It’s cool to be a statue in Lagos. You don’t have to go anywhere. You are free from intractable go-slows, free of the stress of having to be tightly packed like tinned sardines in those death-trap of molues and danfos. You can just remain where you are, come the grilling heat, come the flood-causing rains, folks may even dump their refuses at your clay feet, but you will not be moved; A dove may perch and shit on your face; ravens may peck your eyes out, or vultures make nests on your head, you won’t lose it like 17 million Lagosians would at the slightest provocation.
They are all Loco, those Lagosians. You are one cool dude, if you are a statue in Lagos. Only statues seems to be getting by very well in the melting pot of potpourri of dead dreams and twarted aspirations; of forlorn strivings and calcified hopes. Lagos is la citadel di locos. I am a Lagosian, and I am a little loco. Lots of people in Lagos are loco. Though some are more loco than others. There is a measure of ish in all of us. God didn’t make us this way, we are made loco by the vagaries of life and living in Lagos. Scratch the surface of a Lagosian, beneath you’ll find a loco.
I want to exempt those stiffened upper lip inhabitants of Ikoyi, Victoria Island, Lekki and such places, from this list, but if I do that, it will not be fair to the drooling slobbering zombies in Mushin, Agege, Shomolu, Ajegunle and such places. But I can’t exempt any one person, place or thing in Lagos from the taint of the loco brush; not even the locked down inmates of the statehouse, because we are all Lagos and Lagos is us.
With those statues of Lagos, you never know. The expression of their visages, and the movement of their limbs are cacified for ever and for always. You can never decipher their innate thoughts, neither can you predict their next moves. They are Lagos too, those statues, but you can never measure their level of loco. They are clearly in a class of their own.
I admire them- the statues of Lagos. Maybe when I die, I will become a statue, standing still, like Herbert Macaulay at Yaba, with that frozen look of hope in the future on his face. I could even have my hands raised at the world like MKO Abiola at Ojota, waving my dreams farewell. I could also strike a defiant pose like Tai Solarin at (can’t remember where now) daring the world to think, raring to lock horns in sagacious exchanges or Sango, the Yoruba god of Thunder and Lightening at Marina, looking like he’d rather be elsewhere than at sinister dark NEPA building. How I want to be a statue now, to have my crazed hustler mien captured and frozen in time for all eternity. I almost cannot wait now to be dead. Most dreams, hopes and aspirations in Lagos life, comes true posthumously.
Only the statues seem to be doing good here. They don’t have to wait; wait is what they are. They don’t have no need for change. They are content the way they are and where they are. I want to be a statue in Lagos someday.