Can I pass? No way!

Driving is an art wherever you go; you have to understand the contours and temperament of any city to be able to adjust properly to their driving style. I have always known that in order to be able to drive in Lagos one has to have the right balance of daredevil and clinically deranged. Road etiquette is considered a hindrance to proper driving and anything that shares the road is seen as a target.

Being driven in Lagos even takes time to get used to but in time you stop ducking behind the seat and covering your eyes with your hands whenever you see an okada whizzing through spaces that would make you believe that they were two-dimensional.

I have to comment on the fact that there have been some improvements made on the roads in Lagos, there have even been traffic lights installed. The craziness of the Lagos driver has been spoken about countless times and at this point one should have adopted the "if you can't beat them, join them" mentality.

The most spectacular thing about the roads is exactly who or what one has to contend with:

Things with wheels: one would expect to have to deal with other cars, some buses and maybe even a tanker or two but in Lagos you have to take into consideration that everything with wheels believes it has a place on the road. Of course you have the okada, which now has a 2.0 model with a backseat and aluminium casing known as the "keke Maruwa." There are people with wheelbarrows/ carts transporting everything from gallons of water to an improvised pharmacy (tip: the heat does not bode well for the condoms so... take heed). These are not difficult to deal with; if they have wheels then they can wheel the hell out of my way!

Things without wheels: one would never expect to deal with these entities but they believe they have a place on the road as well and woe betide you if you tell them different. There are dogs, chickens, rams, horses, markets, and of course people. Many, many people, people having conversations, people fighting, people washing your windshield without your permission, people selling things and even people having a shower (I've always wanted to shout "hey! You haven't washed behind your ears"). One has to make provisions for these or you will have to deal with getting blood off your car on a daily basis.

I have to actually give credit to the LASTMA officials who try to keep order on the street with their series of roadside calisthenics. They are fully equipped with a chord on their shoulder and a baton to beat people into submission or a stupor (whichever comes first).

Oh well...

Xo, Nola

A journey into the bureaucracy

Seeing as I needed to update my passport and I am somewhat of a social
masochist I journeyed into the land of the civil servants today, also
known as the Nigerian Immigration Office. I only had to take my
picture and seeing as civil servants in any respect are people who
were made especially to work in slow motion, I resigned that the
process should take me no more than 2 hours (just a simple point and
click right?).

Before I even get into the labyrinth that is the immigration office I first encountered a barrage of people outside the gates. These people were selling everything: leather passport cases,passport photographs, food, drinks, ice cream and of course recharge cards. Apparently, these hawkers have presented themselves to be a
problem because right in front of the gates was a sign that said
"Please do not patronise touts." I wondered to myself if they actually
think of themselves as touts or just business savvy entrepreneurs who
concur with the rule about the touts...hmmmmm.

I wriggled my way through the people and found myself a waiting area
under a huge canopy. The first thing that caught my eye was that there
was a VIP section for taking photographs! I watched the people who
went through the VIP doors and they included a police officer, some
kind of government official, a few people that I could only identify
as "big boys" and a reverend father (I guess the latter has been
deemed a VIP by higher powers). As I sat and waited, I noticed that
there were about 3 chickens parading themselves around the waiting
area. There was a particularly bold one that was so used to human
interaction that it walked between people's legs. I thought to myself
"if the chickens were having their pictures taken, this one would
definitely be a VIP."

After waiting a meagre 3 hours, I was called into a room only to find out that there was a line of about 15 people ahead of me. I know what you're thinking, 15 aren't that many, and they're just taking a picture, right? Ha! This could have been the case but the person taking the pictures had the attention span of a
gnat. He would take a picture, get a phone call, be spoken to by random minions of the bureaucracy about how the oga has demanded that some people be moved to the VIP. He was also asked if he wanted to order an egg with his lunch because Iya Shaki had run out of beans.

It is my belief that in every waiting room there is a child who is
employed to be loud and very difficult to control. In this one, there
were two. They ran, they screamed, they spat, they twirled, they cried
and this was all before they even had to take the picture! Their
mother looked very resigned to the noise but would make feeble attempts to bribe them to be quiet with biscuits and what I believe to have been orange-flavoured milk. As I was considering having my tubes tied, my turn came, I took my picture, got fingerprinted, accepted the fact that everyone looks like a convict in their passport picture and left the office.

I can only advise that on your next trip to the bureaucracy bring
something to read, an MP3 player and maybe your own tranquilizer gun (if the children go a little too far).

Xo, Nola