Carmen at the Coffee Shop

One of many Carmen short stories

Lagos is a strange place. Well, Nigeria is, but Lagos is more so. As chestnut as it sounds, there isn’t a better place to use as a case study of corruption, the income divide, and the seemingly irreversible effects of capitalism, but that doesn’t shroud its beauty. In fact, in some ominous dystopian way, that beauty is elevated. From the traffic hawkers on the never-ending “go-slow” at the “third mainland bridge,” which connects Mainland Lagos to Lagos Island, to the bourgeois beach parties hosted by raging rich children, there’s a common acceptance of the hustle and bustle of this overpopulated city as beautiful and worth it, when it rarely ever is.

I haven’t been to Lagos Island yet; I wonder what it’s like.

“Is that Ayo?” someone calls out from across the coffee shop near the entrance. It’s usually not loud at this time (12:10 p.m.); well, it’s usually never loud. I spend my lunch breaks here, it’s a stone’s throw away from my office building, and I don’t like most people in there – there’s a divide in principles, I guess. The coffee shop vaguely reminds me of the palm wine kiosks back home, they differ in ambiance or appeal, but it’s a distraction, and they’re good for me; noisy, like the palm wine kiosks, or quiet, like this coffee shop.

I instinctively lift my head from looking at my phone to see who it is; a man who looks like he’s in his twenties. He’s fairly tall and has pretty grown stubble. His clothes are fairly formal – business casual – and his hair is fairly long. He’s fair, I guess.

The article I’m reading is interesting. I haven’t lived in Lagos that long – just two months – but I relate to most things being said on a surface level. You know, I think two months is more than enough time to see all the shege (hardships) Lagos has to show you.

I have many issues with Lagos – it’s an insult to my olfactory senses, but I’ve met the best people in my life here, and that holds some value in the grander scheme of “values.”

            “Ayo!” he says again with a raspy Yoruba accent, to no response.

I look up again, but this time right in his eye line. He has an awkward-looking face, one that I’m not used to; I don’t mean unattractive, I think the awkwardness aids his cause. He hasn’t moved once since he started calling for “Ayo.” You’d think the person he’s calling would have responded in some way unless, of course, they’ve had a name change and cannot remember what their previous name was.

I begin to wonder why a person would walk into a shop, coffee-related or not, and shout out at someone they’re presumedly meeting. Why not phone or search in silence like everyone else does? Is it a Lagos thing? My eyes linger on this curious stranger for a bit longer. He’s not holding a work bag or a tote, there’s no laptop in hand either.

He walks towards me with a slightly embarrassed face. Startled, I gesture to him as if to ask if the name “Ayo” was given to me as a secondary school nickname I had forgotten about.

He politely waves me off and turns to the person beside me. I look down at my phone again.

People make a city. Individually, people might be great, but the city isn’t. That’s always been the issue. I know saying people make a city is extremely reductive, but hear me out…

There’s an aesthetic value to the traffic and the hawkers looking to make a living from people looking to get home to their house in Abule-Egba from their office at Lekki. It seems unfair to call this aesthetic; absurd better fits the description. A grand absurd value.

            “Ayo, it’s been so long,” he says as he passes by my table to the one at my right.

            “James!” the man at the table responds. He’s fairly looking too, although he has dark skin, unlike James, whose, I must admit not by much, skin is lighter than his.

Ayo, the man, reluctantly stands up to hug James. The smile and pleasantries are forced. There’s a rigidity in his reaction to meeting, what I presume, is a long-time friend.

            “Six years,” James says while standing and holding Ayo by the shoulder, “Six years since I last saw you. You’ve lost weight oh.”

Ayo forces another laugh, “Yes, I have. Do you want to sit down?”

            “Of course.”

“Sorry, do you mind shifting your chair a little bit to the left?” Ayo turns to me and says with his hands joined together.

“Oh. Yeah. Umm…sure,” I move my chair a bit to my left.

            “Thank you,” he replies.

James takes the seat near mine and sits across from Ayo, who is out of my eyeline beside me.

The aesthetics are present in certain things about Lagos. It’s a beautiful mix of Afro-centric architecture, brutalism, industrial…

            “How’ve you been?” he, James, asks with a smile on his face.

