Nigeria Jan 13'

Day 1:

The flight here wasn’t bad, I’ll be the first to admit it. There were a few expected patches of turbulence, etc... but I do believe those were just setting the tone for what was to come when I eventually arrived at Murtala Muhammed Airport later that night.

Our aeroplane was forced to stay in the holding pattern, circling just offshore of Lagos, whilst, the captain informed us, operations were being performed at the airport. We were eventually able to land and taxied for what seemed an age until we ended up at the Echo Wing of the airport. A further fifteen minutes on-board the aeroplane saw the less patient among us becoming rather agitated. Due to renovations currently underway here we had to get ourselves across to the Delta Wing to tackle passport control as well as to collect our hopefully arrivéd baggage. The airport was churning with activity and I was given an overall impression similar to the Department of Home Affairs back in South Africa, just poured out into a rather airport-ish shape.

There was much in the way of red tape and construction signage around and the occasional collapsed wall could be seen every now and then, as if trying to break the monotony of duty-free shops which one finds in these sorts of places. Lost at best, I fell into line, and followed some of the familiar faces from the flight which brought us here to Lagos After a brief escalator ride, I joined one of the longest, most confusing queues I had ever seen. This was passport control at the Muhammed Murtala Airport.

There were people everywhere and a distinct lack of signs has everyone rather on-edge with each other. Anything in the way of airport staff were nowhere to be seen and it was largely by word-of-mouth that people queuing find the right line to resign themselves to. Frustrations abound and, coupled with the heat, create quite a tense atmosphere here. In a rather ironic fashion standing in one queue was merely a precursor to having to stand in another. This next queue branches off into three smaller queues, each as confusing as the next. Eventually your passport is taken from you and you are ushered off into yet another queue where you wait, attentively, for one of the soldier-uniforméd staff to call your name in his syrupy accent. At this point you can breathe a sigh of relief because you have cleared passport control at MM Airport.

The next hurdle was one that I was dreading. That of having arrived in Nigeria without my baggage being there to greet me. It's one thing to visit Nigeria but another thing to visit Nigeria without clothing. I was quick to find myself a position near the conveyor belt, watching as it belched out bag after bag after bag. Mine, however, was standing in a cordoned off area, looking slightly aloof. It wasn’t much longer after this, being able to prove that I was, by virtue of my passport, Dane Bowman, that my baggage and I were reunited once more. It was at this point that I began the search for my name in text. My travel details had specified that a sign-holder would be waiting at the airport to collect me and I had to keep my eyes peeled. I meandered hopefully towards the exit all the while scanning the crowds for my own name.

When you are seeking somebody in a crowd you tend to catch their eye, however this only really works when you are searching for somebody you know. As is the case here in Nigeria, when you make eye contact with somebody, it is largely accepted as a sign to conduct business and, as such, I was quickly swarmed by quite a few individuals wanting to haul me off and into a taxi. I eventually caught sight of my name printed on plain white paper and made a beeline for my new-found friend. He introduces himself quickly and takes my suitcase from me and begins leading the way to his car. I am quick to apologise for my delay but he points out that the airport is always like this. I’m fairly certain he says something like ‘this is Lagos’.

Now that I can relax for the first time I can really take in my surroundings. Lagos is hot – incredibly so, regardless of day transitioning into night. This was in part due to the weather itself but also counting the fact that there seem to be hundreds of individuals waiting outside the airport, whether it be for reasons of sale, taxi service, or just to have a good gawk; every bit adds to the heating. The word ‘sweltering’ sticks firmly in mind.

I follow my driver in a hypnotizéd state as we walk through countless poorly-lit pathways towards his parked car. Along the way were scattered those people trying to turn a profit off various goods. The black market here isn’t black in the slightest. It sits under street lamps and offers stolen credit cards and currency exchange for a fee. Each individual holds a wad of cash the likes of which I have never seen before, a veritable rainbow of currency colours contained therein. There rates are current, I assume, as I watch them frantically assessing live-streaming information on their cellular phones.

I was eventually shepherded to the car and I remember being quite taken aback by the fact that the driver’s seat is on the left-hand side of the vehicle. It is a small thing when I think back to it now, but it was rather jarring at the time.

It takes us just over about forty-five minutes to leave the airport parking lot as we get caught up in the stop-start nature of the Nigerian traffic. Driving here is aggressive and must be, I think, second nature to everyone who uses these roads. It is a very dog-eat-dog endeavour. I recall our hooters from back home and the amount of force one typically has to employ to make use of them, a firm press in the centre of the steering wheel, whereas the cars here in Nigeria have a hooter button to circumvent this. Here it is something which the driver can thumb whenever the need arises. And arise it does as drivers often seem to use their hooters almost as much as they do their accelerators or indicators.

