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Monday

THE flight into Murtala Muhammed International Airport in Lagos is a daunting experience. Despite the comfortable cabin of the Virgin Nigeria aircraft, I was tired from the all-night flight. My thoughts turned to horror stories of corrupt customs officials and throngs of conmen that awaited me on the ground. As the plane descended into Lagos state, the morning light illuminated the sprawling cityscape, a massive agglomeration of roads, stadiums, office-blocks, and tin-roofed shanties.

To the south, the interlocked islands of Lagos, Ikoyi, and Victoria, congested with high-rises, were vaguely discernible. Lagos started as a small town; in the 50 years since Nigeria declared independence from Britain, it has grown into a megalopolis of 10m-15m people, depending on the census taker. Its frontiers have sprawled into the lush jungle and marsh of the mainland.

AFP

Despite Lagos's size and economic importance, its fearsome reputation and lack of tourist attractions mean that foreign visitors like me (oyibo in the local vernacular) typically come to work in the oil-driven economy of the Niger River delta, and its related service sectors. This means corporate expense accounts, tight security, and limited contact with the city itself.

But I work in the arts rather than the petroleum industry. My partner and I came to Lagos on our own to investigate the city's art and music scenes, so I arrive with none of the usual assurances. Nonetheless, I pass with ease through customs and proceed to the taxi rank unmolested. If anything, the airport is eerily placid, and I am swiftly heading south toward mainland Lagos. My apprehension dissipated at once, and my first impression of the verdant city was of explosive energy tempered by impressive urban development.

An hour later I arrive in Ikeja, a wealthy outer-ring section of Lagos populated with business hotels. They offer European comfort at a steep price, usually at least $350 per night. On my first day in Lagos it seems a worthwhile expense.

The side roads of Ikeja weave through posh districts like Maryland, in which wealthy business people (Big Boys) live in compounds protected by multiple steel gates and high walls lined with broken beer bottles—a jarring, if effective, anti-theft device. These compounds are interspersed cheek-by-jowl with ramshackle townships, where improvised stalls abut open gutters. Vendors sell hardboiled eggs, cigarettes, and scrap motorcycle parts. Like suburbs the world over, Ikeja's high streets boast fast-food restaurants, grocery shops and, most significantly, large banks with cash machines.

This is no small thing. Prior to the very recent advance of ATMs throughout Lagos, the Nigerian naira (which trades at roughly 150 to the dollar), was available only through unreliable exchange counters or on the black market—eager men with leather satchels of bills. Combined with the lack of credit-card capabilities at all but the highest-end establishments, the result was cash hoarding, mostly in car sidepanels and bulging pockets. Foreign travellers in particular were easy marks for local hoodlums, such as the vigilante Area Boys, youth gangs who mugged, carjacked and invaded homes, confident of scoring bundles of thousand-naira notes.

But even in a country known for high-tech fraud, the flexibility and security of chip- and pin-cards have produced a decline in robberies and pickpocketing over the past six months. The risk has moved from people to banks like Zenith, which have grown into fortifications complete with armed guards posted at the terminals.

Ikeja is also a hub of Lagos nightlife—Femi Kuti, one of Nigeria's most popular musicians, regularly caps off otherwise quiet Sunday evenings with blowout shows at his nearby Shrine nightclub. Area elites come to Ikeja's hotel bars to watch football. In one such lounge, I strike up a conversation with a portly government film censor as he downs 60cl bottles of high-octane Nigerian Guinness with his friend, a Nollywood star clad in a slim-cut batik cloth suit chatting animatedly into his mobile. Both are religious men, with families at home. Neither consideration, apparently, was an impediment to a night on the town.

The talk meanders from Barack Obama (very popular here) to Nigerian cinema (going digital) to the Yoruban religion (waning in Lagos, where Islam and charismatic Christianity are both on the rise). By midnight the duo and their driver load me into a VW coupe and raced to a neighbourhood club called Excalibar, where sharply-dressed young people drank vodka and danced to American hip-hop and local juju tunes. I leave, exhausted from the day's journey, after 30 minutes, but it was clear that even on an unremarkable Monday, the party would continue through the night.

Tuesday

LAGOS is a city in perpetual motion. Street life is marked by brisk conversation and exchange. Everything from used American cars and cheap Chinese consumer goods to petrol moves through the city's massive port—and the lack of that last item in Lagos itself makes moving through the city such a challenge.

My journey begins at a Mobil station near my hotel. I need to get to the commercial district of Victoria Island. How I will do that is not at all clear. The station is a scene of barely controlled chaos. Perhaps 100 queuing motorists spill over from the car park into the streets, blocking traffic on the four-lane road. Old women obstinately switch off their ignitions and wait, ignoring the bellowing policemen in the road. Young entrepreneurs dart around with hand-held containers of fuel—enough for a trip downtown and back.

