How Lagos Gets You There

One of the first things Lagos teaches you is that size is negotiable.

You’ll see an okada (motorcycle) doing things that even the laws of physics did not agree to.

Sometimes it’s carrying something bigger than the okada.

Sometimes bigger than the rider.

Sometimes you just stare and wonder which calculation led to this moment.

You’ll think, this cannot be safe.

 

Then the okada will move off confidently, like this setup went through a meeting you were not invited to.

No panic.

No hesitation.

Just movement.

And somehow, the man arrives.

You might not understand how.

You might not agree with the method.

But he gets there.

That’s Lagos.

Once you start noticing, you see it everywhere.

A keke (tricycle motorcycle) carrying more people than it was ever designed for.

A danfo (bus) door that hasn’t closed properly in years but still shows up for work every morning.

A generator that sounds like it’s tired of life, yet is powering three shops, a freezer, and someone’s plans.

None of it makes sense on paper.

Most of it works in real life.

You’ll also see someone selling gala and cold drinks in traffic that hasn’t moved in a long time.

He walks between cars like this was part of the plan.

He already knows who will buy.

And then there’s the Fan Ice vendor.

In this heat.

Under this sun.

In traffic that is clearly not going anywhere.

Someone is selling Fan Ice.

Still cold.

Still intact.

You don’t ask how.

Because asking would raise questions you are not emotionally prepared for.

You just buy it, accept the miracle, and move on.

At some point, it clicks.

Lagos isn’t trying to look sensible.

It’s just trying to work.

Here, the goal is getting there, not looking good while doing it.

If it works, it works. Even if it looks questionable.

Once you see that, everything else makes more sense.

You watch people fix things as they go.

No long explanations.

No perfect setup.

Just what do we have, and what can we do with it.

You’ll see a man directing traffic.

Not because anyone asked him to.

Not because he’s trained.

But because everyone is stuck, and someone decided to try.

And somehow, traffic listens.

You also notice the different styles of survival.

On the Mainland, people leave early.

Very early.

Not because they love mornings, but because they know better.

They don’t argue with traffic.

They plan around it.

On the Island, especially Lekki, people learn optimism.

You can leave your house early, fully dressed, fully hopeful, and still arrive late with a straight face. You understand this isn’t your fault. This is geography.

You’ll say, “I left on time,” and mean it.

You also learn that rain in Lagos is not just rain.

It’s an event.

One drop falls, and everyone immediately rethinks their plans.

Lagos teaches adjustment without announcement.

People don’t say, “This is hard.”

They just adjust and keep moving.

And that’s the real lesson.

Lagos doesn’t teach comfort.

It teaches figuring things out.

It teaches you that waiting for the perfect conditions will take a while.

That progress can be messy.

That sometimes you move first and understand later.

Yes, the city is loud.

Yes, it’s chaotic.

Yes, it will test your patience in ways you didn’t plan for.

But there’s also a quiet competence here.

A belief that things will work out somehow.

That the destination still matters, even if the journey is rough.

You start to respect that.

Not the chaos.

The people moving through it.

You realise resilience here isn’t dramatic.

It’s practical.

It’s deciding to keep going.

To carry what needs to be carried.

To make it work with what you have.

And slowly, without making a big deal of it, you soften.

You still complain.

You still get tired.

You still roll your eyes in traffic.

But you also notice it.

The effort.

The creativity.

The way people keep showing up.

I’m learning to love Lagos.

Not because it makes sense.

But because it gets you where you’re going.

And maybe that’s the Luxury Silk.