The Place That Made Me

There’s a hum that lives in the streets of Lagos, a steady, unrelenting rhythm that carries you whether or not you’re ready for the ride. I didn’t understand it when I was 18 and wide-eyed, stepping off the ABC bus from Abuja with two suitcases of folded dreams and my mother’s prayer whispered over my head. Lagos doesn’t wait for you to figure it out. It demands you keep up.

For most people, your twenties are a whirlwind, regardless of your geography. But in Lagos, it’s a collision. This city throws you into the deep end of adulthood, whether that’s learning to haggle for rent with landlords who double as part-time comedians or figuring out why the cab driver refuses to stop unless you call out in your sharpest Lagos tone: “Oga, right here!” Lagos toughens you up, sharpens you, but it also has this quiet way of holding you together. It became my compass in matters of love, life, and connection, teaching me lessons I never signed up for.

Love in the Time of Traffic

Let’s start with the basics: falling in love in Lagos is madness, and I mean that in the best possible way. Lagos is a city of disruptions—sometimes it’s the unrepentant danfo driver cutting you off in traffic, and other times, it’s someone sliding into your life with all the finesse of a plot twist. It’s no small miracle when love blossoms here; finding someone who makes you laugh while you’re stuck in two hours of traffic on Third Mainland Bridge is practically a soulmate qualification.

Take Emeka, the guy I dated during my undergraduate years at the University of Lagos. Emeka wasn’t the kind of person to write sonnets, but he’d show up with akara and pap on mornings he knew I had exams. In Lagos, kindness—no matter how small—is currency. That relationship didn’t last (more on that later), but it taught me something essential: you hold on to the good moments even when the city feels like it’s swallowing you whole.

Dating in Lagos is a sport of patience and creativity. Dinner and a movie? Maybe in a more functional city. Here, the logistics are part of the flirtation—debating which suya spot is the best (Ikoyi or Mainland?), or navigating your outfits to keep you presentable after riding on okada bikes because Bolt drivers are on strike again. It’s chaos, but it’s our chaos.

Life Lessons from Area Boys and Amala Joints

The truth is, you don’t just navigate Lagos; Lagos navigates you. One of the earliest lessons the city taught me was how to decipher intentions—you don’t survive here without learning the delicate art of reading people. Lagosians have an unspoken agreement: we laugh loud, we love harder, but we keep our guard up. You could say the city itself is the ultimate test of discernment.

I’ll never forget the time an area boy (street-savvy “guardian angels” who double as unofficial neighborhood watchmen) intervened on my behalf while I was being followed by a suspicious merchant near CMS. He simply stepped in, puffed his chest, and said, "Auntie, no wahala. I dey here." In another setting, perhaps this would have alarmed me, but in Lagos, it’s not unusual for strangers to come to your aid, though you may owe them a “thank you”—and maybe small change afterward.

Food, too, became my anchor. In Lagos, it’s impossible to nurture bitterness over heartbreak when you’re sitting at a mamaput restaurant, eating pounded yam with your hands and listening to strangers debate politics louder than the server calling out orders. Food has a way of breaking tension—be it arguments with yourself or with others. And is there any better therapy than sinking your teeth into pepper soup so spicy it makes you forget your ex’s name?

When Lagos Breaks You (and Builds You Again)

It would be a disservice to pretend that living—and loving—in Lagos is all romance and resilience. Like many cities that move too fast, Lagos has a way of fracturing you before it hands you the tools to rebuild. I’ve cried on the stoop of my apartment gate because I was too broke to tip the light repair man that week. I’ve lost friendships to the relentless hustle culture, missed opportunities to connect with people because survival always seemed more urgent.

And yet, Lagos always finds a way to stitch you back together. One Christmas, after Emeka and I broke up, I barely mustered the strength to leave the house. My siblings, deep in the spirit of yuletide mischief, hauled me into the car and promised a cure. The cure, as it turned out, was Lagos nightlife—music spilling vibrantly out of clubs in VI, sweaty, joy-filled dancing with strangers who didn’t need names to connect with you. As I found myself laughing freely that night, surrounded by the dazzling chaos of Lagos, I realized this: the city won’t let you wallow. It throws you back into the melee and dares you not to find something worth holding on to.

What Lagos Taught Me About Relationships (and Myself)

Lagos taught me that no relationship—romantic or platonic—survives without adaptability. You learn to read the room just as you learn to read the weather (hint: if there’s even one gray cloud in the sky, pack an umbrella and rain boots). People are messy, unpredictable, but if you meet them where they are—not where you expect them to be—magic can happen.

The city also taught me how to be alone, in the truest sense of the word. For every crowded market and packed danfo bus, there were nights when I’d stand on my balcony, letting the distant hum of generators lull me into a kind of peace. In life, as in love, you need moments of silence to hear your own voice.

Most of all, Lagos taught me resilience. This city finds ways to demand growth, whether it’s through heartache, career challenges, or managing neighbors who blast Wizkid at midnight because “party no dey finish.” Love here isn’t sterile or curated—it’s raw, unfiltered, and complicated, just like the city itself.

Final Thoughts

People often describe Lagos as a battleground—a survival-of-the-fittest kind of place. But for me, it’s a playground too. It’s laughter over shared bottles of soda during NEPA blackouts and slow dances in candlelit rooms powered by a generator’s hum. If I’ve learned one thing about love, life, and myself, it’s this: Lagos doesn’t promise an easy ride, but it does promise transformation. This city didn’t just make me a woman who loves hard—it made me a woman who loves herself even harder.

And for that, I’ll always be grateful.