Becoming Wiser in Lagos
With the birth of his son, Brother Michael felt that the flat at Wakeman Street was too small. We moved to a bigger and better house in Onikẹ, not far from Queens College, Lagos. He rented the front three-bedroom flat on the ground floor of a block of six flats.
I occupied the small room at the rear of our flat. The room had an access door leading to an open driveway. This access allowed me to come and go as I pleased without any hindrance. I could simply walk in at any time of day or night, and no one knew when I came in or went out.
A few weeks after we moved into the new flat, I met a young girl at the bus stop. She lived just a stone's throw away from our house. We started to visit each other. She would come to my room, entering through the back door without attracting any attention from Brother Michael or his wife. At night, she would sneak out the same way she had sneaked in. She would sTayọọọ with me until very late at night, and then I would escort her to her house. It became a regular routine.
From Onikẹ to Idi Oro
One night, shortly before Christmas of 1973, as I was returning to my room after the usual escort, I found Brother Michael waiting for me at the entrance of the house. I hadn’t noticed him by the gate leading to the driveway. I was about to sneak into my room through the garage access when I heard his voice. I turned around and saw him. I was shocked. He said he wanted to have a word with me. This was very uncharacteristic of him, as he had never called me like that before. But with his gentle nature, he calmed me down and asked me to sit next to him. I sat down. Everywhere was quiet; his wife and son were already asleep, and the housemaid had also gone to bed.
He started by asking me what I wanted to do with my life. I was unprepared for that type of question, especially at that time of night. He explained that he was becoming concerned about the way I was living my life. Truth, they say, is bitter, and this was a truth I had been too scared to confront since I arrived in Lagos in January 1972.
I felt the question was overwhelming. I was not prepared for it. He had never spoken to me like that before, and he had never discussed anything related to my future plans, except when he gave me my admission letter to Ochaja Secondary School back in 1966. I was shocked to my core. I didn’t respond; I simply thanked him and went into my room.
Shortly after the conversation, I left my room, made my way to the nearest bus stop, and went to see a friend who lived with his mother close to Kalakuta Republic, the then-home of Fela Anikulapo Kuti. I didn’t return home that night and left no clue behind to indicate where I was going. I didn’t report for work for a week. After a week, I returned to work and was told that Brother Michael had visited my office several times looking for me. He explained what happened to my boss and asked him to tell me to return home as soon as I showed up at the office. I didn’t say anything to anyone.
At the end of the second week, I decided to rent a small room from my friend's mother. The house was a run-down "face-me-I-face-you" type, built without planning permission. The rooms were rented out mostly to prostitutes. The house was located just three doors down from Kalakuta Republic, owned by the famous Nigerian musician, the late Fela Anikulapo Kuti.
Streets of Smoke and Shadows
We were surrounded by a large number of brothels that attracted men from various walks of life. It was also a major drug hub. Many times, I would walk home at night and had to block my nose to avoid inhaling the smoke, mostly from marijuana. I would see thick clouds of smoke oozing from the mouths of young boys and girls who had come there for sex. On countless occasions, someone would knock on my door, asking for sex, with his "long willy" exposed in front of me.
Some people even urinated right in front of my room. The toilet facilities provided by the landlord were an eyesore. I used to see fresh human excrement flowing in the open gutter right in front of my room. Taking a shower was a nightmare; many times, I ended up returning to my room with faeces on my towel. That was the place I had to endure for a good nine months.
My relocation to Idi Oro marked the beginning of a completely new chapter in my life in Lagos. First, I had become a chain smoker. Secondly, I started hanging around with a new group of friends whose aspirations in life were entirely different from mine. Thirdly, I gradually distanced myself from all members of my family. I began associating with different types of people. Before I moved to Idi Oro, my world had been filled with friends who added value to my life. We shared similar aspirations, discussed our futures, and were passionate about what we could achieve in life. We engaged in quality debates on national issues. We knew where we wanted to go, though we weren’t sure how we would get there. But at Idi Oro, everything changed. My new friends were different. We had completely different aspirations, orientations, lifestyles, and priorities.
