Navigating Ivy

Lagos Nights

Today was just another exhausting day in Lagos, a city that never seems to give its residents a break. The sun had barely set, yet the streets were alive with their usual chaos—endless streams of honking cars, vendors shouting, and the occasional gust of wind carrying the scent of roasted corn mixed with exhaust fumes.

After leaving work earlier than usual, I found myself stuck in the notorious Lagos traffic. The journey from the Island to Ikeja felt like an eternity, every minute spent in that suffocating gridlock draining what little energy I had left. All I wanted was to collapse on my bed and forget the world, but as I finally opened the gate to my compound, my hopes were dashed.

There she was—Mrs. Alake, my landlady. A woman in her mid-fifties, with a permanent scowl etched into her face, making the lines around her eyes even more pronounced. She was the kind of woman who seemed born to frown, her expression only softening when money was involved. She stood outside with her arms crossed, a newspaper in hand, her gaze as sharp as a knife.

I sighed inwardly, my tired feet dragging as I approached her. I was already mentally bracing myself for whatever she was about to say.

"Good evening, ma," I greeted, forcing a smile as I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder. My office pants felt tighter after the long day, and my red shirt—now slightly wrinkled—clung to my skin. My black shoes, once polished to perfection, were now scuffed and dusty, a reflection of how I felt.

Mrs. Alake looked up from her newspaper, her eyes narrowing as they met mine. For a moment, she said nothing, just rolled her eyes and went back to reading. The dismissive gesture wasn’t surprising, especially since she had recently tried to hike the rent from three hundred thousand naira to five hundred thousand naira—ridiculous for an apartment where the water barely flowed. I had to threaten her with a lawyer friend of mine, and though it worked, her disdain for me had only grown since.

"Work well?" she asked finally, her tone laced with sarcasm.

"It was fine, thank you," I replied, keeping my tone neutral. There was no point in engaging further; all I wanted was to get to my apartment and unwind. But even as I answered her, I could feel the tension bubbling beneath the surface, the unresolved conflict between us ready to erupt at any moment. Dealing with landlords like Mrs. Alake in Lagos required a bit of madness, a touch of audacity that I was learning to summon when necessary.

As I passed by the five other apartments in the compound, my mind wandered. Each door I walked by felt like another layer of the city’s weight, bearing down on me. Inside, I could hear the faint sounds of evening prayers, the clinking of dishes, and muffled television shows.

When I finally reached my apartment—the sixth and last one at the end of the corridor—I couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. This small space was my sanctuary, the one place where I could shed the burdens of the day. I unlocked the door and stepped inside, breathing in the familiar scent of home. It was small but cozy, decorated with personal touches that made it feel warm despite the challenges outside. A portrait of Psalm 91 hung on the wall, offering me a sense of protection in this chaotic city. My bed, with its soft, worn blankets, called to me like a siren song. The low couch in the corner, though more decorative than functional, added a touch of comfort to the room.

As I took in my surroundings, I felt a pang of loneliness. It wasn’t just about the emptiness of the apartment—it was the emptiness that had settled in my heart over the past few years. My mother’s words echoed in my mind, a constant reminder of how I was failing in her eyes.

"Ivy Omotolani Matthew," I said to myself in the mirror, as if reminding myself who I was. Twenty-five years old, standing at 5’8", with brown skin that sits perfectly between fair and dark, and a slim build that complements my height. My full black hair was currently braided into a neat all-back style with attachment, something my colleagues always complimented. "You’re doing okay," I whispered, though I knew my mother would disagree.

To her, I was in my "late twenties," and it was "time to have a family." But how could I even consider that when I had so much going on? Living in Lagos was a challenge in itself, and the thought of adding the complications of a relationship—especially with Lagos men—wasn’t something I was eager to entertain. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt, knowing that I was disappointing her expectations. But deep down, I knew there was more to it than that.

As I peeled off my work clothes and slipped into something more comfortable—an oversized T-shirt and shorts—I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing from my life. It wasn’t just the absence of a man or a family. It was the sense that I wasn’t living up to my potential, that I was letting the world dictate who I should be rather than forging my own path.

The weight of these thoughts followed me into the shower, where the water offered little solace. Even as I stood under the stream, I could feel the tears welling up, but I blinked them back. There was no time for tears. Not in this city, not with all the responsibilities I had.