The road back to the Protea Hotel Ikeja is fraught with hair-raising driving as well as monstrous potholes and crevasses. The street which leads to the hotel, an Isaac John Street, is strewn with litter, more potholes, and poorly-dressed prostitutes. We make the turn into the hotel and, after having our car carefully checked for bombs, we are cleared for entry. The car comes to a halt and I exit, thanking my driver profusely for both putting up with the traffic as well as fetching me.

I wheel both myself and my luggage into the Protea Hotel – I’ll call it my safe place for now – and check into my room. I check in with my family and friends back home and it is not too much longer after this that I take off my shoes and, exhausted, collapse into sleep.

Day 2:

I don’t sleep too well that night. It may be a case of the hotel treating me too well, perhaps. The rooms here are always air-conditioned, kept to the best standards, and it may be a tad too rich for my tastes. This place is incredibly sheltered, I feel. You wouldn’t think you were in the heart of Lagos and, if you didn’t venture outside during your stay, the illusion would be complete. You would be wholly secluded from the squalor outside which makes up Nigeria. I think it is like this for the majority of the air crews forced to stay here after arriving in Lagos.

It is realisation enough to simply gaze out from a crack in my bedroom curtains to see the world outside. That jars me, grounds me, and above all reminds me that I’m staying in a place which is more farce than anything else. As soon as you venture outside the illusion shatters.

I meet with my Nigerian contacts for this trip. My moderator and mouthpiece for the work I have to do here is a woman by the name of Tolu and with her: my new best friend Patrick, a Ghanaian man who speaks with a French twang to his accent. We run through the MO for the work ahead of us and, with business well out of the way, I ask Patrick if he can show me around Lagos quickly. He accepts without hesitation and five minutes later the two of us are in the backseat of his driver’s car, leaving the safety of the hotel grounds.

The streets are not well taken care of here. They are fraught with potholes and cracks and one has to go cautiously when using them. The driving too is something incredible. It is both aggressive and cut-throat with near-collisions being par for the course. For the majority of the journey I am within a hand’s length to any other vehicle on the road. And, somehow, it works, somehow it flows. There must be some kind of collective driving unconscious out on the streets of Lagos, I think. Everybody seems to know how traffic should flow and, though it takes time, everyone eventually gets to their desired destination. The sound of hooters though is still something I am trying to accustom myself to. They are constantly blaring above the sounds of traffic. In Lagos it seems as if the cars are trying their hardest to have some kind of secretive conversation with each other.

The other readily noticeable aspect of life in Lagos is the advertising. It is everywhere. Traditional print
adverts can be frequently seen covering lampposts and walls, many of them advertising products that the majority of people here will never make use of. Another type of advert that one catches sight of whilst here are those hand-written offerings which appear to manifest anywhere a person can get a piece of chalk to. These are typically job requests whether it be for painting work, tutoring, catering, or any other available work under the Lagosian sun. Other written requests take the form of pleas to the populous in general: please don’t dump refuse here, please don’t urinate here, and one that still confuses me ‘this house not for sale, beware of 419’.

The people of Lagos live a hard life. The heat seems consistent all throughout the day and that, coupled with the constant power cuts, means that it is incredibly hard to ‘chill out’ here.

It seems as if everyone here is trying to sell something and Patrick keeps quipping ‘it isn’t about making millions here, it’s about millions trying to make it’. He has a fair point. The variety of goods on sale here is absolutely incredible. Prepared food is readily available, a smiling ‘chef’ typically dishing these out happily all throughout the day. There are those individuals who sell goods along the lines of clothing, pharmaceuticals, toys, and other such things. On occasion one notes an odd-looking shop amongst the banal-looking ones. One expects to see a roadside hairdresser or somebody selling freshly-cooked goods, but when your eye catches a lean-to hawking shack stocked amply with boxed electronic goods, it certainly calls for a double-take. There may not be stable electricity in Lagos but at least one can have access to the latest Panasonic flat-screen TV or a top-of-the-range Samsung HD desktop monitor. There is a rather daunting question mark hanging over these goods with regards to their legality. Whilst some might make the assumption that these goods are stolen, there is, however, another kind of theft occurring in Lagos, and it seems to be ingrained into their lives so much so as to be a part of it. Piracy is big here in Lagos. Everything seems to be a copy of a copy of a copy. Street vendors are selling the latest DVDs with poorly-printed leaflets detailing a discs overloaded content. Clothing brands are unsafe as well. The Nike tick is readily seen on shirts hanging from the wooden frames which comprise these lean-to setups. Even soccer paraphernalia can be purchased. Copies of the latest kits from UEFA’s biggest teams are a big seller here. Medicine is also pirated here. Formulas leaked before their initial release means that every second or third vendor can be a pseudo-pharmacist or ‘chemist’ as they are referred to here. One can even purchase medicine from the public transport, if needs be. Of course there are risks attached to these types of purchases but when your pocket cannot stretch far enough to visit the doctor or at least a legal pharmacy, then these ‘chemists’ will have to do.

