I am an Ajebutter. Not by birth, or by formings, or by swag – I am simply an unapologetic Ajebutter by default. I didn’t choose to be born one. God, without seeking my opinion (because He’s God, I guess), gave me the genes of an Ajebutter and a funny Bri-Merican accent . By luck or some twisted work of fate, fortune, Karma (I might have killed ten defenseless puppies in my past life) or destiny, I have found myself in Lagos, crazy Lasgidi, and this is my story…
So I finally return back to Lagos, and by gosh, I feel alive once again. The air is dirty and smoky (plus cold and dry. Thank Harmattan), the roads are crawling with people, and at the street corners, you can take a deep breath of fresh air mixed with marijuana…or is it high grade SK (skunk weed)?
I think I will smoke weed and SK this year. It just feels so illegal and exciting!
Well, as a young man who has spent the last 2 years chasing the Nigerian dream in this megacity, I surprisingly return back for more hustle, and growth. But there’s one little problem. January in Lagos feels like a trip to North Korea. Everyone screams of being without money, and have this look of despair in their eyes.
“Seriously people, where is the ginger?”
There is no ginger. I think the inhabitants of the state used up all their ginger and money turning up during the festive season, and now, all they have left are onions, and Hausa cabbage. And for the record, I hate Hausa cabbage.
So on Friday, I and a couple of my colleagues begin the long walk to relaxation and we hit the town, alcohol in our system, fire in our eyes, and the devil in pour belly. We really needed to connect with the simple things of nightlife and squeeze this town for the last of the ginger.
It wasn’t that we had too much money. We just have too much ginger. And no sense.
We drive around the Lagos Island, hopping clubs and chasing the music. But through all of it, I find it difficult to connect. So in Lekki, I made the move to leave one very dull club, and take a little walk. Outside, with the fresh air and all, my bladder gives me a tickle, and I begin to take a piss at some gutter when a young man pulls close to me.
“Bros Well done oh, Hapi nu yah”. He greeted. I was sceptical, ready for action. I was James Bond mixed with Jet Li, mixed with Jackie Chan, and mixed with Spiderman.
“Well done. Same to you”. I replied, trying my best to disguise my funny accent. Joey, the ghetto breed.
“Anything for the boys?”. See me see wahala. This dude obviously didn’t check his calendar. No sir. There is nothing for the boys this January. It is dry, broke and lacking in ginger.
“Nothing for the boys. January turn up no sweet”. I replied. Playing it cool and hoping he leaves.
“For where?” His voice was raised. Yoruba accent clearly at work. “For wia, jus last yah January na pati I jus dey pati, all dis yan say bar no dey na wash…”
And so he started. For thirty minutes, I listened to him talk about his exploits in January. Something about him having so much fun and so much smoke that it almost ruined his life. In fact, his name is January.
I finally found a way to extricate myself from January, but not withoit parting with N200 for his next smoke. He earned it. With the tales of January and all.
Perhaps there’s some truth in what he is saying. Perhaps this January has some hidden ginger that I can’t find. Should I abandon all my tush friends and travel to Bariga and Mushin to connect with true happiness and bliss? I think I might just do it. Only fear is, nobody will accept me and my accent.
I might just go on fooling people until a wise tout screams in disgust. “Ogbeni, park well with your American pidgin English. You think say we be mumu?”
No Sir. Thank you.
See you next week. Peace and good hustle. Happy 2015.