After drying off, I collapsed onto my bed, reaching for my phone. I opened Instagram, fully aware that it might only deepen my funk, but it had become a habit, a way to escape even if only for a few minutes. Sure enough, the first thing that popped up was a photo of Diana Eneje with a bouquet of roses, celebrating Girlfriend’s Day. Girlfriend’s Day? I didn’t even know that was today! After a few wistful “awws” and a couple of "God, when?" thoughts, I decided to put the phone down. Tomorrow was Friday, and thank God for that—at least it meant a shorter workday.

But even as I tried to distract myself, my mind kept drifting back to my father. He had always been my rock, the one person who believed in me no matter what. He used to tell me that I could be anything I wanted to be, that I had the strength and intelligence to carve out my own destiny. I used to believe him, too. But after he died, everything changed. The Nigerian government’s neglect of the families of fallen soldiers left us struggling, and my mother—once a pillar of strength herself—had become a shadow of her former self, consumed by the weight of her own expectations and the harsh realities of life.

I was jolted out of my thoughts by the sound of my phone ringing. Without checking the caller ID, I picked up.

"Hello?"

"Is that how to greet your mother?" The voice on the other end was unmistakable—my mom, Mrs. Adebimpe Matthew. Oh no, I wasn’t ready for this conversation. Not tonight.

"Sorry, Mummy, I didn’t know it was you," I quickly apologized. I didn’t want to get her riled up, especially since it was already past 10 p.m.

"O da ooo, sha know i’m still your mother," she replied, her voice sharp but tinged with concern. My mom was a proud Yoruba woman from Ondo State, deeply rooted in tradition. Her expectations for me were shaped by her upbringing, and she never hesitated to remind me of them.

"Yes, Mummy. Good evening. How are you, ma?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation into calmer waters.

"How would you know? When last did you call me?" she shot back, her words cutting through the line like a whip.

"I’ve been busy at work, that’s why, Mummy," I explained, knowing it wouldn’t satisfy her.

"You’re always busy—not like you’re a millionaire. Only God knows if you’ll delete my number when you become one."

I stifled a sigh, trying to remain patient. "C’mon, Mummy, you know it’s not like that."

"Okay, I’ve heard you. Your brother said you paid for his tuition already."

"Yes, ma," I confirmed, relieved to be talking about something positive.

"Thank you. That’s what firstborns do," she acknowledged, softening slightly. But her next words brought me back to reality. "But you haven’t sent the money for the aso ebi for Mummy Tofunmi’s daughter’s wedding."

I closed my eyes, feeling a wave of fatigue wash over me. "Mummy, I don’t have that kind of money right now. I’m struggling with paying my bills."

"Don’t give me that at all! I’m already ashamed that you can’t find a man at this age, so please save me some shame by getting this cloth for me. When I was your age, I already had you and your brother, Dara."

Her words stung, as they always did. I bit back my frustration, knowing this conversation was going nowhere. "I know, but times are changing, Mummy. I can’t just go out and force a man to date me, let alone marry me, just like that!"

"You girls of today," she began, her voice heavy with disappointment. "You think life is just about work and enjoyment. When will you understand that family is everything? I don’t want to be ashamed when I see my friends at the wedding."

I could hear the weariness in her voice, and it tugged at my heart. I knew she wanted the best for me, but her way of expressing it only made me feel more isolated.

As she continued to express her frustrations, I laid my head on the pillow, letting her words wash over me. My thoughts drifted back to my father, wishing he were still here to offer some comfort, some guidance. But all I had were memories and the heavy burden of living up to expectations I wasn’t sure I could ever meet.

My name is Ivy Omotolani Matthew. I’m twenty-five years old and the firstborn of our family. I have two younger brothers, Dara and Tayo, both of whom I adore and would do anything for. My mother, though, is another story. She’s a traditional Yoruba woman who believes a woman’s primary role is to marry and be taken care of by her husband and, by extension, his family. But I didn’t want that to be my story. My father, who was a military man, had different dreams for me. He believed in my potential, in my ability to break free from the mold and create my own path. His death two years before I graduated was a blow I never truly recovered from. The Nigeria government’s neglect of the families of fallen soldiers only added to our struggles. My mom had to sell most of her belongings to get me through school, and ever since I started working at J&K PR Company, I’ve been responsible for taking care of her and my brothers. It’s tough, really tough, but I keep trying.

As my mother’s voice grew fainter, my eyelids grew heavier. I could feel myself drifting off to sleep, the day’s exhaustion finally catching up with me.

"Omotolani, hello, hello," I faintly heard her calling my name. After a few more attempts and no response from my end, she sighed. "This child slept off the call. Sha, my God will continue to protect you and guide you. Amen. O daaro o," she said before ending the call.

Sleep took over me, pulling me into the darkness where I could escape the weight of expectations, if only for a few hours.