Another big seller here is bottled water. Nigeria doesn’t have a government-controlled water board so it is basically up to the people that live here to find their own source of water. Some dig wells and make use of whatever springs up, whilst others simply purchases bottled water by the five litre bottle as they need it. It is wide-spread knowledge here that water simply should not be drunk. Even in the hotel bathroom beside my basin, stands a little placard which tells me to rather stick to the bottled water which is provided daily, rather than risk the water available here. This is above and beyond the fact that the hotel water meets WHO standards and has been purified. Standing fans are also in high demand here, though this has to be coupled with the irony of not having electricity constant enough to power them. This leads me to another big seller: diesel-powered generators. Those selling generators tend to have them stacked, out-of-the-box, on top of each other, reaching up towards their makeshift stall ceilings. These guzzle large amounts of fuel, obviously, and result in a ‘power’ of sorts for the people here.

Bearing this in mind, that is the power outages and the demand for generators, the price of diesel here is almost double that of petrol. A person has to effectively power their house instead of their car. Petrol per litre here is just under a single American dollar, 97 cents to be exact. Diesel comes in at a $1.50c. Also widely on sale at these stations is kerosene. This form of fuel is easily accessible, very cheap, and is obviously used around the house for lighting lamps and cooking food.

The day rounds out with Patrick meeting an old friend of his with whom he grew up. We catch up with him at a local restaurant by the name of Tantalisers and we eventually end up back at his flat. His accommodation is fully paid for by his company – a new software venture trying to take root in Nigeria. Effectively, the entire block of flats here is filled with staff belonging to this company and I guess this works both ways. The company has all its staff in a single place and also knows that they are living well in Nigeria, whilst the staff have a modicum of decency as well as safety here. I welcome the air-conditioning in the flat, trying to greedily grab as much as possible before settling down into the sofa. Patrick and his friend launch into their home tongue of French and I am only able to offer a few bits and bobs in terms of conversation as I am quite rusty in this respect. Their accent is heavy and they speak fast but these are largely stories from their other times together or about business in Nigeria. Patrick’s friend is eager to celebrate seeing his comrade again and urges his fiancé to produce four wine glasses and a bottle of Moët champagne which Patrick is quick to open. He pours out four glasses and I am quick to offer ‘salut’ to demonstrate my steadfast grip on the French language. We drink our champagne whilst discussing life in Nigeria and trying to compare it with our respective homes of Cameroon, Ghana, and my own South Africa.

Eventually it is time to go. The champagne has its cork replaced and Patrick bids his friend farewell. Regardless of our goodbyes, the couple walks with us to our vehicle to see us off in a manner that fits their customs. It is still incredibly hot outside. Even though night is eagerly trying to usurp the day's place, there is still a clammy dryness to the air. Our driver returns me to the Protea Hotel and, to avoid the routine bomb-checking, I volunteer to hop out at the curb and walk in. The guard at the gate simply laughs when he sees me, asks me how my day has been, and with a smile on my face I reply ‘very good’.

I patronize the hotel’s restaurant. I have American dollars in my wallet and am able to exchange them at reception for the Nigerian Naira at a rate of 150 Naira to a single American dollar. I can’t recall whether I was more in the mood for soup or something which wouldn’t swallow my wallet whole. Either way, I ended up ordering the lobster bisque. This was the cheapest item on the menu – a starter – clocking in at N2300 which is about 16 dollars. The soup was good and I savoured it, obviously. My dinner-time entertainment was a British trio beside me who were busily comparing where they believed one could have the very best diving holiday. ‘Antibes’ sticks in my ear, for some reason. I pay for my meal with my best poker face and retire to my room for the night. Whilst walking back to my suite all I can think about is how oblivious one could be to the world outside.

Day 3:

My morning starts early as Patrick tells me that we will have to deal with traffic en route to our first appointment which begins at 10. We meet outside the hotel at around 8, Tolu runs a little due to congestion, but we are eventually able to get onto the roads around 8.30.

