The rain had just stopped falling, but the skies still wear a face of greyish-blue.
The streets of Idumota and Balogun Market beam with glistening smiles. The wetness makes every object sparkle like crystals of gemstones.
The backwaters of Kuramo is oscillating with an arrogant poise, its waters had been copiously fed by the summer rains of SW Nigeria.
On the other side, massive ships moored at the Apapa harbours rock with the rhythm of the saline fluids. Even Takwa Bay and Ògógóró Island at a distance would not be left out of the orchestra, as their verdant mangroves resonate to the hither and thither sweep of the cool Atlantic breezes.
Like stringed coral beads, a queue of dánfó buses form a meander of green and white strands just below an overhead pedestrian bridge; and they are being spectated by a hundred poles of street light towering above the Apóngbòn Bridge like battlements of an ancient city wall.
Catholic Mission Street Junction stands ever beautiful with the elegant edifice of its aged church poised at a corner. A statue of Sir. Albert McCauley stands 30m away, with a myriad of skyscrapers shooting into the sky at its background.
Gusts of densely humid air gallantly parade the mass of Lagos Island. A small child smiles as she hugs herself so tight as if to dispel the cold brushing her tender skin.
An old woman says "hello" to a bus conductor as she is ushered into the dánfó heading to Ajah.
A half-filled red BRT bus passes by, its stereo playing Fela’s classic tune- Buy Africa:
This is Lagos! Where else would I be at this moment apart from here?