I’m calling an Uber on the side of the street. It’s dark outside, so I want to flag him down. A Nigerian woman who works at the restaurant beckons me to get back from the roadside.
I walk into a Nigerian bank, and I’m stopped by two armed guards blocking the entrance. To reach the desk, I have to go through a revolving cylinder, like the ones in the airport. The teller explains I have to open an account to exchange dollars for Naira, or — and he says this a littler quieter — he can just call his friend who sells on the black market and can meet me at the bank. “Five to ten minutes he can come, maximum.”
I walk into a grocery store and the guard points to my bag and asks if I’m carrying a laptop. I say yes. He looks suspicious — now he wants to know if I’m carrying two laptops. After some hesitation I also confess to this infraction (it’s my manager’s). That’s not enough, because he asks what type and the serial number. I’m blocking the line, but he won’t let me leave. He writes down on a small slip of paper, “one Apple, one Lenovo” and hands it to me. He lets me pass but offers no explanation.
I went to a security briefing today and was told I’d be kidnapped on the road to Ibadan. I was sold distrust, and I was sold it impressively. “Some of our clients come to Lagos and won’t leave the Sheraton.” The advisers admit to me, though, the islands are completely safe. “Oh yes, you see the expats walk through the streets no problem.”
I’m scratching my head. I get a whiff of the fear one feels in high-walled Jo’burg, but it feels inauthentic. Like a motion one does without thinking. But if Lagos is on lock-down, I think it’s thin. The walls aren’t high and the streets are full of life.