            “Okay. You?” Ayo responds half-heartedly.

            “Oh, come on! Just, okay?”

            “What do you want me to say?”

            “Well, there’s plenty to catch up on, right? It’s been six years.”

            “I guess you’re right.”

There’s a momentary pause. I should be sipping my half cup of coffee a bit faster as my lunch break is almost over, but I don’t. I stand up briefly and walk to the counter to make another order.

“Two donuts. One jam and the other ordinary. Then another decaf,”

“What’s your name again?” the barista asks.

“Carmen.”

I look down at my phone for a moment while the barista gets the donuts.

… and even remnants of colonial architecture. It’s a marvel for the curious mind, an abused marvel. Abused because it has been left severely unkempt. The beautiful walls of the brutalist buildings have been defaced by years of political fliers and posters that were never removed, or herb mixers hoping their next penis enlargement clients are looking for solutions on their daily commute. It’s all been abused.

“Your donuts,” the barista says.

“Thank you.”

I return to my seat and shift it a little to the right, enough to show my disinterest in their conversation, which I’ve already missed a fair bit of.

            “I saw that you’re married now. Congratulations!” James says, raising his right arm a little off the table.

Married?

            “Yeah, thank you...” Ayo responds, “How did you know?”

            “Instagram.”

            “That’s interesting; I don’t have an account.”

            “Well, your wife…hold on a minute.”

James stands up and walks to the counter. He spends a few minutes, I assume, choosing what to order. Maybe he’s indecisive.

He walks back with two donuts, in serviettes, in his hand.

            “Carmen,” the barista calls with a cup in hand. I walk to the counter, collect the cup, and walk back to my table. I shift the seat a little to the left where it had previously been but still am unable to see Ayo.

            “Sorry, I hadn’t ordered yet,” he places the donuts down on the table.

            “No problem,” Ayo responds.

            “You asked how I knew you got married…”

            “Yes. I’d just like to know.”

            “Your wife was my colleague in university.”

            “Really? Well, she never mentioned.”

            “I wouldn’t think that she knew that we know each other,” James lightly chuckles.

            “True. True.” Ayo responds, “How did you end up studying electronics?”

            “You know how Nigerian parents are with what makes money and all that. Well, I don’t blame them. Nigeria is a tough place for a romantic.”

            “They made you study electronics?”

            “Yes, but I got to go after what I really wanted to do after my first degree.”

            “Really – “

            “In fact, I’m doing that currently. Oh, I’m sorry I cut you off.”

            “Oh, no issue. I was going to ask what that is, your interest.”

            “Oh, it’s still pure science-related. Some mathematics.”

            “Interesting, you’re doing that here?”

            “No, no. I’m just here on holiday. I’m in Germany.”

            “That’s cool. Germany wouldn’t be my choice though.”

            “I wanted a German perspective to things.”

            “What is the German perspective?” Ayo laughs.

            “I’m still finding out, can’t even speak the language fluently yet.”

            “Well, it’s only been six years.”

            “Two.”

            “Right.”

There’s another brief awkward silence. I plug in my earphones, without music, and continue reading the article.

I think there’s real potential here, but sadly I might not live to see that potential fulfilled, neither my children nor theirs. Such is the level of the state’s publicly endorsed incompetence. I haven’t even gotten started on police brutality…

            “So. Uh…how have you been?” Ayo asks.

“James?” the barista says. He gets up to collect the cup of coffee and quickly comes back.

            “I’ve been good. Good. It’s been good. I’m not married yet, but it’s been good. I have my own place now. Good.”

            “That’s good to know, James.”

            “Yeah. Hey, do you want to meet up later? Like after work or something, we could go chill, and you know…catch up more?”

            “Uh, I don’t think I can. It’s uh…I work late, so I don’t know…”

            “Oh, come on, Ayo! You’ve always been so…agidi (prideful),” James responds, lifting his arms with his fists loosely clenched, “When you go calm down?”

            “What do you mean agidi? That’s not true.”

            “It is! You were always so uptight.”

            “No? I used to follow you guys everywhere. Don’t you remember that Mister Bankole stuff that happened? That’s probably the most fun I ever had.”