Monday is considered the worst day to be trying to get around in Lagos as it is the beginning of the business week and everybody is trying to reach their destination, and fast. Due to the living standards around here as well as the earning power of the majority of the populous, not many people own their own set of wheels. Public transport is, however, widely available and takes on many shapes and sizes. Traditional buses are seen every now and then, even being fortunate enough to have their own dedicated lanes in some sections of Lagos. A step below these in terms of size are the mini-bus taxis which are so similar to our South African taxis. These are all yellow in colour and have definitely seen much better days. One step below these are the traditional taxis – those ones stereotypically seen in American movies being hailed by people trying to get around. Again, yellow, and again, not in great nick. I believe these are old Toyota Camrys. The last form of public transport takes the shape of a little yellow tuk-tuk. A driver and, with a squeeze, perhaps two passengers can use these zippy little transporters which are often quick to seize traffic-related opportunities. They are veterans at sneaking into gaps, shifting between vehicles, or even overtaking into oncoming traffic and forcing everyone else on the road to avoid them. Addendum: saw one of these tuk-tuks carrying five passengers on the way back to the hotel. They are as ambitious as any South African taxi driver in terms of challenging the recommended passenger carrying capacity. If public transport isn’t for you or that pocket of yours then getting around on foot is the way to go. There are always hundreds of people milling about in the streets, some looking for an activity for the day whilst others are busily trying to find their way to work.

The first appointment for the day is termed an ‘immersion’. In terms of research an immersion is an interview conducted in the respondent’s home and it helps the researcher to paint a more complete picture of how life is for that particular person. Not only are you getting information from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, but you are also able to see the stable. The people are always grateful when it comes to seeing us and it seems that they really do want to share with us exactly how they live. They are both hospitable and humble. Our interviews flow according to an immersion guide which has been created in South Africa for this specific project. It usually concludes after about two hours, though this can vary depending on how rich the respondent is in terms of information. These individuals do not have much in terms of money. They largely live from hand-to-mouth and the conditions here are dire, but, regardless of how much they have for themselves, they will still make offerings of food and drink as this is customary when a visitor comes into the house.

We leave the immersion house and then travel to the research venue, a small set of rooms within a larger building called Motorways Centre. This is where the rest of the day will play out. Once here, I have to make sure two focus groups run their course and, whilst running, do so correctly. My time here is largely spent behind a one-way viewing window where I spend my time typing away frantically what is being said whilst trying to gather my thoughts and form hypotheses about the work we’re doing and the data we’re mining for. Again, a guide is followed, again, it is something which has been designed in South Africa and is typically altered on-the-fly as the researcher notices things which either don’t work in a particular country or determines that a new kind of question has to be asked so as to probe for further or more specific information. There are many new questions which I have had to ask about Nigeria. Tolu is my mouthpiece for these group discussions and she effectively plays the role of my hostess here. It is her job to ask the questions we need asked as well as in a way that these Nigerian respondents can understand. All of our respondents are English-speaking, mind you, but their accents make them incredibly hard to understand. They manifest an accent somewhere between French and Jamaican at times. The ‘h’ is silent here, making ‘heart’ sound like ‘art’ and the ‘u’ becomes an ‘o’, making ‘cut’ into ‘cot’. There are other nuances but I can’t remember them right now. They are also unable to fully understand me and my meaning typically comes across as piecemeal to them simply because my accent doesn’t work for their ears. I usually talk slowly and at times try to mimic their accent and this usually brings a smile to their faces.

We conclude our work for the day and leave to find our driver outside the building. The streets are still humming with activity be it from the traffic congesting the streets or those pedestrians who are still trying to find their way around. I load my laptop bag into the car as well as my person, tired after a long day’s work. And then, instead of our driver taking me back to the hotel as per usual, the car fails to start. I am not too rattled what with the sheer amount of public transport which is involved in the Brownian motion of Lagos traffic. Our driver fiddles madly with the car, attempting to disarm the security system which has immobilized us. He spends time buried under the hood, twisting and turning various bits and bobs, and at one stage I swear he even tries to hot-wire the car, but to no avail. I seize upon this opportunity to make an attempt to draw money from an ATM which I glimpsed earlier on when our trio first arrived at the Motorways centre. I am second in the queue behind a young guy who seems quite baffled as to why I'm standing behind him. I motion to the fact that the ATMs on either side of his one are both out of order and he laughs in reply. Once he has completed his transaction I swoop in and watch as the machine swallows my card hungrily. Thankfully, everything proceeds as per usual and I am able to draw 10 000 Naira from my account (about R600). It is an odd feeling to watch an ATM spit out foreign currency, especially notes that I am not at all familiar with. Such a transaction, that is, one made from the heart of Lagos, probably raises a little red flag at my bank back home in South Africa and one of the staff members there may be having an odd feeling too. I shove the money into my wallet in an elated fashion and make my way back to our non-starter of a vehicle. Our driver is starting to show signs of frustration and Patrick mirrors these. He wanders down to a line of ready-and-waiting taxi drivers and organises us a ride back to the Protea Hotel. The driver plays it cool but I’m fairly certain I’m the first white person he’s ever had in the backseat of his car.

