Chapter One: The Departure
The night before Malik left Lagos, the whole neighborhood felt different.
The air was thick with smoke from roasted corn stands, the sound of Afrobeats leaking from every corner, and the smell of the rain that had just washed the dusty streets. Lagos was alive — loud, stubborn, chaotic — but to Malik, it was home.
He sat on a short wooden stool outside his aunt’s house, staring at the yellow glow of streetlights dancing across puddles. Beside him sat his travel bag — old, half-zipped, with one handle torn. Everything he owned was inside it.
From inside the house, his aunt’s voice floated through the open window.
“Malik, you better come in and sleep o! You’ve got flight early tomorrow!”
“I hear you, ma,” he answered, not moving.
At seventeen, Malik had seen enough of Lagos to know how real life could get. His father had died when he was little, and his mother — Aisha — had left for America when he was nine. She promised she’d send for him one day, but years went by with nothing but a few calls and money transfers. Then last month, she called again, her voice softer, almost trembling:
“Malik, my son, I want you to come live with me now. You’re old enough.”
He didn’t know whether to be happy or confused.
But his aunt had said, “It’s your mother. You must go.”
Now, sitting under the dark Lagos sky, Malik felt something tighten in his chest. He looked around — at the small houses stacked together, at the shouting neighbors, at the smell of jollof rice drifting from next door. This was the life he understood.
His best friend, Tobi, showed up with a grin and a sachet of pure water.
“Guy, you still dey here? You no wan sleep before your big flight?”
Malik laughed. “Sleep no dey catch me.”
Tobi sat beside him. “Omo, you lucky o. You dey go America. Some of us still dey hustle for Lagos traffic.”
“Lucky?” Malik shook his head slowly. “Maybe. But I go miss this place, sha.”
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the distant horns and voices of night.
Then Tobi said, “No matter where you go, remember say you be Naija boy. Don’t let those people change you, you hear?”
Malik smiled faintly. “I go try.”
When Tobi left, Malik walked through the narrow streets one last time. He touched the wall he used to draw graffiti on, greeted the security man who always shouted, “No noise for my gate!”, and watched the moonlight reflect off the wet ground.
He whispered to himself,
“Goodbye, Lagos.”
