I had come to Lagos for a work assignment that was planned to last around two months. It was my first time in Africa, and Nigeria’s largest city was not known for offering a soft entry into the continent. Inhabited by roughly 20 million people and spreading over a vast area along Nigeria’s coast, it is a hot and humid hub of human business, with seemingly everyone hustling to survive. The streets are crowded with all kinds of vehicles, some of which should already enjoy their well-deserved retirement. From my office, I regularly spotted trucks with German inscriptions like “Mueller Painting”, their ancient postal codes indicating that they must have been phased out in the late 80s before being shipped over here to start a new life.
One night, after a long day’s work, my colleagues invited me out for drinks. We headed to their favorite place, a bar in a somewhat distant part of town. A creaky wooden door gave way to a large open space that was scarcely populated by locals. Some were playing pool, others sat on sofas around low tables. Nigerian afrobeat was humming from the speakers. Me and about ten of my colleagues sat around one of the tables and ordered the first round of beers. I was the obvious foreigner in the place, but no one seemed to pay any attention. My initial apprehension faded away as the next round was ordered.
On the way to the bathroom, I passed one of the pool tables. A young Indian man who was participating in a game approached me. “This is not the right place for you. You need to get out of here within the next hour, okay?” I asked him why. He hesitated for a moment before answering. “Later at night, the crowd here changes. Let’s just say… some people show up who you don’t want to be around.” His voice was calm but firm, as if he had seen things unfold before. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I said, giving him a small nod.
Once I returned to the table I saw that my colleagues had started to order whisky – a bold move on a Tuesday night. Suddenly there was some commotion at the entrance, and I craned my neck to see what was happening. I could hear shouting and discussions. Suddenly, a group of five armed men entered the scene and surrounded our table, their AK-47s dangling loosely from their shoulders. They started to talk to my colleagues in a language I didn’t understand. There seemed to be a problem, and I couldn’t shake off the feeling that I had taken over the starring role in this scene.
As the discussion became more heated, some of my colleagues started to raise from their seats and confronted the armed men. Fingers were pointed—too often in my direction for my comfort. I leaned over to someone sitting nearby, trying to understand what was going on. “They think you were kidnapped” he explained to me with a whisper. I was surprised, to say the least, given that I had quite obviously enjoyed my evening beers in the company of my colleagues. I would have had to be in an advanced state of Stockholm syndrome to so obviously relish my kidnappers’ company.
After a discussion that felt endless all my colleagues left the bar with the gunmen and I was left sitting at our table alone, beer in hand, work laptop bag on my knees. I tried to act normal but could feel the stares from across the room. I had clearly been identified as the culprit in the whole scene, being responsible for the arrest of several guests who were probably being booked for Lagos Central Prison right now.
My relief was immense as I watched them return to the bar one by one, laughing among themselves as if they had just witnessed the most hilarious thing. “What was that?” I blurted out while they took their seats. “Oh, they were just looking for money” one of them explained to me. “They threatened to take you away to protect you, but we gave them a little something, and everything was fine”. So, it was just another extortion racket, something my colleagues clearly were familiar with given their nonchalance. A story like this would have made for a whole week of conversation where I am from, but in Nigeria people were shrugging it off as if it was nothing.
I looked at my watch and remembered the advice from the man at the pool table. Now it was definitely time for me to leave. Who knew what would happen next? I waved goodbye to my saviors and stepped outside of the bar. A mototaxi driver sat slumped over his bike, half-asleep. I woke him up and gave him my address, jumped on the back and we drove off through the Lagos night. I knew this was an evening I wouldn’t soon forget.
Inner View 