AFP

No fuuling around

In the space just beyond the station, in front of a fast-food shop called Mr Bigg's, the menu of transit options is presented in a frenetic bazaar. The massive roads and distances in Lagos leave little room for foot traffic, and public transit (a single bus line and long-deferred light rail notwithstanding) is non-existent.

Left to the mercy of the open market, I look over to a congregation of a dozen drivers revving the engines of their Suzuki motorcycles. These okada provide an inexpensive option for shorter trips or on the congested islands, but mounting the back of these accident-prone bikes, which careen perpendicular as often as parallel to traffic patterns, is a harrowing act of faith as much as an exhilarating short-cut.

A safer budget option is the danfo, improvised buses made from converted Nissan and VW minivans painted green or yellow, then stuffed beyond capacity. They are the local standard, and overflow with young men in polo shirts and middle-aged women carrying briefcases. Nevertheless, the buses' cramped quarters and ponderous routes can easily ruin one's day before it starts. Those who can afford it choose among scores of cab drivers, who compete for and delegate fares amongst themselves.

In this fashion, I am able to negotiate between late-model, air-conditioned Toyotas, rickety yellow cabs, and barely operational Peugeots, none of which provide seatbelts. One way fares to downtown usually range from $35 on the higher end to $10 on the lower, but this week presents a special problem—scant petrol.

Despite Nigeria's petroleum-driven economy, its refinery sector has steadily collapsed over the past decade, leaving it rich in crude oil only. The country now imports petrol. The price per litre is usually around $.40, but this week it has quadrupled. The cabbies, who operate on razor-thin margins anyway, must bribe station attendants or pay black market prices. As a result, many cabbies stay home on days like today, and those who work will pass the markup to riders like me. My now frequent driver, Daniel, attempts to charge me double, and answers my protests with the jocular refrain: “Eh, but there is no fuul [Lagos slang for petrol] today!”

Lagos boasts a considerable network of large highways, and in the past several years, clean, paved roads bounded by pleasing black and white curbs and the occasional stoplight have been built across the city, extending the grid beyond showcase arterials. The highways, however, are congested with heavy traffic, including scores of increasingly common Japanese cars, the choice of Nigeria's middle class. Local professionals argue that faced with four-hour “go-slows” during rush hour, a private air-conditioned car is a necessity, not a luxury.

Drivers navigate the flows with a helter-skelter fluency. Many cab steering wheels are marked with shiny depressions, where the drivers ceaselessly tap the horn in staccato bursts to warn off errant okada or simply to greet other motorists. The hypnotic mayhem has its risks: I was cautioned that victims of the frequent accidents here are left to be pickpocketed in the road, or simply pulverised by traffic. This was confirmed within days of my arrival when our driver blithely swerved around an eviscerated body in the fast lane, most likely one of many pedestrians who try their luck darting across the scenic Third Mainland Bridge.

That sort of scene, quite common by all accounts, is a telling example of the tension coursing through Lagos, which pits sanitised modernity against quotidian brutality. As if to drive the contrast home, most danfo are emblazoned with homemade religious stickers, mostly crosses, but also slogans like “Smile, It's in God's Hands!” Or, more to the point, “You Can't Turn Back.”

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Wednesday

BEFORE arriving in Lagos, I had arranged to visit an artist who lives in Yaba, an inner-ring district on the mainland. A friend assured me that Yaba is relatively peaceful, but in Nigeria, safety is left to the Almighty. And while prayer never hurts, the artist and anyone else in Lagos who can improves their odds with gated driveways, razor-wired walls and armed guards.

Nigeria's violent reputation largely stems from the Delta Region, where armed groups like Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta, known as MEND, abduct and ransom foreign workers to fuel their rebellion against a federal government that takes petro-dollars from the southeast but re-invests very little. Crime in Lagos tends to be petty; Yaba market, for instance, is known for its pickpockets.

Reuters

Nigerian police patrol the streets of Lagos

This is a recent shift: during Sani Abacha's presidency in the 1990s, violent crime in Lagos virtually killed the city's nightlife. The rule of Babatunde Fashola, who was elected governor of Lagos state in 2007, has seen both infrastructural improvements like roads and green space as well as a brutal crackdown on local criminals. Ordinary Lagosians, too, have joined the cause by dispensing mob justice to accused thieves, sometimes in the form burning-tyre “necklaces”.

By day, Lagos is chaotic but charming. During long walks throughout the city, I am unfailingly welcomed by local merchants and pedestrians. The situation is more complex in the evenings, when there are fewer people on the roads, and robbers are emboldened. This means that walking, even driving, after dark is discouraged. Stories abound of cabbies taking fares to parts unknown before shaking them down.

An early morning drive on the road from Lagos island to the mainland revealed improvised tyre spikes in the road and a freshly incinerated minivan on the shoulder ahead—evidence of a late-night roadblock by area toughs. Burglaries continue in areas like Ikoyi, a semi-rural redoubt on eastern Lagos island, populated by wealthy government and corporate employees. Armed robbers recently forced their way into the American Marines' compound there.