I shared the tiny room with three friends with whom I shared everything I had. They were free to use any of my belongings. One was, Suny, a trainee electrician, the second was an apprentice photographer, Alfred and the third was, Charlie, a musician, a Cameroonian immigrant who I met in the train from Kano to Lagos. None of them was employed, so I shared whatever money I had as well. After a few months, Charlie managed to get a job playing the guitar at a nightclub in Lagos. Initially, he complained that he wasn't getting paid and would ask me for money to cover his transport fare, promising to repay me once he received his wages. For weeks, he kept complaining about not being paid, explaining that the band manager only paid him when he performed. This made sense to me, so I didn’t suspect anything. I fully trusted him. It never crossed my mind that someone I had helped so much could be so deceptive. Every morning, he would return home, claiming he wasn’t allowed to play that night.
One day, while he was out, I was searching for something in the room. I had looked everywhere but couldn’t find it. None of my lodgers were around. Out of desperation, I pulled out the bed. My eyes caught something unusual—a small black nylon bag wrapped in an old newspaper.
Curious, I brought it out from under the bed and opened it to see what was inside. I found N750 in N10 notes, carefully wrapped and hidden under my bed. To put things in context. Nigeria had just changed from using pound sterling to Naira and £1 was exchanging for N2. I returned the bag to its original spot and waited for my friends to return. I wasn’t sure which of them had hidden the money there.
I called my friend from the next room to show him what I had discovered. He asked who the money belonged to, but I told him I had no idea. He shook his head in disbelief. The first to return home was Charlie and shortly after, Suny arrived. I couldn’t hide my feelings. I told them I was hungry and needed some money to buy food. They both said they had no money. Then Charlue began his usual complaints, saying he too was hungry and was just about to ask me if I had some spare change. I was furious, but I still had no way of knowing who owned the money. I wasn’t going to leave the room until I found out. So, I stayed put. After about three hours, Alfred showed up with a cigarette in his hand. I called my friend again from his room next door. I brought out the bag, explained what I had found inside, and asked the three of them who had hidden it under my bed.
They all looked at each other in silence. Charlie smiled and admitted he had hidden the money there. He claimed it belonged to a friend who was also a member of the band he worked for. He said his friend had been saving the money to buy a new guitar. I didn’t believe his explanation, and neither did anyone else present. There were too many inconsistencies in his story. The more he tried to explain himself, the less we believed him.
He kept going on and on until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I asked him to leave my room. I forced him out, and that was the last time I ever saw him. I was quickly learning the truth of a popular saying: anyone who comes to Lagos and doesn’t become wiser will never be wise for the rest of their life. In Lagos, I was getting wiser by the day.
He started by asking me what I wanted to do with my life. I was unprepared for that type of question, especially at that time of night. He explained that he was becoming concerned about the way I was living my life. Truth, they say, is bitter, and this was a truth I had been too scared to confront since I arrived in Lagos in January 1972.
I felt the question was overwhelming. I was not prepared for it. He had never spoken to me like that before, and he had never discussed anything related to my future plans, except when he gave me my admission letter to Ochaja Secondary School back in 1966. I was shocked to my core. I didn’t respond; I simply thanked him and went into my room.
Shortly after the conversation, I left my room, made my way to the nearest bus stop, and went to see a friend who lived with his mother close to Kalakuta Republic, the then-home of Fela Anikulapo Kuti. I didn’t return home that night and left no clue behind to indicate where I was going. I didn’t report for work for a week. After a week, I returned to work and was told that Brother Michael had visited my office several times looking for me. He explained what happened to my boss and asked him to tell me to return home as soon as I showed up at the office. I didn’t say anything to anyone.
At the end of the second week, I decided to rent a small room from my friend's mother. The house was a run-down "face-me-I-face-you" type, built without planning permission. The rooms were rented out mostly to prostitutes. The house was located just three doors down from Kalakuta Republic, owned by the famous Nigerian musician, the late Fela Anikulapo Kuti.
