Born to Die

The Lebanese maintenance manager of The Blowfish was formidable and energetic. He had the off-putting unpredictability of a man who could've been a UFC champion if only there weren't so many rules. Every laugh in his presence was a nervous one. You were never sure what havoc he was on the verge of impulsively wreaking. It was something you could just feel, like lightning about to strike.

It was my third or fourth day in Lagos—the days had started to blur as I leaned into my lizardly expat lifestyle. In the time I'd been at the hotel, The Manager had seen my bike in the parking lot but hadn't yet seen me. Although I was sure that guests were usually kept out of his reach, chance had him cornering me at the hotel entrance one afternoon. He moved towards me intently wearing a hyper-stimulated grin and a tee-shirt that had "Born 2 Die" lettered across its front. My hopes of satisfying him with a quick g'day and a customary nod were quickly thwarted. He overwhelmed me with a manic flurry of rhetorical questions and unsolicited advice.

Gina was with me (having securely attached herself to me for the moment) but The Manager didn't pay her more than a cursory glance. The two seemed wary of each other—each wanting to exclusively take me under their wing. Amongst the barrage of the jumbled information I was forced to download upon connecting with him, The Manager shared with me his dream of leaving Lagos. He momentarily revealed some vulnerability as he hinted at the terrible things he'd seen, endured and heard of. The banditry, kidnapping and chaos of Lagos had left him notably damaged. The damage was not purely psychological. If anything, like for so many of its residents, the harshness of life here left him with very real scars. Very few of the faces and bodies I had encountered were unmarked by accident, tragedy or sometimes ritual.

At some point in the erratic conversation, The Manager insisted that I simply must attend the salon of a friend of his nearby. Perhaps it was an urge on his part to correct my unusually shaggy appearance and bring me up to the regular standard of a Blowfish guest. Or, perhaps it was due to a prior "cash for comment" agreement with the salon's owner. Not wanting to disappoint, irritate, offend or spend any more time in The Manager's spotlight I agreed that it sounded like a good idea. This resulted in an immediate, excited call from The Manager to his friend: Johnny of Johnny Salon. A keke was hailed.

Kekes—officially Keke NAPEPs-are bright yellow, three wheeled rickshaws subsidised by the federal government under the National Poverty Eradication Program. Though they may not have entirely eradicated poverty, they may well have successfully eradicated many passengers and pedestrians on streets nationwide since their introduction.

It was only a ten—minute keke ride to the salon. I was sitting behind the driver, sandwiched between The Manager and Gina in a 50:30:20 distribution of seat space and 90:10:0 distribution of speech. Our arrival at Johnny Salon in the Mega Plaza Mall was met with fanfare and—unexpectedly—shots!

Johnny was a much cleaner, calmer complement to his compatriot The Manager. He was groomed, styled and charming with a welcoming smile and kind eyes. He held your attention by giving you all of his, as if he had all the time in the world to study your interesting face and hear your interesting opinions. A pamperer through and through. With the opening ceremony concluded I was shown to the chair and adorned with the vestments of the salon subject. Johnny focused his practised flair on me, the primary patron, delivering a smooth and engaging performance. Gina and The Manager were pampered and pruned alongside in separate seats by Johnny's supporting cast of beauty specialists.

For the first time in my life, my eyebrows received professional attention. It was a true "Queer Eye" moment. The feeling of freshness, the weight off my brow, the years off my appearance, the Naira evaporating from my wallet. Gina's brow required less attention but became severely furrowed when she discovered how much I had paid for the experience, which included a set of fresh braids for her.

After we took our portfolio photos and snapped a few selfies, Gina and I extracted ourselves from the jaws of Johnny and The Manager, making our way back "home". She was glad to be out from under the control of the Lebanese beauty Mafia and frustrated with their apparent success in extorting money from me (at the threat of leaving me slightly dishevelled.) "But just look at my eyebrows!" I protested.

With Maxi still a few days upstream, I had a bit of time to explore Lagos and take in some of the sights that Tokini had recommended but I did no such thing. I spent most of my time wandering around VI or in my room with Gina who didn't seem to have much else to do other than me. We lazed around for hours with the constant stream of tinny music emanating from her oversized phone.

