Under African Skies

During the tenure of my career I was commissioned by my client to design an estate on the island of Ikoyi which is a part of Lagos, Nigeria. Here is how it all began...

Under African Skies

Our first trip to Lagos was in August 2010. Ray and I traveled from O’Hare International Airport to JFK where we were to meet Fola coming by train from Washington, DC. From there we were going on to Nigeria.

When it was time to board, many hours later, Fola was still nowhere in sight. Not knowing what else to do, we headed toward the plane. Maybe he was there.

In our seats my phone rang. Finally.

“Fola?”

“Yeah, John. Where are you?” It was his deep Queen’s English laced with a thick Nigerian dialect.

“We are on the plane,” I told him as I surveyed the setting with reverence. “They just started boarding. Where…”

“You have to get off!” he interrupted.

“What?”? Did I hear him correctly?

“My train was late, and I will not make it through security and to the gate in time. They will not check my bags.”

I could not believe it. We had been hanging around the airport for what seemed like an eternity.

“…and it is not safe for you and Ray to go to Nigeria without me.” The phone went dead.

Ray looked at me questioningly. “Was that Fola?”

``No, it was the milkman.”

“What did he say?”

“He said they are out of skim milk – they only had 2%. Get off the plane. ?He is not going to make it and it is not safe for us to go there without him.”

“Whahhhht?” Ray asked in utter disbelief.

I shook my head. “I wish I was kidding. No skim milk. Come on let’s go…” I put on my sport coat, grabbed my carry-on bags and headed for the door.

?Ray already befriended the flight attendants working our cabin and needed to say his goodbyes. His computer and briefcase were spread out in the assigned secluded booth. Never one to waste time, he was ready to get down to business.

That was how our first trip to Nigeria began. We arrived three days later. Arik Air planes do not travel from JFK every day. As we quickly learned, they fly every OTHER or every third day. The same plane travels back and forth and needs maintenance to prevent its wings from falling off. And gas.

I was happy to finally be in my assigned seat, a posh, comfy seat as a matter of fact, and quickly fell asleep. When the flight attendant awakened me for breakfast, I felt refreshed and ready to conquer another world. I lifted the window shade and saw land. Almost 6,000 miles away from home Mom, Steven and my doctors all thought I was crazy traveling to Nigeria. And maybe I was, but I craved the excitement. ?

Sometime during the night or early morning, Fola exchanged his suit and shirt for an agbada - three?articles of clothing that remain a status symbol today in Nigeria. It includes a pair of tie-up trousers, a long-sleeved shirt (his with French cuffs), both covered by a wide and flowing robe. The ensemble was made of the most beautiful blue cotton fabric. Proudly, he was home, and we paraded off the plane.

The air was hot and muggy. I wished Ray and I wore agbadas too. They were loose and airy, perfect for the equatorial weather, not like our belted trousers, button down shirts and sport coats.

Some of the 512 distinctly different Nigerian languages spoken that day must have been music to someone’s ears. Not mine but someone’s. The dead Queen’s English is the official language but His Excellency (that is how I addressed the former Governor of Lagos) and his friends speak Yoruba when they do not want Ray and me to know what they are saying.

Don’t lose sight of Fola I kept telling myself as he pointed to a line for visitors without Nigerian passports. A uniformed man ordered Ray and me to get in line, single file. Our line moved but yes, so slowly. When it was finally our turn, we were ushered to separate windows.

“Why are you here?” Not even a good afternoon sir.

“Business,” I replied.

“Which oil company?” assumed the customs officer.

“I am not with an oil company,” I responded as calmly as possible. With my six-month Nigerian Visa, I hadn’t expected the questions.

“What are you doing here, then?” he demanded.

“I am designing a private estate…”

“What?”

“For the Asiwaju…” I used my client’s title bestowed upon him by the King.

His big white eyes nearly popped from his head, their huge whites contrasting sharply with his dusky skin tones. He quickly stamped my passport and waved me on. I jerked my way through the crowd to reach my brother. As we continued with the masses, Fola appeared accompanied by two guards.

“Welcome to Lagos,” he exclaimed with a huge grin on his black as night face. This was the beginning of the most amazing chapter(s) of my life…