To be perfectly honest I haven’t seen a single white person outside of the hotel and it’s not for lack of trying. I tend to stick out like a sore thumb here. People do notice me. They are also always polite to me and often shout greetings at me as I pass them by. The guards at the hotel gate too are always polite and they crack jokes quietly amongst themselves as I hop out of a local taxi and onto their doorstep. I ask one of them if he’d like to pat me down for bombs but he just chuckles at me and ushers me into the grounds. I ask the other guard what the big joke was and he points out that most of the people who stay at the hotel tend to stay in the hotel during the day, read: hide, whereas I leave early in the morning and return late at night. One of them mentions that ‘I am not scared. I am Nigeria’. I head into the hotel with a wider smile on my face.

Day 4:

Today starts early as well and it feels as if I am only properly waking up when our driver stops outside the building which will be the location for our second immersion whilst in Nigeria. Said building has seen better days, much better days, and both myself and Tolu can appreciate this fact as we make our way down a pitch-black corridor. At the end of the corridor is what appears to be a furnace of sorts, perhaps heating water for the entire building. I can only see the embers from this distance and it reminds of the donkey at the farm for some reason.  A set of stairs on the left takes us up to the floor above but it is incredibly claustrophobic going and I have to spend my time stooped so as to not bump my head on the ceiling above. The stairs were obviously not made with foot traffic in mind as they can barely accommodate even a single person taking them. One does not take them a spritely two-at-a-time or at any speed above an amble.

Our immersion runs for just under an hour which is shorter than usual but, with that being said, I believe that we have painted enough of a picture. We leave the venue and, with my camera out, I take to playing tourist, snapping photos hungrily of life in this little section of Lagos.

On our way to the Motorways centre we make a brief stop at a local shop so that I can see what these stores have to offer. Patrick tells me that these sorts of shops are typically only frequented by the middle- to upper-class individuals who reside in the area. Those without the pockets to cater for these types of shop usually do all their buying from their local open markets. Proximity is a big factor when it comes to buying and selling in Nigeria. Most of the goods in this store seem to be available in but a single option, that is, in bulk. Their product line-up mimics our own and I can readily notice many duplicates to what we have back home as well as a slurry of European products which are almost luxurious in our neck of the woods. These items are relatively expensive and, to the majority of Nigerians here, are positively bank-breaking.

With time to spare before the day’s groups start, Patrick suggests that our trio head for some traditional cuisine and, after agreeing, we stop just a little further down the street at a restaurant by the name of Sizzling Sensations. The lady at the door seems quite taken aback that I've ventured into her restaurant and, with me leading our group, she fails to see Patrick and Tolu behind me and probably thinks I’ve just stopped by to ask for directions. Patrick explains how the restaurant works and I am reminded of those stereotypical cafeteria scenes from American movies. One takes a tray and drags it along a rail whilst motioning to various food items which reside behind the glass in front of them. Being at the front of our group now is rather silly because I have no idea what I am looking at in terms of the food in front of me. Patrick orders for me and a short while later I’m sitting down at a stall with a plate packed full of ofada rice, a very fat grain, really starchy; a coleslaw-like salad with beans and boiled egg thrown in for good measure; a curry-ish looking mixture, dark brown and green in colour, which Patrick warns me is spicy; and a grilled fish with the head still attached. Everything is incredibly edible. The spiciness of this pseudo-curry I’m eating reminds me of the Indian curries from South Africa and Patrick is quite surprised that I can handle it. I explain to him that my father is quite fond of his curries and that I can manage a bit of spice. The mixture in front of me isn’t appealing to the eye, to be honest, but it is very flavoursome, comprising a variety of vegetables, chicken, and a mystery meat which is later identified to me to be goat. Mixed with the rice it becomes a very good meal. I pick at the grilled fish with my fingers so as to avoid the bones and the meat comes away from them with ease. It tastes amazing and I am almost unable to stop myself from licking my fingers when the meal comes to an end. I excuse myself to make use of the bathroom for hand-washing purposes but there is no running water here and I am forced to make do with a handful of serviettes and a constant voice in the back of my head reminding me not to touch my eyes.

