A man called Chike reportedly defended himself in somewhere in Lagos.
Title: Breath of Lagos
The first thing Chike noticed when he opened his eyes was the sound.
Lagos never slept. Even at 4:17 a.m., the city hummed — distant danfo horns, a generator coughing to life, a woman shouting prices of bread somewhere down the street. The noise pressed against his skull like a reminder:
You’re still here. Fight.
Chike lay on a thin hospital mattress in Mushin, sweat gathering at his temples. Malaria had dragged him down for weeks. His small phone-repair kiosk at Computer Village had been locked since the fever began. No work meant no money. No money meant no drugs.
The doctor had been blunt.
“You need full treatment. Not half. Not ‘I will buy the rest next week.’ Full.”
Full cost: more than Chike had in his bank account.
He stared at the cracked ceiling. His mother in the village thought Lagos was made of gold. “My son in the city,” she would boast. If only she knew he hadn’t paid rent in two months.
By sunrise, he was on his feet.
The city air hit him hard — hot, thick, alive. He felt small walking past the traffic on Agege Motor Road. Conductors hung halfway out of buses yelling, “Oshodi! Oshodi!” like war chants. Hawkers weaved between cars selling everything from plantain chips to phone chargers.
Phone chargers.
An idea flickered.
By 9 a.m., Chike was back at his kiosk. The lock felt heavier than usual. He raised it slowly, like he was opening a door to judgment.
Dust coated the counter. A calendar hung on June though it was already August. He sat down and waited.
No customers.
By noon, the sun was merciless. Sweat soaked through his faded Arsenal jersey. His hands trembled — not just from weakness, but from fear. What if this was it? What if Lagos had chewed him up like it did to so many others?
Then a woman approached.
“My phone no dey charge,” she said, frowning.
He examined it. Loose charging port. Simple fix.
As he worked, more customers gathered. Word traveled fast in markets. “The slim Igbo boy with steady hand,” they used to call him. By 3 p.m., he had fixed seven phones. By 6 p.m., twelve.
Each repair felt like a breath returning to his lungs.
But Lagos doesn’t let victory come easy.
That evening, as he counted his earnings — not enough yet, but close — two street boys appeared. The type with restless eyes and nothing to lose.
“Chairman, how far? You never settle area,” one said, tapping the glass counter.
Chike swallowed.
He knew what they wanted. Protection money. Pay or lose everything.
For a moment, he considered handing over the day’s earnings. Fear crept up his spine. He imagined starting over. Again.
Then he thought of his mother.
He stood.
“I no dey settle,” he said quietly.
The taller boy stepped closer. “You get mind.”
Chike’s heart pounded so loudly he thought the whole market could hear it. But something about his calm made the boys hesitate. Around them, traders were watching. Lagos respected boldness — or at least the illusion of it.
The boys hissed and walked away.
His knees nearly gave out once they were gone.
That night, he didn’t go home immediately. He stayed, repairing two more phones under a flickering bulb powered by a neighbor’s generator. By 10 p.m., he had enough.
Not wealth.
Not comfort.
Just survival.
The next morning, he returned to the hospital and placed the money on the counter.
“Complete treatment,” he said.
Weeks later, strength returned to his body. Customers returned too. Slowly, his kiosk filled again with life — screens lighting up, ringtones singing, people laughing.
Lagos still roared around him — chaotic, unforgiving, relentless.
But Chike had learned something vital.
In Lagos, survival is not given. It is claimed.
Every horn blast, every bead of sweat, every “Oga, abeg,” is a test.
And if you can stand — even when your legs shake — the city, just maybe, will let you breathe.
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