Asgard is not a place.

When the lights go out who will be there?

My big head navigating traffic.

Let me tell you a story. When I was seven or eight, playing with kids my age in Owode Ajegunle. The town had by then slowly started to taint my skin; you could hear it in my language, see it in my mannerisms. But before that happened—before the day I laughed at a naked man who also happened to be my friend’s father, before I caught children who couldn’t be more than four touching each other inappropriately, before Iya Niyi, who sold dry gin and agbò Jedï bleached skin, started to turn green, and my father decided enough was enough and took us house touring in Ikorodu—I was playing with my friends outside my house. We were running through our fathers' occupations, speaking in turns: a store manager, a teacher, a farmer, an Okada driver. When it got to my turn—and this is where I need you to believe me—I do not know what came over me. I cannot pinpoint the issue, except that I was young and an impulsive liar. I told them that my father worked at CBN.

Yes.

Central Bank of Nigeria.

At first, they didn’t believe me. “Do you know I used to count money for my daddy in the room? The last time I counted 50,000 naira,” I informed them smugly. You must understand, 50,000 naira in 2008 was a huge deal, and I was the child my parents entrusted with their money. I never asked for money I wasn’t owed; I never coveted, so they had no fear I’d steal from them. It was a perfect arrangement. But this evening, I was telling a group of people that I counted money and my father worked in CBN in Owode Ajegunle, a depraved town with depraved people.

Thankfully, my sisters overheard me and called me inside for a conversation. I still have scars to this day.

* * *

It’s been a couple of years, and I’m back in Lagos—I say back because a lot has happened. I’m in a bus headed to stadium bus stop from Mushin. I had just resumed at my (ex) workplace, and I had a two-week orientation every day from 9 am-6 pm at Oshodi. It meant that I took a total of six buses every day for 14 days (I spent 1200/1400 per day). My body tried to survive that experience by withdrawing into itself. That is a code word for daydreaming a lot and eating anything I could find. I spent those weeks telling everyone who cared to ask me how I was doing that I was “Fine.” I spent the remaining time crying into my clothes from sheer exhaustion. In that cramped, heated space while we waited for passengers, I thought a lot about home. Everything, in fact, reminded me of home. The crowd bumping into you, the tomato and pepper sellers by the roadside, hot Akara and puff puff, the noise, and the scent of survival. I loathed that smell. I missed that smell.

In Thor: Ragnarok, when Thor was falling apart about his home, Asgard being destroyed by his sister, his late father Odin had a conversation with him where he said

Asgard is not a place, Asgard is its people.

That revelation healed him and saved the people of Asgard. They began afresh, traveling around space until they settled again.

That revelation, in my case, helped me shift energies. It didn’t always succeed because how do you live in a town tainted by everything you used to have? It’s like the love of your life breaking up with you and asking to be just friends. Who does that?

So when I thought of home from Oshodi to Stadium, I thought about my mother returning from Mile 12 buying tomatoes she didn’t need because it was going away at half price, my father with his cologne holding my hands the first time I went to Ekó to buy a school bag, home is my sisters fighting because someone took extra meat that was reserved for my father, and me babysitting my brother while wondering if anyone cared about my feelings in the world.

In the novel Americanah, when Obinze had been deported and was crashing at his aunt’s place trying to seek favors from Chief. He said something that struck with me. Paraphrased: This is what it means to hustle. I'm in Lagos and I have to hustle. You would think it funny, the image of Obinze (who's my ex if anyone cares to know) prostrating every day before a powerful man seeking an opportunity, I did. Until I started sitting in traffic for hours. Everything began to make sense. Terrible conditions, why people remained in toxic places, why certain people go for certain shows, the thrill for clout, the fervency of hope, and the desire for home. Whatever that translates to you.

In those times, I did everything to while away time. I took note of bus stops, I imagined the various ways I'd bump into the love of my life, I had monologues, I wrote lyrics to my imaginary EP, I whispered prayers under my breath, and mostly, I longed for home.

I cannot tell you if Odin’s words worked for me yet. Some days, I find myself still falling apart.

Music Recommendation: I discovered an artist from a movie (The Set Up) her name is Dinachi, and she's so good I can’t keep it to myself. Listen to Rise or Lights go out by Dinachi if you can.

Book Recommendation: The first book I picked in the new year disappointed me and because I will not speak of books I do not enjoy in this newsletter, I'll recommend Everyday Is Not For The Thief by Teju Cole. I think about his views on Lagos in traffic often.

I hope you have a lovely weekend.