The day’s groups go as planned with only one or two hiccups along the way. These sorts of things are to be expected when it comes to this type of work. The groups do have quite a draining effect on me. I’m constantly typing all throughout them whilst also trying to take in both what the group I'm currently viewing is saying as well as the titbits of information my translator is providing me with in terms of the culture and the way of life here. I have to take it all in and make it into something legible which can be an almost starter-ish meal to my colleagues back in South Africa. The working day ends and I make way slowly down the two stories of stairs to the building’s exit. The Motorways Centre overlooks an incredibly busy freeway which lies close enough to almost be at its doorstep and, even now, the traffic upon it looks menacing.  

The parking lot which we pass through en route to meeting our driver is packed with people trying to find their way around and various hawkers and traders are happily plying their wares here. Walking traders with their goods balanced upon their heads try to make their living selling water and ground nuts. A car boot overly-stuffed with loaves of bread is evident too with a single loaf of bread setting you back about N250.  Opposite this opportunistic vendor is a man selling books spanning a variety of genres as well as handedness. Some of his wares appear fairly new and are still sealed in plastic whilst others are a bit tatty-looking but, regardless, will still be book enough to get the job done. They are laid out here upon a cloth for passersby to look at. Some of the titles on sale are rather eye-catching when up paired up with the fact that you are in the heart and squalor that is Lagos.

The guards back at the hotel are welcoming, as per usual, and I wonder whether it is simply in their job description to be amicable or whether they are actually genuinely happy to see me. Not phased by this, I strike up a little conversation with them about their day and it isn’t long before we are talking about the only topic we seem to have in common, that of the Africa Cup of Nations which, to be completely honest, I am horribly out of touch with. We talk about this for a few minutes and my moderate knowledge of good soccer-playing African countries as well as my ability to name two or three star players is enough to help me stand my ground in this exchange. All throughout this encounter I make offerings of my bottled macadamia nuts which I purchased earlier on in the day. I eventually take notice of the fairly battered-looking assault rifle that the one hotel security guard is carrying. I offer him macadamia nuts too and then take my leave, heading into the hotel for the night.

Day 5:

Today began with a bad start and it took the shape of my belt buckle breaking whilst I was trying to affix it to my waist. I wondered if this was going to be some kind of precursor as to how the rest of the day was going to go for me.

The third immersion for the trip occurs today and this one was by far the most enlightening as well as casual one so far. Our respondent, a Lagosian gentleman, was both incredibly accommodating as well as willing to show us how life was for a person living in Nigeria. His explanations were both in-depth as well as candid and were able to shed some light on quite a few of the questions I’d been keeping to myself thus far. That is not to say that he didn’t have wrenching stories to share with us but these, coupled with the more hopeful narratives, are indicative of how life is here. The past is both ashes and diamonds.

Our interview with him ends and, as we are heading out of the premises he snatches at a selection of leaves from a solitary tree in the yard and begins chewing them. I am quick to question his actions and he offers me a handful of the leaves and points out that although they may be peppery to the taste they are widely regarded around here as a general cure-all. He says ‘herbal medicine’ in his Nigerian accent and the ‘h’ disappears completely, taking me a short while to catch onto what he is actually talking about. I don’t hesitate much before placing the leaves in my mouth and chewing them and, yes, although quite peppery they are edible and the taste reminds me of boiled cabbage. Once chewed and swallowed, a slight aftertaste does remain, nothing horrible, mind you, but a distinct bitterness is left behind. I ask him what I’ve just eaten and his failure to recall the exact name is a tad worrying but he remedies this by whipping out his BlackBerry and phoning a friend of his. There is a brief exchange in his native tongue and once he’s pocketed his phone he tells me ‘Moringa. It is called Moringa’. He goes on to explain the plant’s medicinal values, telling me that it’s good for curing headaches, catarrh (which is ‘flu’ here), malaria, typhoid, and even cancer. For these reasons, the plant has become incredibly scarce these days and it often fetches quite a high price when it comes to sales at the open market.

He gives me another branch of the tree to take with me and I cannot refuse the offer for reason of offending him. I thank him graciously and climb into the backseat of the car, Tolu trailing behind me. With the taste of the Moringa leaf still lurking about in my mouth it comes as a relief when Patrick suggest we stop for lunch quickly before going to the Motorways centre. I’m a bit less adventurous today in terms of eating and opt to have a chicken pie to fill the gap. There isn’t much I can say about it, really, as it presents itself as a normal food without any sort of Nigerian twist to it. The immersion has been a little draining so I grab a Lucozade to give me energy for the groups which comprise the afternoon ahead.

