dancing the lagos limbo
I gulped the moment we landed in Lagos. Screech, five years of longing and distance interrupted by a thumping tumble down the tarmac. Even though I was securely strapped into 20J, this trip didn’t seem real. I felt suspended in a dream—lusting after Nigerian Fanta—praying its deep orange huge would flush through my veins again.
But I wasn’t ready for the Lagos airport experience. None of my trusty armor would work here. My TSA PreCheck? Here, that’s a porous shield riddled with holes. My American passport? I better hide that for my own good. It’s only gonna double my billing. When airport officials hold my passport hostage and beg me for money—would I rather be charged in dollars or naira?
My shoulders crouched back preparing to duck jabs from Mister Bureaucracy. Trying to ward off bad thoughts, I let my mind wander to the pleasant parts. I dreamed of sinking my face into bowls of egusi and falling into sweet itis. Egusi has no equal—it sits in that liminal space between soup, sauce, and curry with a nutty, rich, and aromatic demeanor. Is it dry? Is it loose? How do melon seeds shape-shift from flat, white ovals into this four-dimensional experience?
You can tell a tongue that knows egusi. On the surface, you see little love notes inscribed on the papillae—saying "Call me soon" like a Nigerian parent dropping their eleven-year-old kid at boarding school. Stained yellow with the promise of a warm reunion.
As we descended, I dreamed of verandah hour—between six and seven pm—when the sea breeze from the marina washes over and apologizes for the humid assault from the afternoon. Cool air swims in, singing sober sorries, asking us to nap. Nature's lullaby knows best—so weaves go off, durags rise up, eyes shut, and feet kick up to recharge.
The second the pilot screeched on the tarmac thumping us home, my dream was smashed. Until then, I lived in fantasy land, praying for a pitstop to refuel my tank. Touchdown shook me up. The dream became real—I was there, body to body, man on ground, reunited with my mother soil.
Once the seatbelt sign was turned off, I rushed for the changing room: placing American Tobi on the subs bench, neatly folded in a bow, and unwrapped the Lagos boy within. You could tell he was a little rusty. You know when your uncle is smiling for a picture and doesn’t know where to place their hands? Should they hang in his pocket or lie loose to the side? This indecisive posture will cost you in Lagos. It reeks of rust, and rust means you're gonna pay double for everything. I had to shake the dust off.
Everything in Lagos takes twice as long as it should. So I expected to wait hours to leave the airport. But to my surprise, I breezed through immigration in less than five minutes. Huh? Was this the new Lagos? Had I been gone that long?
On my way to baggage claim, I swatted away several men offering me trolleys. They seemed to crawl out of the walls. "I'm OK, thank you", I politely declined. But my responses set off alarm bells to trolley-men everywhere: “Fresh meat available on the arrival aisle!” Rusty Tobias forgot most locals ignore such requests. Men climbed out of craters offering services—anonymous chaperoning, help carrying suitcases, and paperclips for swapping SIM cards. By the time the fifth guy got in my face, I re-downloaded my Lagos manual, adopting a stern scorn, and walked through the heart of them like I couldn't hear. (It worked. Of course, it did.)
I grabbed my bags and headed for the exit. But my memory failed me here. I forgot the airport had been renovated since my last trip so my legs led me astray. I stood in a single spot thirty feet beyond baggage claim looking for the way out. Rookie mistake—I looked like a lost duck. A Customs officer saw me and waved me in her direction. "Oh no, I'm screwed", I thought to myself. She held serious eye contact scrutinizing me as I walked over. Her posture told me everything I needed to know.
If you've lived in a place that doesn't work—you know the moment before a uniformed official harasses you for money. It's a standard dance in airports. They lead with a performative intro—like asking for an official document—often the one reviewed at the previous checkpoint. Passport in hand, they start to “whine you”:
"Fine boy, what did you bring home for aunty's Christmas?" in a jovial, upbeat tone.
"I'm a student, I don't have anything", I lied.
"Ah ah! Students can still invest in us too!"
