‘Ah! My people!’ Taiwo exclaimed as their driver

revved out of Murtala Muhammad Airport towards

the island city that had been a memory for so long.

Bumper to bumper, crusty bone-shakers emitted

clouds of billowy black particles; at midnight the city

boiled over with crowds, beggars negotiating

the alleys between cars, thrusting handless arms

through windows; miles of candle-lit women lined

streets, crouched behind wares, coils of dried fish,

peanut cones, orange pyramids, hessian bales of rice.

Taiwo had not been back in forty-four years, yet

this was the place he called home.

SLICED DODO browned, crisped in hot oil pans,

were wrapped, sold for a few naira on the streets;

butchered meat salivated on stalls, bleeding pink flesh

exposed, was skewered, to drip fat over flames;

herons elegantly plundered smoking refuse tips

like mobile daffodils; storm drains festered pungently;

Fuji pounded out of door-size speakers, rattling

the ribs of those passing, vibrating through soles.

‘Yaba! Yaba! Yaba! – Yaba! Yaba! Yaba!’ – clanking

jalopies hurtled past, men hanging off the sides;

‘Oyinbo!’ children shouted after Lara. ‘It means

whitey,’ Taiwo told her. Women wearing gelé,

buba, iro made her circumnavigate them, some

with bleached faces – burnt and discoloured;

arguments erupted like a volley of attention-seeking

bullets, street theatre improvised; people eyeballed Lara,

a coach passed, all heads about-turned to stare.

She inhaled the thick, spiced aromatic air of Lagos,

drunk in its vitality, absorbed the muggy heat.

This is the land of my father, she thought.

I wonder if I could belong.

The Brazilian Quarter, Lagos, 1993

Central Lagos. December ’93. Sweltering.

From Tafawa Balewa Square jaunts the ageing Nigerian,

tripping over his mind, curls painted black, a camera

worn from his neck is a trophy or gold medallion, after all

he is a ‘been-to’. Down Catholic Mission Street –

England-lady, plumpie, short, pale-streaked hair like grass.

Into Ibosere Road, Lara follows – tall, modern Afro-mix,

young, designer-brown, Levis, T-shirt, trainers.

The old Brazilian Quarter on Lagos Island, at last,

the ‘where?’ – not known by name anymore.

They walk, stop for minerals: Fanta, Coke, pass

new bungalows, invisible ghosts, chickens dart the road.

A strange fire ignites Taiwo, children’s faces,

he searches them for his own. Wind stirs up the dust.

He must find his childhood house, it is urgent, suddenly.

How his town has disillusioned him – skyscrapers,

squandering, polluted lungs of squalor, too many flies

have dimmed its light. It is crazy. Suddenly he wants

to whoop, cartwheel, spin the air. Instead he freezes.

There, next to the Elf petrol station, is No 18 Ibosere Road.

His castle of childhood, of love, of memories. Home.

The past swamps him like a drowning man.

1949

DAZZLING. Whitewashed. He leans on the balcony,

a new short-sleeved shirt, grasshopper green,

beige slacks, squeaky brown sandals, polished skin.

His forehead is damp, jaw papaya soft, he bares

a regiment of brilliant white teeth though it wasn’t

fashionable to smile in photographs of the day.

He puffs his chest. He is a man. Seventeen.