The Motorways centre is bustling as usual and the parking lot is packed with cars. So much so, that it becomes a little difficult for us to stop and safely exit the vehicle. Other drivers are impatient, often to such an extent that a split second’s hesitation is often rewarded with vicious amounts of hooting. The groups are good today but one can start to feel a certain saturation in terms of the information they are giving us. An air of déjà-vu hangs over both groups as they mirror answers of previous respondents. Saturation is both a good and a bad thing when it comes to research, good for the reason that it shows the researcher that they are usually getting the right or most correct answer, and bad on the other hand because the repetition can sometimes be a bit boring for them. As such, at the end of the groups I am rather tired. The energy-giving effects of the Lucozade from lunch have worn off and, some would say, maybe taken their toll upon me. I am yawning behind my hand, at this stage. Regardless of my tiredness I am quick to answer ‘yes’ to going out for drinks with Patrick and some of his friends and we end up at a country club-esque bar on what appears to be an under-construction golf-course. The place is packed to the brim with both cars and people and a flat-screen TV displays the live AFCON game for the evening. Patrick’s friends are all incredibly welcoming individuals though this isn’t something unexpected as it seems to be par for the course here to treat visitors with a modicum of respect. Guests are family here, it seems.

We settle into some drinks and once again Patrick recounts stories of earlier times. His friends are quick to quiz me about my impressions of Nigeria and are hungry for the insight I give them as to what I’ve seen whilst staying here. Our table of eight orders two portions of what the locals here call ‘pepper soup’ and a few minutes later, eight bowls and two larger soup dishes are brought to us. Pepper soup, as the name suggests, contains the ingredient pepper. Vast amounts of the stuff. It is incredibly spicy, so much so that after taking my first spoonful I have to do some coughing to recover. I drink greedily at my cocktail before heading back for a second spoonful. The soup is dark in colour, a reddish-brown, and has whole fish within it. Patrick tells me to avoid the soup if it’s too spicy and to instead focus on the fish. Nigerians know how to do fish well, I’ll admit. I drag my soup spoon along the side of the fish and the meat comes away perfectly, leaving the bones behind and intact. The taste is incredible, spicy but rich, and whilst balancing my cocktail drinking and soup supping I am able to get through the entire meal. With the pepper soup polished off, grilled meat is brought next. The presentation is pretty straightforward, a plate with newspaper upon it and, on top of this, grilled pieces of beef which are coated in a variety of spices. The taste was a bit overwhelming but overall, quite edible. The evening rounds off at about nine with Patrick saying farewell to his friends until he next returns to Ghana. Both of us are offered a souvenir of the time together with good food and friends before leaving the venue.

I reflect on how the day’s gone whilst being driven back to the Protea Hotel. I remember Patrick pointing out whilst all of us were at table that, although life can be bad in Nigeria, it’s good that there are still times when people can get together like this and have a good time. I watch the guttering light from the streetlamps which show the way home and it’s incredible just how persistent as well as thick the air is with pollution here.

Day 6:

It is a public holiday here today, the birthday celebration of an important Muslim figure and although the majority  of Lagos’ population are Christian, it would be hard to find somebody who would say ‘no’ to a day off. Patrick and the driver are a bit late in fetching me this morning due to traffic in the streets but I greet them with a smile nonetheless. Today’s a bit different to our previous days because we are doing the group discussions first with our immersion taking place in the evening. This is to cater for that fact that at 4PM the electricity will be turned off because of the public holiday.

So we arrive at Motorways to start with the first group at 10 and the power is already on and off. The equipment I’m making use of here is running off generators and uninterruptible power supplies but sadly these things do have life spans and if the power outages persist there could be problems. I will always be able to take notes simply because I have my trusty exam pad and pen with me at all times but, in fairness, I should be typing away happily on my laptop as long as the battery can handle it. Above and beyond this we have both audio and visual equipment capturing the group in progress as well as various computers and sound equipment running in the room with me. What with the power dipping off and on as much as it is, when watching the footage back we may endanger individuals with epilepsy. The inconsistent electricity takes its toll and leaves me quite frustrated by the end of the groups but I am quick to remind myself that things could be much, much worse, and that the people here have to deal with this on a daily basis.

After grabbing a quick bite to eat, again tame on my part as I stick with the chicken pie/Lucozade combo, we eventually head towards our final immersion which takes us quite deep into the local area. The roads are crammed here, filled to the brim the people on foot, people trying to sell things out of lean-to stalls, cars parked on the sides of the streets, and barely enough space for a single line of traffic to squeeze through. Thing is, traffic here has to get through in both directions, coming and going, and the movement of one precludes the other. This has to be the most tense I’ve seen things here in Nigeria. Cars here are almost on side-by-side, again a hand’s length away from each other, and this, coupled with the cacophony of business going on in the area, has everyone pretty much on edge. With tempers fraying fast there is much in the way of shouting and traffic conducting going on by people on foot. Cars are forced to reverse in unison as, one by one, certain vehicles are allowed to pass. It’s a bit like watching an incredibly precise game of community Tetris being played. There is much hooting and noise-making throughout the entire process but a couple of minutes pass and eventually we are through onto the next section of road. We dodge a couple of stray dogs and come to a halt outside our final immersion venue.

