A city reflects its people: neglect in public space is often a mirror of neglect in public spirit.
Growth without planning breeds chaos, not greatness.
The miracle Lagos waits for may not fall from the sky—it may rise from its citizens.
I AM Lagos.
Home to the Ibile ladies.
Mother to 20 dapper families.
Granny to 37 restless children.
I am a land of culture…
curated from Brazilian echoes and slave-route memories,
woven into rhythms, recipes, and restless ambition.
Traders from far and wide fell in love with me,
drawn by my ports, my promise, my pulse.
I was once spacious, clean, and orderly…
a city that still had room to breathe.
Then Lord Lugard, by fiat, crowned me capital.
With commerce came crowds.
With crowds came conquest…
of sidewalks, setbacks, and silence.
Development began to outrun infrastructure.
Plots grew smaller.
Buildings grew bolder.
Bungalows bowed to blocks,
and my neighbourhoods densified into towers of tension,
stacking lives, stories, and stress,
one floor at a time.
People poured in from every corner of the country,
until my quiet neighbourhoods
forgot what “quiet” meant.
So I drew my blue and red lines,
dreaming of order on my roads.
I whispered about a green line,
and flirted with my waters,
hoping ferries might carry my millions gently across my veins.
But my neighbourhoods swelled,
and sanity became a luxury item.
Chaos became my brand—
celebrated in December,
marketed as “Detty,”
exported on Instagram.
My greens vanished.
My playgrounds became parking lots.
My open spaces became “For Sale” signs.
Koropes, marwas, and faragons
declare every corner a bus stop,
every junction a terminal,
every pause a marketplace.
Sidewalks now host fashion shows of tomatoes and trousers.
Drains rehearse for swamp auditions—
either choked with weeds
or simmering with suspicious waters.
Pedestrian bridges pose for photographs,
while pedestrians audition for miracles beneath them.
Sometimes I catch my reflection
and I look like a city fresh from battle…
a cousin to Syria in spirit,
if not in story.
I want to shine.
I want to look good.
But care has become a scarce commodity.
Who will save me
from myself,
and from the endless tide
that brings both brilliance and disorder?
The best cars in the world glide beside
the smokiest, crooked veterans of yesterday—
all claiming equal rights to my roads.
I joke.
But I hope.
Because with political will, with courage, with care,
I can still be put back in shape.
After all,
what God cannot do
does not exist.
So I wait…
for my miracle,
and for my citizens
to become part of it.
Eko o nibaje.
Moral of the Satire
A city reflects its people: neglect in public space is often a mirror of neglect in public spirit.
Growth without planning breeds chaos, not greatness.
The miracle Lagos waits for may not fall from the sky—it may rise from its citizens.
