I am an Aje-butter. Not by birth, or by formings, or by swag – I am simply an unapologetic ajebutter by default. I didn’t choose to be born one. God, without seeking my opinion (because He’s God, I guess), gave me the genes of an Ajebutter and a funny Bri-Merican accent . By luck or some twisted work of fate, fortune, karma (I might have killed ten defenseless puppies in my past life) or destiny, I have found myself in Lagos, crazy Lasgidi, and this is my story…
Welcome to Lagos, the eternal city that never sleeps, where the air is filled with anger and smoke, and the busy streets are littered with dirt, Agberos, marijuana and frustrating traffic jam. Where the love of ewa-agoyin (mashed beans) reigns supreme, and the fear of Ajegunle is the beginning of commonsense. Where love (romantic love o), never runs dry, and the night is colourful with swinging hips and staggering worshippers of alcohol.
Anger forever is in abundant supply in Lagos. There’s anger everywhere. In the streets, in the commercial buses, in bars, restaurants, offices, and even in a variety of worship places. Why? No idea. I walk the streets, when I’m not busy with gossiping and entertaining online, trying to familiarize with the dark corners (and maybe get a new girlfriend), and I receive a lot of hateful stares from men, women, girls, and even kids!
Why? Do I look hideous? Ugly? Or have a horn on my big head? I quickly look in the mirror, and what I see looks a lot less like our mortal enemy, and more like a candidate for Mr. Universe. Yeah right.
I’ve had my own share of the heat too. My second day in Lagos, I was forced by 2 angry dangerous football fans to fund their drinking habit.
“O boy, how far?” one looked at me with a telling menacing scar on his face.
“Ogbeni, I go collect beer for your head” the other hit home, without mincing words.
I stared at them both for a while, trying to remember the last karate move from a half-remembered Jet Li movie. Because if push comes to shove, I gotta kick their asses. But then, I couldn’t seem to conjure the dark arts of fighting, and being on new territory, I was unsure of my next move. Seeing that they were 2 Agberos, who probably have been fighting for a living, and I’ve been an Ajebutter, who’s been schooling, writing, and dancing salsa, I gave in.
“Okay” I said limply.
“Bar man give me Gulder, Alomo, and 3 cans of star” , the thieves screamed, still angrily. Angry and happy.
I just sat back and smiled a scared smile. Fearing for my life. They drank my wallet to bankruptcy, and to make matters worse, they’re both Chelsea fans. Pfft!
I’m wiser now, and I’ve dealt with similar lowlifes twice, since the day I fell victim. Even had to bloody my hands once with one tout’s nose. How I love Jet Li.
The anger still remains. Fights everywhere, arguments all around. I’ve seen men fight over which cigarette has the best flavor. I’ve seen people come to blows during an argument about Alomo. I’ve been privileged to see prostitutes strip a man nude for ‘f***ing’ without payment. And most interesting, I’ve seen 2 bus conductors almost take their lives over some passenger who walked away shaking his head, and smiling with a glint in his eye. He’s the Antichrist!
Lagos, for all its beauty, refinement and diversity, is still united. United by the hustle, united by the Yoruba language…and most importantly, we’re united by anger. Why are we angry? Heaven knows.
Even me too, vex don dey catch me.
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