience in swimming and no afterthought. You start plunging down rapidly down to the bottom in panic, trying to stay afloat. But despite all you do, all your efforts, the water keeps robbing you of your strength, your virility, your youth, until finally you give up the struggle. Maybe because you notice that the water will always overwhelm you ( it is stronger ), but most probably out of exhaustion, tired of trying, tired of struggling. Eko was like that, that vast body of water. It ebbed and flowed with a forceful sort of rhythm, fast-paced and dangerous. You couldn't keep up with it, no matter how hard you tried. It kept tossing you here and there, pushing you to the side and off again. It made you smile in ecstasy and made you cry in pure frustration. It was like a marijuana high, but you didn't get off. Riding it's tough waves, like a rollercoaster. It was Eko. The Great Eko. Like that amazing giant "Iroko" in the forest that draws all the birds and animals to itself, flourishing and standing tall, time after time. It was my Eko. I drop on my small bed, and succumb to tired sleep. A smile of contentment on my face.

   * There is a small use of the Nigerian Pidgin English.