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It is 5:00 a.m. on a Monday morning, and Lagos is already stirring. While dawn elsewhere is quiet, here it is the beginning of a race. From Agege to Ajah, from Ikorodu to Ikoyi, alarm clocks buzz, generators rumble, and sleepy children are nudged awake. Monday is no ordinary day—it is the day that sets the rhythm of the week.
By 5:30 a.m., the streets are dotted with commuters hurrying to bus stops. Mothers pack school bags while fathers scan the news on their phones, half-dressed and calculating the traffic ahead. At roadside kiosks, akara sellers are already at work, frying bean cakes in hot oil, wrapping them with bread for customers on the move. Every detail, every second matters; Lagos does not reward lateness.
At 6:00 a.m., the roads are alive. Danfo buses rumble out of depots, conductors hanging from the doors, shouting destinations with practiced lungs: “CMS straight! Oshodi! Obalende!” Yellow buses swerve across lanes, competing with private cars and BRTs. On the Third Mainland Bridge, headlights stretch endlessly, glowing like a river of fire. The famous “go-slow” has begun.
By 7:00 a.m., the pressure has doubled. Commuters shift restlessly in traffic, some nodding off, others checking their wristwatches every minute. Schoolchildren in oversized uniforms doze against bus windows, their parents whispering silent prayers that they arrive before morning assembly. Street hawkers weave fearlessly between lanes, selling snacks, drinks, newspapers, face masks, even phone chargers. For them, traffic is a marketplace. For drivers, it is a daily battle.
The city’s soundtrack at this hour is pure chaos: impatient horns, the shouts of conductors, the revving of okadas squeezing through impossible gaps. A danfo driver cuts across two lanes, prompting curses from another motorist. An officer from LASTMA waves frantically at a stubborn keke rider. The drama is endless, and yet, this is routine. Lagosians hardly flinch.
By 8:00 a.m., Lagos has reached peak tension. Victoria Island, Lekki, and Ikeja are already flooded with hurried office workers. Some rush past security gates, shirts untucked, ties askew, while others sneak in quietly, praying their lateness goes unnoticed. On the roads, the unlucky ones are still trapped in standstill traffic, phoning their bosses with the familiar excuse: “I’m on the way, just held up.”
Street preachers, undeterred by the noise, raise their megaphones to call for repentance. Beside them, hawkers push trays of gala and La Casera toward half-open car windows. On the radio, hosts dissect politics, fuel prices, and football scores, their voices keeping drivers company through the frustration. Inside buses, arguments break out over fares or politics, before dissolving into laughter. Lagos, even in gridlock, never loses its sharp humor.
And then comes 9:00 a.m. Offices have officially opened. Schools have long started assembly. For those who left early, the day has begun in rhythm. For the latecomers, the city is merciless. The Third Mainland Bridge remains a bottleneck, Ikorodu Road is a sea of brake lights, and CMS is swallowed in yellow buses. Some commuters finally abandon their vehicles, choosing to trek the last stretch. Others resign
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