Take this for instance: I decided to indulge myself at Alara, a spot known for its chic ambiance in Victoria Island. A bowl of amala and orange juice later, my wallet was crying several thousand naira lighter—a cost roughly four times the dowry my father paid to marry my mother. Same amala, same juice, but at an Ibadan buka, I could’ve had change left for akara and ewa agoyin. What exactly makes this Lagos version gold-plated?
Point at a tiny bottle of Oud fragrance. N1.5 m you are told.
Even a snack of plantain chips at Alara costs more than an entire bunch of plantains from The Farm.
Then there was Slow Restaurant on Musa Yar’Adua Street in the same VI. Feeling fancy, I treated myself and a guest to two bowls of salad—yes, leaves. I paired mine with a glass of wine, while my guest opted for watermelon juice. The bill arrived, and my heart did a double somersault. N140,000. For leaves! Kini mo je? Kini mo mu? My fingers tremble as I pulled out my debit card from my wallet to meet the punishment for my indulgence . Are these greens harvested from the Hanging Gardens of Babylon? Even the special, nutrient-infused grass my goats munch on The Farm for an entire month doesn’t cost this much!
And then there was Marriott Ikeja—a pot of coffee there costs more than the biblical pot of shekels could buy. Haba Lagos!
I thought I’d scale down and try Ile Iyan, both in Lekki and on Isaac John in GRA. Sitting on a mat in a farm-style ambiance in Ikeja, demolishing two wraps of pounded yam and two pieces of goat meat, seemed like a perfect escape—but no, same story. Different mortar, same pounded economic punch. And yet, these places of “fun” are packed to the rafters with Lagosians unbothered by the dent in their bank accounts.
Then came the dilemma of where to lay my weary head. Hotels? Forget it. Apartments? Don’t bother unless you have japa stories to tell. All the returnees, armed with their air of success, have swooped in, snapping up every available space and driving up rents like they’re flipping real estate on Wall Street.
Ah, and the taxis! A Bolt or Uber ride from VI to Lekki will cost you hours of your patience while you try to connect with a driver. If you’re lucky, you might find one who’s ditched the app for the “freelance hustle.” This may cost you a cool N40,000–N50,000 and Traffic crawls slower than a snail on Valium in an atmosphere thick with sweat and frustration.
And what about a simple glass of wine to accompany peppered snail? That feels like a financial negotiation. If you dare to climb the spirits mountain, a good bottle of Hennessy now rivals the price of a plot of land in some parts of the country.
Yet there they are—scruffy young men, crowned with dreadlocks, casually buying bottles for N1.5m to N2m as though they’re distributing sachet water. Perhaps they’re the reason the government wants us to pay N1,200 per liter of premium gasoline while contemplating a 15% Value Added Tax. Biko, not all of us are residents of Queens Drive or Bourdillon.
Back in the day, December in Lagos was calm—relatively. The streets emptied as Igbo folks headed home to flaunt their year’s hustle (jeep ooo, jeep!) or check on what title is available and other village matters. But not anymore. Between fears of kidnapping, killings by separatists, and the sheer cost of a round trip, many now sit tight in Lagos, adding to the already maddening crowd. Even our brothers and sisters from Oodua states can no longer afford to go parade their Kotangowa couture in their villages this season. Lagos is bursting at the seams, twice its usual population, and I found myself asking: Why am I still here?
I didn’t need much convincing. After a few days of Lagos holiday economics, I packed my bags and bolted—back to The Farm, in the serene countryside where the pounded yam is fluffy, the rorowo fresh, and the bush meat brings joy to both palate and soul. And best of all? The cost of a meal doesn’t require a loan.
Lagos, my dear frenemies, you can keep your overpriced amala, leafy salads, and traffic gridlocks. Count me out until all the brethren and sisterens return to their japa lands, and Lagos remembers how to breathe.
I will, however, miss the nerve-calming art and ambiance of Nike Art Gallery, Iwalewa Gallery where I could always savor free exotic coffee and cookies during tours that felt new every time.
Invite me to your Lagos events? No thanks—not during this holiday circus. Catch me in the new year, when the chaos dies down, or find me safely tucked away in my world of affordable iyan, fresh game, and the occasional goat-side wisdom. Japa pada—or is it Japada—indeed!