Streets of Smoke and Shadows
We were surrounded by a large number of brothels that attracted men from various walks of life. It was also a major drug hub. Many times, I would walk home at night and had to block my nose to avoid inhaling the smoke, mostly from marijuana. I would see thick clouds of smoke oozing from the mouths of young boys and girls who had come there for sex. On countless occasions, someone would knock on my door, asking for sex, with his "long willy" exposed in front of me.
Some people even urinated right in front of my room. The toilet facilities provided by the landlord were an eyesore. I used to see fresh human excrement flowing in the open gutter right in front of my room. Taking a shower was a nightmare; many times, I ended up returning to my room with faeces on my towel. That was the place I had to endure for a good nine months.
My relocation to Idi Oro marked the beginning of a completely new chapter in my life in Lagos. First, I had become a chain smoker. Secondly, I started hanging around with a new group of friends whose aspirations in life were entirely different from mine. Thirdly, I gradually distanced myself from all members of my family. I began associating with different types of people. Before I moved to Idi Oro, my world had been filled with friends who added value to my life. We shared similar aspirations, discussed our futures, and were passionate about what we could achieve in life. We engaged in quality debates on national issues. We knew where we wanted to go, though we weren’t sure how we would get there. But at Idi Oro, everything changed. My new friends were different. We had completely different aspirations, orientations, lifestyles, and priorities.
I shared the tiny room with three friends with whom I shared everything I had. They were free to use any of my belongings. One was, Suny, a trainee electrician, the second was an apprentice photographer, Alfred and the third was, Charlie, a musician, a Cameroonian immigrant who I met in the train from Kano to Lagos. None of them was employed, so I shared whatever money I had as well. After a few months, Charlie managed to get a job playing the guitar at a nightclub in Lagos. Initially, he complained that he wasn't getting paid and would ask me for money to cover his transport fare, promising to repay me once he received his wages. For weeks, he kept complaining about not being paid, explaining that the band manager only paid him when he performed. This made sense to me, so I didn’t suspect anything. I fully trusted him. It never crossed my mind that someone I had helped so much could be so deceptive. Every morning, he would return home, claiming he wasn’t allowed to play that night.
One day, while he was out, I was searching for something in the room. I had looked everywhere but couldn’t find it. None of my lodgers were around. Out of desperation, I pulled out the bed. My eyes caught something unusual—a small black nylon bag wrapped in an old newspaper.
Curious, I brought it out from under the bed and opened it to see what was inside. I found N750 in N10 notes, carefully wrapped and hidden under my bed. To put things in context. Nigeria had just changed from using pound sterling to Naira and £1 was exchanging for N2. I returned the bag to its original spot and waited for my friends to return. I wasn’t sure which of them had hidden the money there.
I called my friend from the next room to show him what I had discovered. He asked who the money belonged to, but I told him I had no idea. He shook his head in disbelief. The first to return home was Charlie and shortly after, Suny arrived. I couldn’t hide my feelings. I told them I was hungry and needed some money to buy food. They both said they had no money. Then Charlue began his usual complaints, saying he too was hungry and was just about to ask me if I had some spare change. I was furious, but I still had no way of knowing who owned the money. I wasn’t going to leave the room until I found out. So, I stayed put. After about three hours, Alfred showed up with a cigarette in his hand. I called my friend again from his room next door. I brought out the bag, explained what I had found inside, and asked the three of them who had hidden it under my bed.
They all looked at each other in silence. Charlie smiled and admitted he had hidden the money there. He claimed it belonged to a friend who was also a member of the band he worked for. He said his friend had been saving the money to buy a new guitar. I didn’t believe his explanation, and neither did anyone else present. There were too many inconsistencies in his story. The more he tried to explain himself, the less we believed him.
He kept going on and on until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I asked him to leave my room. I forced him out, and that was the last time I ever saw him. I was quickly learning the truth of a popular saying: anyone who comes to Lagos and doesn’t become wiser will never be wise for the rest of their life. In Lagos, I was getting wiser by the day.
Extracts from my memoir, "Grace and Resilience, a journey of endurance, hope, and transformation."
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