Chapter One
By 4:30 a.m., Lagos had already decided my fate.
My alarm blared, and at the first ring, I shot up in bed, fighting sleep, tiredness, and laziness all at once. My back almost hit the mattress again, but I averted that calamity by rushing off the bed and switching on the light. The brightness hit my eyes with such force that I had to shut them for a few seconds, waiting for my body to catch up with my decision to be awake. Only when I was sure sleep no longer had a grip on me did I turn off the alarm.
I miss the days when waking up early was a choice and not survival.
I moved around my small room, sorting out what to wear for the day. I could have done this the night before, but my body never allows it. After work, it shuts down immediately, and these days, even taking a proper shower after work feels like a privilege.
Moving to Lagos after my NYSC to seek greener pastures was one of the best decisions I've ever made. Even though there is almost nothing green here, just exhaust fumes and noise, no cap.
I wish I could say my area was quiet and serene, but the reverse is the case. Nobody here seems to know what peace and quiet is, and that applies to everybody in Lagos. I sleep through all the noise now like a baby, mostly because I never even notice when my body finally gives up, and I fall asleep.
After making sure my corporate wear was ready, I added water to my bag and rushed to the bathroom. I had to leave the house before daybreak, or history would repeat itself, and I would get to work by noon. I didn't even want to think about that particular history because it brought literal tears to my eyes. Someone once called it a "welcome-to-Lagos ritual," and over time, I began to understand exactly what they meant.
While brushing my teeth, the lights went off. Instantly, I and what felt like ninety-nine other people shouted, "Nepa!" That reaction would never stop amusing me. I turned on my flashlight and continued my preparation like nothing had happened.
By 5:30 a.m., I was already outside. I had not planned to cook that morning, which was why I woke up by 4:30. If I had planned to cook something serious, I would have been awake by 2:30 instead. Proof that Lagos rewards preparation with exhaustion.
I got to the bus stop after a quick walk, sweat already trickling down my forehead and armpits. The street was still dark, but people were already rushing. Generators humming, horns blaring, voices exchanging early-morning gist. This city is never truly asleep.
At the bus stop, we waited for the danfo to fill up, listening to conductors shout destinations like broken records, yelling street names and repeatedly asking, "Hold your change o!"
In less than five minutes, the bus was full, and the journey began.
We barely left the park before the driver got into an altercation with another driver, hurling insults without restraint. It was the first of many. Sit in a danfo for a week, and you get used to it. In fact, you start picking up mostly Yoruba insults, but they suffice. As they say, trouble go dey sleep, yanga go dey wake am.
I spent most of the ride observing. You would think that after a few weeks, Lagos would run out of surprises, but every morning, it finds a new way to shock you. Danfos lined up in traffic, familiar drivers greeting one another, heated arguments over lanes, drivers correcting other drivers with insults that made no sense. Some fights nearly broke out right there in traffic, and no one reacted. Everyone pretended none of it concerned them.
Hawkers were already out, weaving dangerously between vehicles, trying to outspeed trailers that could crush them without noticing. That part always sent fear down my spine.
After the long journey that started before 5 a.m., I finally made it to work by 8:37, leaving me with barely ten minutes to sit down, breathe, and prepare myself. I exchanged greetings with the gate man on my way in.
"Good morning," he said cheerfully.
I noticed he had been greeting me with extra enthusiasm ever since I bought him food one afternoon. I returned his greeting with a smile, hoping he wasn't getting ideas. I was surviving too.
Inside the building, the cool air from the AC wrapped around me, instantly calming my nerves. I leaned briefly against the elevator wall, stealing a one-minute rest before reality resumed. I pulled out my phone for the first time since morning, three unread birthday messages, one of them from Tayo. I typed a quick reply, then put the phone away. Work first.
After signing in, I dropped my bag in the kitchenette and headed to my desk. Files passed from one hand to another, soft greetings were exchanged, and just like that, the atmosphere shifted. Work had officially started.
"How could you do this to me?" a voice whispered loudly beside me, calling my name.
I looked up, startled. "Do what?"
Tayo stood in front of me, fake-pouting. "Everybody wished me happy birthday, even the gatemen and cleaners, but you didn't."
I blinked, confused, then remembered I hadn't checked my phone since morning. "I'm sorry. I didn't check my phone."
"Nope. Apology rejected," she said immediately. "Today, you, me, and the girls are hanging out to celebrate my birthday properly. I'm not asking."
And with that, she walked away, not giving me the chance to protest.
Tayo was new, just like me, though in another department. She carried herself like she owned the place, and somehow, nobody seemed to mind. Her personality was a breath of fresh air in this overly structured office, even if it was a bit too much for someone like me.
I was still smiling at her retreating when someone tapped my shoulder.
"Chioma." It was one of the junior admin staff, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Femi wants to see you."
I turned. "Me? Why?"
She shrugged and walked off before I could ask anything else.
My stomach dropped a little. I ran through the last few days in my head. Had I sent the wrong file to a client? Missed a deadline I didn't know about? Said something in a meeting I shouldn't have? By the time I reached his office door, I had convicted and acquitted myself of three separate imaginary offenses.
I knocked.
"Come in."
Mr. Femi's office was neat in that deliberate way: nothing on the desk that didn't need to be there, blinds angled just enough to keep the sun out without blocking the view. He didn't look up immediately. He was reading something, pen resting between two fingers.
"Sit," he said, gesturing at the chair across from him without lifting his eyes.
I sat, spine straight, hands folded on my lap like I was back in a school principal's office.
He asked two brief questions about the file he'd handed me earlier, whether I'd found the flagged sections, whether the formatting matched last quarter's report. I answered both, waiting for whatever this was really about.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he said, "The report you're working on."
I nodded. "Yes, sir."
"You don't have to finish it today."
I blinked. "Sir?"
He looked back down at his own file, unbothered, like he hadn't just rewritten my entire afternoon. "Tomorrow is fine."
A short pause.
"You should leave on time today."
I didn't understand, but I wasn't about to argue with permission I hadn't asked for. "Okay... thank you, sir."
He nodded once. "That'll be all."
I stood, said a quiet "thank you" that didn't get a reply, and let myself out.
Walking back to my desk, I glanced through the glass wall of his office. He was already back in his file, like the last two minutes hadn't happened at all.
I sat down and looked at the unfinished report still open on my screen.
Tomorrow.
Mr. Femi had never struck me as the type to change a deadline for no reason.
So why had he changed this one?
