The other day, I dreamt of a ceiling with a hole in it. And every time it rained, I felt the drip of water constantly hitting my forehead, running down my cheek and into my dimple, and finally settling for a warm spot somewhere in my mouth. The strange thing was that I felt a sort of happiness with every drop of the rain. It felt like I was 7 again, shouting under the rain with just underwear on and dancing without a care in the world.
I grew up on stories of superheroes and cartoons depicting children who could do incredible things. It was the only way to keep a child safe in a place where school children wielded cutlasses, and fought successive wars against other schools because of a "girlfriend". So, instead of hanging around to buy codeine for rough looking folks, I spent my childhood watching Silverhawks on STV.
My fondest memories involve me jumping from chair to chair, with a floral print wrapper tied around my neck, imitating Batman alongside my younger sister. The only signs of Lagos I saw were the tired smiles on my mother's face every time I and my sisters screamed "mummy oyoyo", when she came home from work. I had hugged Lagos every night and I didn't even know.
The other day, I found my childhood birthday pictures. My mother had baked a cake and lined up bottles of Gold Spot, Limca and Coca-Cola as backup singers; she had probably invited the whole neighbourhood too. What I distinctly remembered was the smile on my chubby face and the literal beam of mother's gaze, and it felt so real, I almost forgot it was a picture. That joy, it seemed, was a contagious one.
The very first birthday party I remember attending was my cousin's. It had the entire works; the clown, the DJ, Barney and Ben 10 and a football cake. I felt like I was the celebrant, and I believe that every child there felt the same way too. It's that unexplainable joy that comes from the fact that you're a year older, probably an inch taller, still alive and still a child. But in the words of the great conqueror of half the earth,
Reality is often disappointing.
SAY CHEESE, BIRTHDAY BOY
The other day, I sat in front of Ecobank in UNILAG waiting patiently for the 1,000 naira I sent from my Kuda Bank account to my Access Bank account, to reflect so I could eat that night. I had already calculated it; 200 naira to eat bread and beans that night, no food the next morning, 50 naira to enter cab and get to my faculty, a further 200 naira to eat bread and beans and so on until the 1,000 naira was exhausted. The money never entered my account.
I turn 21 today, and it's very hard not to feel like a failure even with all you've done. Lagos makes you feel like you're doing something with your life, only to play an "uno reverse" and shout "sike" in your left ear. A birthday in Lagos is no longer your typical Gold Spot and Ben 10 birthday, it's now a rigorous exercise that involves planning and hinges on whether you're an introvert or extrovert. For me, I'm the former and I can only become the latter when the 1,000 naira I sent to Access Bank finally enters.
If a birthday in Lagos was a person, he’d be a sadistic and cruel person; allowing you to relive the joy of your childhood parties and then reminding you of the fact that you don’t have money to eat the next day, almost immediately. Then, the cake you bought for 5k turns sour in your mouth, your eyes well up, and when your roommates ask you what is wrong, you tell them that you’re overwhelmed by their love. Meanwhile, all you want is just for the 1,000 naira you sent to your Access Bank account to enter.
AN ODE TO 21 SAVAGE
The other day, I heard that a delivery man ate a person’s birthday cake in Lagos. The icing on the cake was that he left the icing for her. Adulthood is like that, I think; it packages itself as a box inlaid with 24 karat gold and then when you open it, you find yourself attempting to spread 500 naira to cover 3 days. This doesn’t apply to women though, all of them have money in their Piggyvest.
If this was the USA, my greatest achievement in turning 21 would be the ability to be finally able to legally drink alcohol; the great ambassador of the chasm of adulthood, so popular, even Kendrick Lamar sang about him. In Lagos, however, my greatest achievement is surviving. Lagos tries its best to ensure that your name is wiped off from the face of the earth, its police shoot at you, its urchins "obtain" your belongings and its sun fries your hair off. So, even though I still want my 1,000 naira, I am grateful for beating the odds.
Today, I might probably go out with a few friends and have a drink or two, or maybe I would sit in Lagos Traffic watching as a hawker frantically tries to catch up with the driver of a Honda Accord who has "forgotten" to pay him. I would also probably constantly check my account balance to see if it has magically increased, and endlessly reload my sportybet account in disbelief; I refuse to know what cashout is.
Maybe being an adult was the original punishment given to Adam for the sin in the garden, but I can’t really complain.
It’s my birthday in Lagos, where all the clowns are depressed, the MC is tipsy and the DJ’s name is Waris with a bad laptop. Maybe today I’d eat a chocolate cake, one baked with the heat of the Lagos Metropolis and cut by a bloodied knife. It isn’t a birthday in Lagos without drama, you know.
