Lagos moments..

Arriving at the local airport, I see a helicopter across the tarmac. Oil workers are taking flight. Near the luggage hall, a man take a young woman’s number. There is a hint of resignation to her fate on her face. Moments later, outside arrivals, a waddling agbada invites a ring of sycophants, including a baggage handler who prostrates fully on the oiled floor. A tall woman I’d seen on the plane with a mask of make-up stands waiting nearby. Her shapely legs and behind are stretched into pinstripe trousers. Her top procures an exuberant cleavage, with beads finishing off the effect. She takes call after call on her mobile. She has a white Vuitton graffiti bag. I wonder what kind of expensive Abuja treat she is, and for whom. Nearer by, a young nervous Chinese guy fumbles in his bag, fishing out a fag. Dusk settles slowly, my pick up is late. I wait while Lagos forms and unforms around me. Just another set of moments at Lagos airport.

After my work is done, in the bar at the hotel, I see someone I know from Abuja. He’s all pally pally, talking about us going out to catch some fun at a private party. Some of his boys turn up, big men full of it. Then some girls turn up, fresh from a Silverbird outing. Titi and Jessica introduce themselves. They sit and look slightly bored while the men brandy themselves up a little. I have a headache to end headaches; any thought of going out is not on my mind. The girls mutter about having to get home to Surulere etc. Another girl in the background mentions to another member of the crew that she is looking to go to school in South Africa. Something tells me that all this is just strategic coyness. I take my leave. There is such a sliver of a fine line between the girls you see standing on street corners and taking drinks all alone in hotel bars and these fly-by girls, it seems wholly disengenuous to call one an ashewo and the other a young lady.