Comedians and High Heels in Lagos

If the average Nigerian church service takes 3 hours, it's no surprise that the entertainment show that I attended last night in Lagos started at 6pm and still wasn't anywhere near finished by 11.30. Nor did I realize that I was signing up to watch this production alongside no less than 5000 other people. Literally.

People streamed in for the first hour of the show…and continued to stream in for the second. More chairs were brought in. Staircases were filled. Health and Safety in Britain certainly wouldn’t have approved, but that is of little relevance because the comedians had the thousands-strong audience virtually comatose with laughter. Chairs shaking and thumping. Howling with mirth. Twas a huge pity my Pidgin wasn’t up to it. The general topics were, of course, the familiar friends of people across the continent: police violence; corruption; incompetent politicians; and a fair amount of demeaning commentary about women. All this was interspersed with dancing, lip syncing, more dancing, hotpants…and the 8-year old Nigerian version of Justin Bieber.

Other observations: there is no rhyme or reason to Nigerian fashion. The dresses and styles amongst the audience were allsorts. The take away messages from the Lagosian women were, rather: don’t be shy about your curves…and wear 5-inch heels as often as possible. And if you need to hop on the back of a motorbike in a miniskirt, just get on with it. I can safely say that I haven’t been to any other African country where such extensive exposure of skin appears to be considered pretty normal among the middle classes.

On attempting to leave, and having passed the Rolls Royce, the Hummer and the guy with the automatic rifle at the front door, we found that we’d been parked in. My initial suggestion to drive through the hotel flower bed was shunned, but not for long, once seven versions of an eight-point turn had failed. The flowers turned out more or less fine.

Back at the fancy hotel, I enjoy air-conditioning, running water and satellite television. My window is all steamed up on the outside with the Lagos humidity that I can’t feel on the inside because I’m so privileged, but two hundred metres away is a small shanty settlement. Motorbikes, dust, dirt, open fires, certainly no sanitation. A whole different world.

The average private property in this part of town apparently costs $3 million dollars. That’s Lagos square-metres for you. It must be virtually impossible for a young person, even a very well paid one, to get onto the property ladder. As for rental, you have to pay at least a year’s rent up front in advance, if not two. You’re likely to still have to commute 2 hours to work. One of my colleagues has to leave home at 5.15am if he wants to spend 20 - rather than 120 - minutes on the road.

Departure Day: Thankfully this time I didn’t travel Mugabe-style to the airport. We spent two and a quarter hours with broken air-con in heavy traffic and fumes. And once at the airport, we all queued for a single X-ray scanner, so that was another 90 minutes.

One of the security officials made an announcement to address the line’s quiet frustration:

Security official: “Someone died on Friday. …”.

Random passenger: “Bin Laden!”

Security official: “Ehee. Some people are happy! Some people are not happy! So just be patient while we do our jobs”.

And all were reasonably content and on we queued.

I did make it to the X-ray machine, eventually. I had tasty lentils-and-rice in my hand luggage, cooked, ready to eat and perfectly suited for an arduous journey. I suspected that the stern security woman was going to grill and detain me for carrying food, but instead she gave me a knowing look and an approving grunt, as if to say: yes, any sensible woman would naturally carry her own provisions with her. And that was the end of Lagos, at least for now.