No Need for Rancor

A sprawl with slow moving parts, ancient chains fastidiously anchored, rigid in its murk and slow to change. Lagos can be exasperating. Bristling and sunny, it is almost certainly humid and very hot. Temperatures soar to a muggy 101◦ F boiling with varying emotions. A pulsating city with nerve, it bristles with easy virtues at the edge.

Denizens ransack the city with a habitual rat face- they have successfully adapted to their environment. The drumbeat never ceases. Rabid Okada motorcycles gallop errantly and zig zag like wayward bees. They create a buzz at each other’s tail. Ailing wrecks smoulder on the roadway sputtering smoke, small minded drivers ravage with unnecessary aggression and refined Lagosians masquerade as vicious maniacs. Together, they overwhelm the deafening circus. Traffic police stare vacantly with resign, other comrades contest the spoils of war and Okada motorcycles lurch in packs. They prowl like a band of hyenas ready to terrorize a city. The city retreats in disorder.

The evening bring out the horde to feast on the mangled carcass. Late at night, they feast with abandon and relish their spoils. Soon their time is up and they amble away from the stage. Enter Okada, recharged and energized. With fortitude, they begin their mindless assault.

Richard Sole