By most accounts, though, home invasions of this sort are becoming the exception rather than the rule. Taking precautions in the evening, like limiting movement and using a regular driver, eliminates much of the residual risk. Still, much of Lagos's appeal lies in this split between overwhelming openness and hospitality and an underlying aura of suspicion and danger.

The local police force, which patrols main roads, bridges, and entrances to neighbourhoods with berets and old AK-47s, is a constant reminder of this delicate balance. On this particular evening, I am going out for late-night dancing with friends who work for a foreign government. Like many expats, they are discouraged from visiting the mainland, and travel door-to-door on the islands with salaried drivers, or known private cabbies like ours, a quixotic veteran with a dilapidated old car.

When we reach the bridge connecting Lagos and Victoria islands, men in black and olive fatigues line the entrances and sidewalks of the natural choke-point, stopping cars at their discretion. Nigerian police have a reputation for corruption, and unmarked cars with foreign passengers are an easy mark. We roll down the windows and the officers ask what sort of gift we have brought them. They say they need to purchase “pure water”—ubiquitous bags of filtered water that serve as one of many euphemisms for bribe money.

A few hundred naira is usually enough to grease the wheels, but one's attitude can wildly shift the outcome of the exchange: perceived rudeness can up the amount into the thousands and, by contrast, a wave and simple “thank you” can quickly dispel any tension. We ask, imitating local parlance as best we can, how the officers are doing, and promise “maybe next time”, eliciting a round of laughter and avoiding a payoff entirely.

This sort of interaction embodies a middle ground between the anarchic violence and routine verbal sparring that mark any given day in Lagos. My photographer friend tells me that the city is no more dangerous than London or New York (to say nothing of, say, Tel Aviv or Karachi), as long as one watches their back. In a pinch, a good sense of humour and a confident smile go a long way.

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Thursday

THE most common sound in Lagos is the steady thrum of diesel-powered generators, both the small $200 residential variety sold by the side of the road, and the huge versions used by banks, hotels and restaurants. The sense of being surrounded by a pack of lawnmowers is the price one pays for somewhat continuous electricity in a country with a power grid but little power generation. For middle-class families, this means a few hours of lamplight and ceiling fans during the 20 hours per day of planned blackouts; for the wealthy and large businesses, regular bursts of darkness until someone can flip a switch.

Generators are one of many adaptations of a population largely left to its own devices by its leadership. Mobile phones are another. Nigeria has few landlines, but the GSM revolution of the past five years put mobile phones with interchangeable SIM cards and pay-as-you-go plans in the hands of literally millions of people who previously had no access to communications technology. In addition to plugging in a whole generation of Nigerians, the boom gave rise to service providers and, more importantly, ushered in a variety of small-scale businesses. From working-class Ketu to posh Victoria Island, young men peddle phone cards at intersections. On side streets, old women lounge under parasols selling phones and SIM chips. Along the same dirt paths, those without phones can make single calls by the minute, while those with phones can charge their mobiles on power strips connected to portable generators.

AP

What Graham Bell wrought

This sort of unregulated, low-cost commerce is ubiquitous in Lagos. On the short walk from my building to the main road, I walk by at least five improvised businesses that dot the side street. The most common are young women with simmering stock pots, the contents of which vary from day to day. The overhead is low, and the vendors do high volume with professionals and low-wage buskers alike. For a quicker bite, you can pick up rich homemade doughnuts or breaded hard-boiled eggs at an adjacent stand, or flag down an elderly man who sells biscuits from a hole in the wall for $.20 each.

Searching for a power converter for any plug or a quick soldering job? Ramshackle electronics stands hawk cheaply made Chinese appliances and make quick repairs for a song. Hair getting ratty? Step behind a curtain for an efficient if less than sanitary “barbing” job. Need a tire vulcanised or a carburettor rebuilt? Head to the guy on the milk crate on the corner, next to the open sewer. Stuck in traffic? Buy a copy of the Financial Times, a cold beer and a croissant from the lines of well-organised and tireless boys who weave through midday congestion.

Transactions such as these fuel the informal economy of a city bursting to the seams with an enterprising workforce. It's also incredibly convenient for a visitor. Lagosian pride seems to have eliminated a patronage or begging culture, and for a scant hundred naira, guards, waiters, and vendors will find bread and jam or a pack of cigarettes. And the darker side of this desperation/pragmatism is never far: sex work is tacitly embraced, and prostitutes wander night spots unabashedly, the line between bar and brothel at times too fine to discern.

Yet it all somehow coheres. The government fails to provide essential services, from infrastructure to education, so the market fills the gap. Lagos is a highly-functioning libertarian dystopia where you can get anything if you have the naira, and the tens of thousands streaming from the country can eke out a living alongside prospecting multinational yuppies. The Wild West model will never yield sustainable social or economic development, but in Lagos it's the only game in town.

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