| 3 MIN READ | Strangers & Hope

I was here 11 years ago. Nothing much has changed since then, except the replacement of every last atom in my body.

I step out of the same decrepit building into an underpass intersection. It remains populated by the foreboding side of Lagos. The structure behind me with the vibe of an Indian tier-3 city government office is the headquarters of an African billionaire. His disregard for superficial appearances and attention to essential details reveals its own kind of native wisdom. What matters, unfolds imperceptibly.

The sun has set. I walk away from the underpass towards the start of the flyover. The sidewalk is vacant. I pause near the entrance to a dimly lit Diner. Flip between Uber & Bolt to find a taxi for the short ride back to the hotel.

The minutes go by. Both apps ask me to wait. Time dilates as a clutch of cars hovering the streets around me all refuse a ride. Black jacket, laptop bag slung on shoulder, thick wad of local currency a bulging ransom in my pockets. I am surrounded by the whip and whirr of dragonflies. Conspicuous & stranded, like a neon sign on a moonless night. The hotel limousine at 90,000 Naira for 8 hours was not such a bad idea. Stray pedestrians pass by. I don’t stand a chance with any of them in a fist fight. Not even the thickset woman.       

The Car Ride

Two cars exit the Diner. I stop to ask each if they are headed my way. They both depart with vague disinterest. The third one is Frank in a Toyota Tacoma. He is heading elsewhere but will give me a ride. Works for the World Bank. Had stints in London & Washington before returning home. Said he noticed me waiting and trying to hail a ride. Not the best idea in this neighbourhood.

He wants to start a business of his own and has been thinking about LPG distribution. I summarize it as a monopoly supplier on one side, rising demand on the other, and a tight ship in between to keep the cash register ringing as long as people need to put food on the table. He talks about something much wider. Nigeria. Population growth, rising unemployment. His purpose as an entrepreneur is to do something useful for his country. May never make an obscene amount of money. But will sleep well.      

We arrive at the hotel. He waits for the guard to open the gate and let me in before driving away. I receive an email from him a few hours later. He would like to meet again to discuss his business ideas more deeply.

We meet at the coffee shop the next evening. Map out where his skills could address local challenges. There is an idealistic simplicity in his intent. I feel it in the conversation. He is 62. At an age when many are ready to slow down, he looks like he is just beginning.

The Salon

The next morning, I am unable to reset the temperature controls in the room air-conditioning. By noon it gets extremely cold. I step down to the terrace lounge for some sun before my next round of meetings. There is a young girl reading a book titled ‘Managing your Emotions’. I tell her that’s a hard goal to achieve. Emotions aren’t the problem. The identity that drowns in them is. Nothing to manage — just stop clinging to the one who is drowning. We talk about mortality and awareness. She is intrigued and amused.

Her name is Sonia, a dual graduate in the unlikely combination of psychology and marine navigation. Her family lives down south. She runs a small cleaning business and comes here occasionally for a quiet read on a slow workday afternoon. Wants to start an upmarket Salon and rope her younger sister in to help. One in Victoria Island to start with but will scale up to cover select residential neighbourhoods in the city like Lekki, Eko & Akoyi. She is dressed in a flowing summer yellow dress with a multi coloured bandana. A casually stylish brand ambassador for her new venture. We talk about the Salon. I ask her to run me through the numbers. She shares a few scenarios. Is confident of the service, searching for the capital. Has a friend who could lend her the money, but wants to be independent.

The connection

I send a message about her to Frank as we speak. He agrees to meet her. I joke about having covered both emotion and ambition in one wandering chat. She is still processing how all this is unfolding. I exchange their contacts and leave. She will work on a proposal and share it with Frank.

Sonia’s email follows two days later. Frank likes the draft proposal. Discussions progress towards loan options and lending rates. She needs a guarantor. Sonia is talking to her friend to get that in place. Someone who can repay the loan if the Salon falters. I come face to face with how difficult the last mile is. Small loans can disappear without adequate collateral. Numbers collide with idealism until they arrive at their own equilibrium. I see the weight on her young shoulders.               

But the wheels have begun turning. Though the business I was here for did not work out, a stranger chose to look out for me and I did the same for another.

As I drive past the shanty towns approaching the airport, I lean briefly against the window and feel the music seeping into the moment.