            “Yes,” James laughs, “We got into a lot of trouble for that, my parents seized my phone for six months. But you always wanted to leave early nah.”

Ayo laughs, “Well, I actually have to work late now so...”

            “Sure,” James says with a wry smile, “Come on!”

            “I really can’t.”

            “Are you sure you can’t – “

            “Look, man, I don’t want to go anywhere with you,” Ayo says abruptly with a harsh tone.

I take a bite out of my donut, trying to conceal the surprise etched on my face.

Police brutality stems from a system designed to protect the interest of the powers that be. They carry the moniker of maintaining law and order, but they do not truly execute that moniker. Disorder cannot exist without the Nigerian police force.

James’ smile wipes off his face. I, as if oblivious to their conversation, continue staring at my phone.

I have a cousin who got manhandled by the Nigerian police for simply being a young person driving a car. We were able to get out of that mess because we’re a well-connected family, but that is precisely the problem. What about those that aren’t? Those who are just trying to make ends meet, why do their lives have to be so hard? Because of our proximity to a certain class, our order was preserved. That is not the reality of most Nigerians. Call a random Nigerian from the street, ask them about their experience with the custodians of the law, and watch how no one has anything good to say.

“Interesting,” I quietly whisper to myself.

            “You’re really still holding on to that?” James sighs, interrupting my reading. Their conversation, or confrontation as it now appears, had briefly escaped my mind.

Ayo doesn’t respond.

            “Look, man, it’s been six years. We were kids….”

            “We were not kids’ nigga; you and I are the same age. I don’t know when twenty became childhood,” Ayo snaps back, interrupting James’s statement, “You’re actually fucking unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable.”

“How is he married at twenty-six?” I think to myself.

            “You’re screaming Ayo, you know that right?”

            “You came in here shouting my name like a madman!”

            “That isn’t even remotely the same thing.”

            “My God, you haven’t changed at all.”

            “What are you even talking about?”

            “You’re still a gaslighter. A fucking annoying gaslighter.”

            “That is very rich.”

            “I swear – “

            “You know what? Shut up. I came in here for a cup of coffee like I usually do. I saw someone I hadn’t seen in years by chance and offered to catch up with them, but that was my mistake. You’re the one that’s fucking unbelievable. We’re creating a fucking scene.”

I look down at my phone.

It makes me sick.

“They are so young,” I think to myself as I try to refocus on the article.

            “You hurt me,” Ayo says.

            “You’ve held on to that for this long?”

            “Pain doesn’t just go away; I wish you’d understand that.”

With a dejected look, James responds, “I didn’t mean to hurt you, you know. I did the right thing in my mind, but…”

            “You did the right thing? James my mother died, and you said you would be there, but you weren’t. You went off doing whatever bullshit.”

            “I did not kill your mother. Why do you keep blaming me?”

            “I cannot believe we’re talking about this outside,” Ayo says.

            “You brought it up.”

It’s the hopelessness that makes me sick. It makes Lagos a terrifying place to live in or even visit. There’s no respect for whoever it is that is unfortunate to reside here, no matter how long.

            “It’s funny that you think I’m blaming you when what I needed was you to support me and tell me it was going to be alright. You were my best friend. Why did you ever think I would forget that?”

            “I was a child.”

            “You know what? Yes, you were, and you still are.”

            “You’re being so unfair. She was as much my mother as she was yours. I was dejected,” James responds, his voice shaky.

            “I don’t want to hear it. James, I loved you once, but please don’t reach out to me.” Ayo responds, his voice more distant with every word.

I raise my head to see Ayo gone.

James, still seated, stares at the wall in front of him for some time. His eyes are fixed on whatever it is but empty and lost in thought.

The coffee shop is more similar to the palm wine kiosks than I thought.

Despite its many flaws, Lagos is still one of the best places to live in Nigeria.

That seems awfully masochistic, bleak even.

The article finishes, and I sit for a moment to gather my thoughts about what I just overheard and what the article is about.

“Am I going to like it here?” I whisper under my breath.

My eyes turn to James, who’s done with his coffee and donuts and is getting up to leave, as though he did not just have who he once considered a friend, or lover, walk out on him. As if he is used to such things.

I look at my watch—1:01 p.m. I better be heading to work then.