DIARY OF A DANFO BABY

Prologue

The surest way to know that you are approaching 3rd mainland bridge is that there will be a violent attack on your olfactory cortex. Lagos has its smell, but the putridness on that bridge has character. You cannot miss it. It rouses commuters from their naps. It never gets old.

Entry 1 - Maintaining perspective = An amalgam of discontent and gratitude 

The traffic builds up. It is not 7 am yet, but you are sure you have come across at least a thousand people on your commute to work. You remember listening to Mark Manson saying we are working less but it seems like the opposite because we are spending more time commuting and we are bringing work home. It makes sense. 

It is getting hot. Your moisturiser creates a pool of sweat on your face. Bemoaning your inability to ride in style, using your left hand to cruise through the streets of Lagos, you say a prayer –May Allah save us from the torment of the eternal fire, and then you lose the fucking blazer. You remember your colleagues teasing you about your fashion. Your response at the time was that you dress for your destination not your location. But really, talo ni suit were gan?

The radio is on, some OAPs are debating some ridiculous subject, and you wonder why that is the priority on a morning show. The clown sitting next to you is scrolling through TikTok without earphones. You judge him, not for watching Tiktok, for not using earphones. He is interrupting your customary ride to work nap. You are irritated, but you sit in silence and do not complain. 

Falomo wa o. Falomo wa o. 

Your voice is lost in the din. The driver speeds past the bridge, heading towards Victoria Island. You raise your voice again. 

Falomo wa o. Falomo wa o.

Other passengers join you in yelling. He shouts at you, hurls some obscenities, and you ask if he is deaf or just stupid. You remember a time you would have just gotten off quietly and cried because the bus driver yelled at you. Now, you yell back and make sure you have the last word. 

You get off the bus. Blazer stylishly draped over your shoulders, boots polished to act as a kaleidoscope, you lift your pears-baby-oil-shined legs and begin the long walk back to Falomo bridge. You are upset. You approach the slope of the bridge and then your anger morphs into discomfort. You encounter the men who own the bridge. Some of them are still deeply asleep, and others are slowly rousing from their slumber by the increasing traffic. 

You mutter a prayer of thanks, realising that there is so much to be thankful for, just as much as there is so much to aspire to. But why does it have to be this way? Why must the misery of others be the reminder you need to be grateful?

Entry 2: Low-Quality Problems

How do you know poverty is creeping up on you? How do you measure how far you are away from the life you desire? Low-quality problems. That’s how you know. 

I am genuinely curious about your answer to this. So, if you can, please respond. Have you ever come across a birthday post on the social media page of a brand or organisation you follow and really cared about who they were celebrating? 

I recently had a chaotic thing to do at work. Something about a flyer that should have been made that wasn't. Now, it is important to state that regardless of how I feel about birthday fliers and whatever, my current job description actually requires that I painstakingly go through social media entries on our page from the past to pick out recurring events like birthdays and put it in a calendar, so we can celebrate them again. 

Unfortunately for me, I missed a board member’s birthday in the new calendar, meaning that when I sent out the creative brief to the designers for that month, this “milestone event” was not included. 

Ordinarily, this would have gone unnoticed (I have actually tested this theory) by my stakeholders, except other social media managers who knew what they were doing made fliers with beautiful messages. Birthday boy is quite successful. Do you see where I am going with this?

On this fateful day, with Taiye 2raya on full blast, as I powered through my carefully made to-do list for the day, I got a message from the EA to the CEO asking me why we were not celebrating so and so on their birthday. Today is their birthday? Ehen.

Now, this shouldn’t be such a big deal, right? I am a creative. Mo ma n se creative things. I can get on Canva and whip up a flier in thirty minutes to one hour. Except, this was not a Canva birthday flier individual, so I had to resort to professionals. Now the thing about professionals is that they have principles and policies and whatnot. Our design team requires a 48-hour notice for new design tasks, but I am also very charming, so I begged for same-day delivery. They finally agreed to deliver by 2:30 pm. Problem solved? No. My CEO has given a 12 pm deadline.

Well, safe to say it was a chaotic day in the life of a communications assistant. During the entire period of this “crisis”, I was just there thinking about how low-quality this problem was. The person on the flyer definitely did not give two hoots. They were out there worrying about billion-naira deals and economic policies.  Why is my livelihood being threatened over this? I want to be the person that will make a social media manager have a headache on my birthday should they forget to make me a flier because I am moving things. I want to be having work problems that after I solve it they will now say I saved 1058 people's livelihoods. Which one is the flyer is not ready, the deadline is 12:00 pm, and the designer is saying it will be ready by 2:30pm? Is this how to disrupt industries? Mtchewwww.

Anyways, lessons learned. Low-quality problem or not, I can now justify the “problem-solving” entry on my CV. Birthday boy got a flier. I avoided the wrath of my CEO, and the design team still loves me. 

Kids, beware of creeping poverty. Stay guarded. Don’t get carried away in that entry-level job, no matter how interesting it is or how much of a learning curve it is. When you start to notice how fast Dudu Osun melts and the price of your favourite scent makes you cry, you should know you are not having good problems. Ire o. 

Entry 3: I Just Moved to Lagos. Oh Shit! It’s been seven months 

“You are new in Lagos”“Yes, I moved for work”

“Oh, that is why. With time, you will get used to it.”

“I guess so” 

“When did you move?”

“November”

“2023?”

“Yeah.”

“You should know your way around by now na.” Chuckles in disbelief. 

Na me fuck up now. Shebi, I should have called Sakinah, my GPS that never fails. 

In Lagos, there are many colours of vanity, and street names are one of my favourites. It is just…..laughable. Somebody explain to me why there is a street/close/crescent with someone’s name with at most ten houses and another with another person's name just across. Are you all that important? 

You people should pity geographically challenged people like us now. I have trouble remembering places I have not taken a picture of, and now I have to remember all these names. It really should not be this dirty Lagos that all of you are slicing up and naming after yourselves. 

Ermmm, Mr. Teju Cole, should this stink really be the neurological association with your name? Alhaji Karimu Laka, should you not be considering using the money for another gate and street sign to clean your gutters, maybe?

Well, who am I to advise you? You are the wealthy. 

Epilogue

“Williams wa oo” Forty-four seconds later

“Unity wa o” Here comes the violence. 

He looks upset. A barrage of insults follows. I do not mind. Welcome to Lagos. Everyone here is crazy. I could have stopped at Williams estate gate; it is only one minute away, but am I a Lagosian if I don’t annoy the crap out of the Danfo driver?

To be continued.