By the time Maxi arrived I had little incentive to leave. Nothing waiting for me at home and a hard and dangerous journey to get back there. I had all my needs catered for. I had enough cash to float my lifestyle just beyond the horizon of where fantasy met reality. There was only the matter of my soon-to-expire visa.

I didn't necessarily reveal all of this to Maxi when I finally met him face-to-face for the first time. I walked through the door of his room at The Blowfish (he'd checked in while we were out) and we both gave each other a big grin and a warm hug. Old friends seeing each other for the first time.

Buying myself time, I convinced Maxi that we had to stay in Lagos for at least one extra night, promising that we'd leave the day after next. He agreed. I shared with Gina the good news that our relationship would be extended by 24 hours and she made it her mission to make that time worth Maxi's while. She deployed the enormous iPhone and set about finding a friend ("one of the girls") to chaperone Maxi so we could double-date our way through the next couple of days.

While waiting for the results of the call to arms we decided we'd go out and get some nightlife under our belts. There was a lengthy wardrobe and make-up session enabling Gina to bring herself up to scratch with the results of Johnny's earlier work on my eyebrows. We met Maxi in the hallway and made our way down, out and off to Crossmark. Crossmark was nominally a Tex Mex bar but much like the Hard Rock had it's theming dialled back in favour of the more aspirational aesthetic of concrete, glass and cocktails in the city. While in the West we differentiate and reminisce by referencing simpler, more modest times in Nigeria such rustic decor runs the risk of sliding back into the parochial peasantry endured by 99% of the country—thanks, but no thanks.

At Crossroads we found ourselves amongst a cohort of Lagos's young, urban elite. The men—athletes, musicians and trust fund-gangsters—swayed to the beat of the R&B while dabbing their brows with NBA-inspired white hand towels that they flicked and twirled before resting them on their shoulders. The women, all tightness and sequins, gyrated gently while constantly examining themselves and their reflections, as if they were calmly checking for any invisible insects that may have crawled up their limbs since the last time they checked.

After a couple of rounds of cocktails and musically synchronised (not in Maxi's case) rhythmic movement we ran out of enthusiasm and called it a night (early morning).

Maxi had passed Gina's initial round of assessment on our Crossmark outing and thus became entitled to enjoy the company of Gina's flatmate Gloria as his date the following evening. This time it would be to upmarket restaurant, R.S.V.P., still within the relatively elite confines of VI.

It was after a lazy day of little else other than getting our passports stamped at Chicken Republic in the afternoon that we made our way to R.S.V.P. at dusk. At our table I worked my way through a grass-fed Australian steak while I felt raised eyebrows hovering around us. As at the hotel, my self-consciousness picked up signals (real or imagined) of light envy and judgement from the busy staff and well-off customers as they eyed off the two unlikely couples: the girls drawing attention to themselves with unsubtle selfies and condescension to the staff; the boys under dressed in their worn-out tee-shirts, awkwardly rubbing their sunburned necks.

Ignoring the minor tension, Maxi and I engaged in some much-needed bonding while Gina and Gloria occupied themselves with gossip, wig adjusting and social media management. But the dinner left me feeling uncomfortable. In good light, it simply looked like a fun, indulgent evening with friends. New, perhaps temporary, but genuine friendships that were the fruits of fortitude and the interconnectedness of all things. But Maxi and Gloria were two spare wheels failing to make us a set of four and I was starting to feel like we were undermining the other patrons' opportunity to consider themselves sophisticated. Our double-date partners (Maxi and Gloria) realistically had little interest in each other and despite Maxi's attempts at conversation Gloria seemed unwilling to or uninterested in giving anything away. She also seemed slightly resentful toward Gina for making her play a supporting role in her vision—perhaps a point on a trend line.

I wasn't sure I was enjoying myself, either. I felt guilty for dragging Maxi into my somewhat self-indulgent experience and felt ashamed that both of us were here paying a premium for an experience we might shun as a bit of a wank were we back at home. I pointedly finished my steak while the girls picked at our over-ordered food. They were being lightly obnoxious and the night continued to sour a little for me. It was the sign I needed to give up the spot on the warm rock on which I'd been lying and scurry off into the unknown again.