Makoko Moments

There are moments in life that outlast the length of time, they come visiting us for. Moments, which help us gather our souls; and find our beings. 

Makoko happened to us one early December morn, in the fading darkness of a rising dawn. As we wandered down the last alley leading to the floating village, unpleasantness enveloped us like the thick morning fog. The glances told us we were unwelcome. We bent our ears to pick up harsh, staccato, unfamiliar syllables directed at Noah, our guide, leading us a few paces ahead. Noah is one among them, but still. Their ebony coated figures formed a silhouette against the fading darkness. They are like the guard bees, tasked to picket the shanty-town entrance; beyond which,  the road takes you to the world of Makoko. A modern day, shanty town civilisation floating above the mighty Atlantic backwaters, not even rooted to this world. In the footprints of history, it may not even have a chance to leave behind its trails.

If one looked beyond the unwelcoming air, one could hear the whispers of the moments waiting to catch your attention. The roving eye needed just a few alert peeks to forget the anguish of the minutes spent on the way inside. The heart started flirting with the moments, willing to embrace them in a tight squeeze. The flurry of the camera clicks which followed, inspired the soul inside to drop all inhibitions. By the time the sun kissed the backwaters golden, the frames had captured many moments that came visiting us that day. Moments, that will outlast their length of time.       

The alleys inside Makoko didn’t have the tokunbo (secondhand) cars discarded by the developed world, plying down. It didn’t have the bumper hugging traffic snarls of the Third Mainland above, obeying the synchronised commands of the green-amber-red lights that control our freedom. In Makoko, you chose your way, you chose your pace and you chose your time. The Atlantic backwaters have laid an endless network of roads that gave you the freedom to move your way. There are no fights when you bump into another boat. As if the curved edges of the boats kissed each other hello as they thudded by, guiding them on their way. Makoko doesn’t fight on trivial matters. Parking is free; and no one issued parking tickets either. It’s yours to park anywhere. The air in Makoko breathed with unconstrained freedom. Civilisation didn't steal away their liberty. They haven't submitted themselves to an organised regimen to live harmoniously. Makoko’s soul lies in being carefree amidst utter chaos. I realised, in that moment, we have lost a lot.

Outlawed by the powers-that-be, Makoko is a world by itself. Removed from the rest, it lives by itself, for itself. Every dawn brought with it a new hope for another dawn for three long decades. The hopes of the once young girls have turned into a daily toil of the women they have now become. Yet, their spirits haven’t lost the strength to provide for new hopes for the nubile youngs, who canoe the backwaters to reach their school desks. Makoko women stand out. Much like their equals who grind hours after more hours on the vast landmass of Lagos, the other world, outside Makoko. Every dawn draws the Makoko women out of their stilted homes to eke out a living of dignity within the boundless horizons of Makoko. One of them wearing a bright printed long dress was selling home cooked dried fish. Complete with red-hot pepe sauce. Rowing her boat through the lucid backwaters, she hollered out her presence. In a moment, few boats gathered around hers, to savour the lip-smacking preparation. Business was brisk. A little far away, another lady was selling bananas and tangerine. Still afar, what looked like a bazaar, more women were selling fresh vegetables, meat, pounded yam and what not. Makoko bazaars are a collection of boats, anchored side-by-side, almost hugging each other, gently swaying with the ripples, cradling the matriarchs in their bellies. The morning air of Makoko was filled with the fresh voices of its women, the matriarchs who have become adept in running a grocery store out of the shallow belly of a boat and equally managing the needs of a growing toddler within its small confines. That moment, I learnt that space has deep space within small confines, which our eyes never manage to spot. 

At the far end of the distant horizon where the Makoko houses appear to have come together to form the village, the air above is covered with smoke, as if protecting them from the outer weather. Underneath the thatched roofs, walled by flimsy cloth that make them into the houses they are, women were busy making food in the fireplace fuelled by fallen woods. Some for themselves but mostly to be sold in the bazaars, to feed the thousands waiting for the love of home cooked food. These moments wrapped in poverty, taught me that unbound love has found a home in the poorness of Makoko. Such love has given us a miss. 

When I walked up the rickety wooden steps to the small two-storied school run by Noah, my soul felt happy. The young minds were resolute in their eagerness to learn. They want to learn more than their parents, hoping to leave the boats behind to get a life on the shore. Hoping to be counted as one of Lagos. Five of them have. They have reached the classrooms of a college in mainland Lagos. Noah’s hope is to change the trickle into a stream. The change has started. The hope of thirty years has finally raised the flicker into a flutter. Its time for us, who have a place in the world of haves, to make it more welcoming. The soul of Makoko knows unbound love. It knows how to give. It knows how to keep a hope alive. It knows how to overcome depths of despair. We, the haves need that spirit to enrich our souls. And spread the moments that can change the world for better.