The immersion takes just over an hour and, again, this feels shorter than the usual but we have got what we came for in terms of data. I snap a few photos as we make our way towards the car and the local children are quick to shout at me and make various poses before my lens. We locate Patrick and, with the day complete, I am dropped off at the hotel once more.

Day 7:

Today concludes the field research work in Nigeria and all that’s left are groups 9 and 10. I wake up in the morning feeling relieved as I think this. I have a bit of a late start today as the groups are scheduled for the afternoon and, as such, Patrick only arrives to collect me around 12.15.

We make our way towards the Motorways centre one last time and along the way encounter the usual Lagos traffic which I have gotten too accustomed to. It will be odd to see a road not rammed with cars when I get home again. My senses are shaken back to the present moment when the blaring of sirens comes into focus around me and it is at that point that one begins to wonder where exactly the noise is coming from. There is a sense of dread as I realise that the siren is somewhere behind but this soon turns into relief as I notice that said siren belongs to an ambulance. The noise isn’t unbearable but it is continuous and is broken every now and then by the driver shouting ‘give way’ over the loudspeaker. However the traffic here has nowhere to go and the ambulance driver is just as stuck as we are. There is no curb to mount and no room for other cars in nearby lanes to move into. Mr. Ambulance Driver is as much at the mercy of the poorly-designed and overcrowded streets as we are. Somewhere up ahead a robot gives off that green light which everyone here has been waiting for and the traffic begins to slowly ease forward. The ambulance driver is able to jostle his way through the crowd and soon disappears from sight. Patrick remarks that in Lagos your chances of dying in an ambulance are pretty high.

I get back to the hotel and spend the rest of my night packing my bags in preparation for my flight home tomorrow.

Day 8:

This day started as all others had, I awoke to the permanent darkness which the hotel room can be so easily plunged into. The sun could choose to perch itself upon my windowsill and I’d not know about it. I check and recheck my already meticulously packed luggage and begin what is to be an incredibly long day.  

Patrick fetches me up at around 12.30 and we head out for lunch together one last time. A restaurant by the name of Mama Cass is our haunt for today. I stick to something simple-looking, a pasta dish but, at Patrick’s insistence, I have two huge snails shovelled onto my plate. I’m fairly certain that he’s testing my mettle and, with him footing yet another bill, I really don’t mind.

We take our seat at a nearby table and I’m quick to handle the snail with my fingers and, on chewing, find that is has quite a rubbery texture and is largely flavourless except for the slight spiciness which seems to be a mandatory feature of every food item in Nigeria. Patrick seems slightly impressed as I deal with both snails without breaking any sort of sweat. The meal passes with conversation mainly about my trip here as well as my thoughts and ideas about the place. We speak about the future of Nigeria. It isn’t a topic we stick to for too long. With lunch sorted I am once again dropped off at the Protea Hotel where I now have about 5 hours to burn before being collected to once again brave the Murtala Muhammed Airport.

My 5 hours are filled up by conversation with both friends and family and eventually I settle into some gaming which helps pass the time as well as serves to relax me. In hindsight, there was no amount of relaxation which could’ve prepared me for the trial ahead.

I am collected promptly at 7PM sharp and the driver, who has been ever-weather all throughout our time together, still brandishes an incredible smile upon his face. The traffic to the airport is nothing untoward for Lagos and, as before, we spend the majority of our time in the car shoulder-to-shoulder in a slow bustle towards our destination. Eventually I am dropped off at the departure wing of the Murtala Muhammed airport.

The airport serves to perfectly book-end my time spent in Nigeria. It is a culmination of everything that is life in Lagos, just crammed into a single way-too-small space. It is incredibly hot. There is no electricity. There are individuals here brim-filled with attitude. There are way too many people squeezed into this sardine tin of an airport. There are inefficient staff members who are lackadaisical in going about their job. Money greases the odd palm. Strict times become mirage-like guidelines. Carelessness becomes common place. And beyond that? Well, it ain’t worth wasting words on.

I’m sitting in the plane with my seat in the upright position, my laptop seated on my tray table, and some semblance of a smile on my face.

I am heading home.