Dolopo - Jane's Host Principal in Lagos

First Trip Through Lagos Streets by Jane Kurtz

John meets me at the airport, and I am relieved to be rescued. He takes my passport and my entry papers, steers us into the right line, hands things here and there to be examined and stamped. Then he delivers me into the hands of the driver.

I climb into a hulking US embassy car; we lumber our way out of the parking lot and are soon creeping, swerving and honking our way down the streets of Lagos to the sound of bippy, boppy, raspy, happy music on the radio. Bright billboards and other advertisement signs shout their messages: "It's all about reaping!" announces a sign decorated with bright green apples. "Grow and shine," calls one trying to sell milk powder. A small boy flies on his father's hand, clearly growing and shining. The ads are everywhere--for beer, gripe water, tonic, and Becombion (vitamin B syrup).

"Welcome to Lagos, State of Aquatic Spleandor" I read. Orange-yellow taxis blossom on all sides. Now I see political posters. Tinubu = Trusted. Man of the Moment but not Mr. Convenient. The only way forward. "Try to make it real," the rappers demand on the radio.

In spite of the welcome sign, the water startles me as we climb onto a long bridge. Houses on legs. Sand. Slim boats like gondolas. If the driver were to roll down our windows, I know I would smell sharp fish odors and sweat. Lagos has clearly been at this city thing for a long time.

We rumble our way through Balewa Square, where massive rearing horses and eagles made of stone make me think for a moment that I'm in Rome. Vendors dash up to stopped cars whenever the traffic slows--the department store delivered to the car door. Men and adolescents lug boxes filled with merchandise, food in translucent pink bags. A boy who must be about three years old runs along the street with his hand on a car. As in Addis Ababa, it's obviously a struggle to find jobs, here, and people hustle to survive. Unlike Addis Ababa, I wouldn't know where to begin if I wanted to make a difference.

Eventually, the car pauses at two different gates, and the driver converses briefly with the guardians of the spaces we hope to be allowed to enter. Then we're in, rolling to a stop in the inner sanctum of the American International School of Lagos--a covered parking garage where my hosts await the stunned traveler.