By Ada Obiajunwa

Photo by Opeyemi Adisa on Unsplash

I went to the States recently, and it hit me: I actually love Lagos.

In America, journeys are uneventful. You enter your car, you drive, you arrive. Smooth roads, no drama. Safe, efficient — yes. But boring? Oh, painfully boring. Not even one gist on the way.

Lagos, on the other hand? Lagos is theatre. At 6 a.m., when most cities are still yawning, Lagos has already started Act One, Scene 15. You can be crawling on Third Mainland Bridge, barely awake, and still catch a banker in full suit exchanging blows with a conductor. One man clutching his tie, the other dangling from a danfo door — both fully invested in a fight that will be forgotten the minute it ends.

And I always wonder — what happens after? Does the banker just straighten his tie, walk into the office, and close a million-naira deal like nothing happened? Does the conductor fight three more people before noon? That’s Lagos for you. The scene ends, another begins.

As a younger adult, I hated it. That first wave of hot air at Murtala Mohammed Airport — when the AC is rationed or simply nonexistent — felt like Lagos itself was slapping me. Thick. Impatient. Unapologetic. By the time I cleared immigration and grabbed my box, I was already ten kilos lighter from stress.

Photo by Vitalis Nwenyi on Unsplash

But now? I inhale it like perfume. That smell — heat, impatience, humanity — is home. I think I’ll even miss it now that the airport has been renovated. That hot slap was my Lagos signal: Welcome back.

And Lagos never forgets to remind you who’s boss. A three-lane road becomes six, effortlessly. Lagos drivers are urban planners of vibes. They “make a way where there seems to be no way,” annexing pedestrian walkways with no shame. And if a pedestrian dares to complain? A danfo driver will curse him for “blocking traffic” — on his own walkway. Only in Lagos.

The soundtrack is its own madness: conductors chanting destinations that sound like riddles. Hawkers belting “Gala! Pure water!” like praise worship. Generators humming counterpoint. Lagos is never silent. Sometimes it’s a neighbour’s midnight party, other times a church vigil that insists on sharing its speakers with the entire street. Lagos doesn’t do quiet.

And the drama? Endless. One Lagos rain, and the city turns to Venice. Even a Tesla could double as Noah’s ark here. But akara is still frying by the roadside, because Lagos doesn’t stop for weather. In traffic, hawkers will not abandon you either — those fresh Gala and Capri-Sonne combos have saved more lives than we admit. Eko o nibaje.

The other day, a group of youngsters ran into my car. They were pleading, negotiating, trying to keep things calm — until a random passerby inserted himself. He called me a wicked woman and spoiled their case completely. We soon discovered he wasn’t even with them. Just a Lagosian who wandered into drama that wasn’t his own. When the culprits told him to stop, he quickly blamed “the devil” and went back to pleading on their behalf.

Only in Lagos.

It used to exhaust me. Now it delights me.

Because Lagos is more than stress. It’s soul. It forces you to be present. You can’t scroll through life here — Lagos won’t allow it. You live it. Eyes sharp. Ears tuned. Heart awake.

My generation once dreamed of escape. Abroad was the prize. London, America — anywhere but here. Lagos was something to endure, not to love. I remember the days of molue, Lagos City Transport, immortalised in Majek Fashek’s songs.

But Gen Z? They’ve flipped the script. They see Lagos as vibes. Street food is content. Market noise is background music for TikTok. Dusty sneakers? Fashion. They’ve reclaimed Lagos as a playground — art, music, street style, and storytelling on every corner. And honestly? They might be right.

Because Lagos has always been both: the chaos and the charm, the madness and the magic.

But here’s my secret: as much as I love Lagos, I can’t wait to get home. To shut the door on the noise, walk into the bathroom, and reach for my GlowSoak Body Wash from WhiffWonders. Goat Milk on the tough days. Coconut Paradise when I need escape. Sunset Bliss when I just want comfort. Each one has its own mood, its own softness, its own reminder that joy is still possible. Then I light my Creamy Café Candle and suddenly, Lagos has melted into Paris.

That’s my quiet rebellion. Lagos may roar, but my soft life? She whispers louder.

And maybe that’s the real Lagos lesson: life isn’t smooth or predictable. It’s messy, noisy, demanding. But inside the fumes and traffic, there’s joy waiting — if you slow down enough to notice.

That’s why, after all my travels, Lagos is becoming my favourite city in the world. Not because it’s easy. But because, like life itself, it’s beautifully complicated.

The beauty of Lagos is its diversity — tribes, religions, and the anyhowness. The anyhowness is Lagos. Disorder with rhythm. Learn that rhythm, and you’ll survive. Love it, and you’ll thrive.