I laughed and looked away. She continued her sales pitch:
“You look too good to be a student. What are you using for your skin?”
Even though I was annoyed by this inconvenience, I was struck by how rhythmic this call-and-response dance was. Everyone in Lagos has what we call “sweet mouth”. Something about jostling on a piece of land sinking under the weight of awful governance and twenty million tenacious people—teaches you to advocate for your cause. Sales is written into our vernacular. Compliments come first. If that fails to fatten you up, then humor breaks the seal. Or they revert to prayer “Bless me so God blesses you double” or slight guilt “Give me something small so my children can grow big and strong like you.“
I don't condone officials asking for money, it's illegal and degrades the experience for everyone. But growing up in Lagos, I was very aware of money gaps. How could I not be? Picture me, fourteen years old being driven home in an air-conditioned SUV from soccer practice, when a bald boy my age stops our car in traffic, begging me to buy the sachets of water he's hawking on the street. "Please sir, buy something from me!" You see the pain in his eyes, the sweat dripping from his head, he’s been hustling all day and has very few prospects. . Meanwhile, I have the luxury of leisure because of money I didn't earn?
Wages in Lagos are a joke. Half the population is aged 18-40. People are desperate. Enterprising young people scramble to provide services to fix the enormous gaps and earn money—so on one hand, I understand the trolley-men offering me services—they're trying to make a living in a place that gives them few options. But they're also annoying me.
When someone is “billing” you, there's a tactful approach to navigate the experience. If you reject the experience too aggressively or stage a "moral" fight based on “rights” or “justice”, you might aggravate the wound. Remember, this person holds your passport. The last thing you want to do is insult someone who has the time to make your stay unpleasant. You haven't seen petty until you annoy someone with a small station determined to drag you through the mud.
You want to endure the initial approach, laugh it off, banter back if you’re feeling it, then decline. It's a social tax, but it guarantees you safe passage. After two minutes of awkwardness, the Customs woman let me go. I bought a bottle of water from a small shop because it was scorching hot. After handing me my water, the vendor asked me to "give him something to feed his family", and I gave him 1000 naira—less than a dollar—but enough to buy him eggs. I'm very happy tipping honest business people but airport scourge? Not in a million lifetimes.
I got to the arrival aisle and called my brother's wife. They arrived from New Jersey a few hours ahead of me and were coming to pick me up with our family driver. I noticed the new arrivals area has zero seats and has a wide aperture for the full gamut of service-people to roam free—policeman with huge AKs, taxi men, SIM card guys, internet fellas, women in printed shirts raising money for motherless babies' foundations, miscellaneous helper men walking about looking busy but it’s never clear what they're doing.
Standing in the shaded area of arrivals, a man came up to me:
"Big boss, I can hook you up with anything you need.. Phone, internet, data—or if you want, I can dance for you?"
That last bit floored me and I burst out laughing.
"I can do anyone you like. Michael Jackson, Chris Brown, just tell me—"
I'm laughing at the incredulity of it all. In America, airport exits are mundane experiences. You slip through grey, dull doors, pick up your bags, and slink them into a nameless Uber driver’s car. From the moment you touch down till you reach your house, you barely speak. Once you cram the last three digits of your car’s license plate, there are no memorable details. You shove your bags into the blue Prius and sink into your phone.
Nobody offers to dance for you in America. Then again, nowhere is like Lagos. For better and for worse.
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Highlights:
Sample spices that sparked wars in the 1500s
Match metaphors to mystery scents
Create collective art with fellow readers
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This always happens to me too when I visit the country where my parents came from. There's that culture shock and the ultimate preparation as like stepping into a dream, except that dream is just another place with other people, and there are always new things you have to learn when you yourself lack those things by virtue of growing up across the sea. Great piece, loved the narrative voice you used here, it's snappy but contains that specific balance that reminds me of the liminality of airports and all the feelings they evoke.
Coming home is always such a strange experience. Especially when you are away for too long. Loved how you compared with the American experience at the end.