The city of Lagos stirred beneath a hazy dawn, its restless energy awakening with slow, stretching limbs, like a titan rousing from troubled sleep. The first rays of sunlight bled through the thin veil of morning fog, catching on rusted roofs, glass panes, and the restless movement of early risers. From afar, the sounds began—horns bleating impatiently, the low grumble of danfo buses stirring to life, voices rising with barter, gossip, prayer, and lament.
Iyi stood at the border where city met chaos—on the dusty fringe where concrete ended and the living pulse of Lagos began. A thin mist floated above the alleyways, weaving between makeshift zinc rooftops and the skeletal frames of buildings caught mid-construction or mid-decay. The scent of frying akara wafted through the air, rich and earthy, clashing with the sharp tang of gasoline and the familiar salt from the nearby lagoon.
For the first time in years, Lagos didn't feel like a trap.
It didn't feel like the mouth of a hungry beast ready to swallow him whole.
Instead, it felt like a rhythm he could finally move in tune with.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the air settle in his lungs — this air that reeked of dreams both fulfilled and broken. The boy who had once run into this city chasing illusions had long since died. Iyi could feel that death now — not as a tragedy, but as a necessary ending.
That boy had run from pain. This man walked into it.
His feet moved almost of their own accord, stepping past the cracks in the road, the puddles of oil-rainwater, the children curled on makeshift mats beside sleeping parents. A danfo zoomed past, its conductor hanging halfway out the door, yelling for passengers headed to Oshodi. Music thumped from a nearby compound — old Fuji interlaced with modern Afrobeats, layered in chaotic harmony.
Iyi's footsteps aligned with the beat. The city was alive. And for once, he was not afraid of being alive in it.
He passed a roadside tailor, already hunched over his humming machine, guiding bright ankara fabric through steel teeth. He passed a woman selling boiled corn and coconut by a rusting cart, her hands moving rhythmically, almost like a ritual. A little girl beside her sang in a soft voice, off-key but hopeful.
Everything about this city seemed like music.
Everything… except the memories.
He paused in front of a shut-down kiosk covered in graffiti. A decade ago, he had hidden behind that very stall to avoid men who would've beaten him senseless for stealing a burner phone. That night, shivering and bleeding from his lip, he'd prayed to a God he no longer believed in.
He touched the scar still faint on his cheek. It was a reminder.
So many things had changed since then — spirit realms, river gods, betrayal, redemption. His journey had taken him through whispers and wounds, through darkness that nearly consumed him. But now, in the swirl of Lagos noise and chaos, Iyi felt something unexpected.
Stillness.
Not the absence of noise.
But the presence of peace.
He walked deeper into the heart of the city. The stalls opened wider now. The buildings grew taller. The air felt warmer. At a bend near Ojuelegba, a young woman staggered under the weight of a basket piled high with plantains. She slipped.
Without thinking, Iyi rushed forward.
"I've got it," he said, catching the edge of the basket before it toppled. Together, they balanced it.
"Thank you," she panted, eyes grateful. "I don't know what I would've done."
He smiled. "It's alright."
She looked at the pendant on his neck — a small wooden drum, worn and smoothed by time. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "That's not just for decoration, is it?"
"No," Iyi said softly, touching it with reverence. "It's a symbol. Of a legacy. A promise."
"A promise to who?"
"To myself. And to those I couldn't save."
She nodded slowly. "Well... Lagos needs more people with promises. Not just people with ambition."
Then she offered him a piece of roasted groundnut from her pocket and walked away.
Iyi stared after her for a long while.
That small exchange—insignificant on the surface—felt enormous.
Every step through the city became a walk through memory.
He passed the park where he once traded fake watches and dreams. He saw the alleyway where he'd hidden with Sunkanmi after a deal went south. He passed the food vendor who had once fed him for free, no questions asked.
He should go and thank her.
He should apologize.
But some debts can't be paid with words.
Instead, he bowed slightly in her direction, and whispered, "Thank you, Mama Kudi. You fed a ghost once."
The woman didn't hear. She was busy tending to a new wave of hungry faces.
At the far end of the road, Iyi stopped before a crumbling wall. A mural stretched across it — painted by unseen hands. It showed a mighty river cutting through Lagos, its waves shaped like human faces, each one bearing different expressions: sorrow, joy, rage, hope.
Faces of the forgotten.
Faces like his.
As he stood there, transfixed, a voice spoke behind him.
"Your journey is part of this river."
Iyi turned.
An elderly man stood there. Grey beard. Eyes that sparkled like starlight through rain. He wore a faded agbada that hung loose on his slender frame, and his hands were calloused, as if they had molded not just clay, but destiny itself.
"I am Baba Ife," the old man said. "And I see you, Son of the Drum."
Iyi swallowed. "How do you know who I am?"
"I don't need to know your name. Your spirit carries your story. And this city... listens."
They sat by the wall, where the morning sun now glistened on broken glass and hidden puddles.
"I want to give back," Iyi said. "But I don't know how. I've burned so much. Lost too many."
Baba Ife nodded. "Healing does not begin with answers. It begins with the willingness to stay. To witness the hurt. Yours. And others'. That's where rivers begin—from the smallest drops of truth."
Iyi closed his eyes.
And for a moment, he let himself cry.
The tears weren't loud or showy. They were silent confessions that the old Lagos version of himself would've buried deep beneath swagger and shame.
When he opened his eyes, the city was still moving—vendors shouting, buses roaring, music blaring.
But something had shifted.
He stood, shook Baba Ife's hand, and whispered, "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me," the old man replied. "Just promise me one thing."
"What?"
"When Lagos sings again... don't just listen. Sing back."
Iyi smiled.
He would.
He would sing back in his own way — not with music, but with kindness. With truth. With the drum in his heart, passed down through generations.
He stepped back into the crowd.
The city swallowed him, but this time, not like prey.
This time, like a son returning home.
And somewhere, deep beneath the surface of cracked roads and wounded hearts, Lagos sang again.
This time, Iyi was ready to join the chorus.