Oshodi...

On the way in from Lagos airport to Ikoyi this morning, the tragic drama of Lagos unveiled itself yet again. Between Ikeja and Lagos, a commotion of okadas clustering round. As we came near and the traffic slowed down, there he was, dead, by the side of the road. His head twisted to the side. People looked down at him silently. A little further on, there was his bike, all mangled metal.

A few minutes further, I realised the taxi driver had taken an unusual route. There we were, in the midst of Oshodi, on Agege Motor Road. And there it was, in perhaps the densest part of the city, stark poverty. A woman with no lower legs sat on a small square of cardboard by the road side, the rain driving down. A danfo started reversing. She had to shout to stop the ugly metal can driving back onto her. The tragedy of the world was written on her face. Further on, piles of old shoes for sale, women picking through second-hand bras, men selling trousers, holding them up to passersby. Christian melodies mingled 50/50 with the muezzin. Everywhere a mixture of brown and black, mud clinging to all surfaces. Men argued aggressively, their voices tense. Oshodi is nonstop 24 hour panic slowly below the surface of perpetual chaos. People’s lives slowly being ground down by the noise, the dirt and the fury.