The Paradoxes of a Life in Ajegunle

Igrew up and still live in Ajegunle, one of the largest slums in Lagos State, Nigeria. The name, ironically, means ‘wealth has landed here’ in Yoruba. Ajegunle has a population of over 500,000 people and is bordered by two major seaports—Apapa Port and the Tin Can Island Port. Despite being sandwiched between the most important shipping hubs in Lagos, Ajegunle is infamous for being a hotbed for cultism, theft, and other violent crimes. Nonetheless the town has produced renowned figures in sports, music, and entertainment—with the likes of Don Jazzy, Odion Ighalo, Taribo West, African China and Daddy Showkey, who all credit their upbringing in Ajegunle for shaping their lives. I came of age in this paradox of a town, though in relative seclusion, knowing little about the world around me. I had inherited a palace of grief, and with each passing year, I learnt that in this community, no one was safe; everyone carried within them the familiar memory of loss and of grief. I was around four years old when Eedris AbdulKareem released his third album, Jaga Jaga. The song that gave the album its title encapsulated the transgenerational dysfunction into which I was born.

A PALETTE OF FEAR

I have been accustomed to the smell of burnt bodies and tyres since I was in primary school. In one of those canals around Orodu or New Road axis, I once saw a young man’s body afloat, with people gathering to spit their disgust. The gangs in my hood take centre stage, with the chorus of guns as their backdrop. You can read the gibberish glyphed on one’s back by a cutlass. Someone is robbed; another is stabbed or shot dead at Boundary market, Alayabiagba, Alaba-Oro, Ojo road, and Wilmer. Shops are ransacked. And all the vehicles that bore witness to this gross drama lose their faces—all these could happen within a few hours, and simultaneously.

On days like this, we become guardians of the clouds. Rain is forbidden. It is a sign for another tragedy—an inter-street pillage, to be exact. Here, the unemployed have a say. And the little children are grown men. So, you barely see the difference until news spreads that one of them was killed during a street fight. We weep with awe wrapped around our chest—a social condolence. Na so that small boy take die? This was the fate of Endurance Augustine, a schoolboy stabbed during a brawl at a birthday party in 2016. One of the many stories that occasionally make their way to the mainstream media. Sometimes, this news comes in pockets of hearsay, mostly true, and in some circulated snippets of dead bodies with several body cuts in a pool of blood. We, who in that dark room of fear, find relief in the sound of sirens, not the police officers. One or two innocent persons will be arrested. Like Freytag’s pyramid, the community falls into unanimous silence as if the dead mourn: the end. Soon as everyone gathers, Ajegunle is on the news again:

Police kill ex-convict, accomplice caught robbing on CCTV. I’m Our Gang’s Armourer—robbery Suspect. Ex-convict, Wanted Criminal Terrorizing Ajegunle Area Neutralize in Lagos. ‘Growing up in Ajegunle without joining criminal gang is a miracle’. Girl dies, man injured in another police shooting at Ajegunle Lagos. Two killed, several wounded as street boys clash in Ajegunle, Lagos. Gang war sparks crisis in Ajegunle. Suspected cultist dies in fresh Ajegunle Lagos cult clashes.

My family and I have been victims of this youth restiveness on several occasions. I remember how my mother had protected my siblings and I from a robbery attack as a child. It was midnight. I still hear the bang. In her frenzy, my mother had moulded us into a statue of silence. We were under the bed—four kids. I watched her fidget. I am not sure she knew what to do. Another bang! But somehow, she has managed to place our couch, and all the things you can imagine—including my school bag—behind the door so it refuses to open. While I stare with a sort of childlike restiveness as my mother paces around the room, we hear our neighbours scream—they were robbed and left with injuries.

I remember being part of the community policing efforts during the pandemic in 2020, after rumours spread that the One Million Boys planned to strike. That would not be their first time. Far back in 2012 through 2016, there were several reports published about their criminal activities. The group was initially formed in Ajegunle to fight injustice before it was hijacked by criminal elements. At the time news spread about their planned strike, I was instantly engulfed by memories of my past experiences as a child. I could not understand how I ended up there—drafted into the community efforts to neutralize a robbery gang. Men and boys from each compound were expected to be out at night till dawn. No one trusted law enforcement to deal with the problem. We were barely armed. I remember a friend who had just his belt as a weapon. I only had a kitchen knife for protection. During those sleepless nights when we made rounds, I recall now how we masked our fear with bravado and dry gin, internally hoping they would not strike. Just like that, I was already taking responsibility on behalf of a failed state. After all, safety in this side of the world is earned.

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The Paradoxes of a Life in Ajegunle

A PALETTE OF FEAR

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