for sale.
A legitimate business, with a public sign, on one of the busier commercial streets in town, catering to a sophisticated clientele, and all the while living on piracy. Do they have any idea that this is a problem? Or is it enough to settle for sophistication without troubling oneself about the laws that defend creativity? The following week, I visit a shop called Jazzhole on Awolowo Road in Ikoyi. And there I finally find myself in an inspired and congenial setting. The place is a combination music and book shop. The owner is one of a small but tenacious breed of Nigerian cultural innovators. The presentation is outstanding, as well done as many a Western bookshop: there is a broad selection of jazz, Pan-African, and other international music near the capacious entrance, and rows and rows of books for the general reader toward the back. The shop has a cool and quiet interior. Here, I think to myself, is finally that moving spot of sun I have sought.
I see music by Ali Farka Touré, by Salif Keïta. There are books by Philip Roth, Penelope Fitzgerald, and, as I had hoped, Michael Ondaatje. The prices are high; not higher than they would be in an American or British shop, but certainly beyond the reach of most Nigerians. And yet, knowingthat there is such a place, in the absence of good libraries or other vendors, makes all the difference to those who must have such sustenance. And better at these high prices than not at all. But the illegitimate business model of the other jazz shop is a threat to this essential work. The people behind the bookshop have also created a record label—they have released three albums by the wonderfully named highlife artist Fatai Rolling Dollar—as well as a publishing house. One of their newest projects, the book Lagos: A City at Work , is a huge textual and photographic compendium of the life of labor here. It features the work of Nigerian thinkers, writers, and photographers, all grappling with the “nonlinear nature” of the city. It is a brilliant confrontation with our great behemoth of a settlement. And there is really only one word for what I feel about these new contributions to the Lagosian scene: gratitude. They are emerging, these creatives, in spite of everything; and they are essential because they are the signs of hope in a place that, like all other places on the limited earth, needs hope.
TWENTY-TWO
I am in the van with Aunty Folake and Uncle Bello. They have many errands to run and I’ve come along for the ride. Every moment I can spend with them is a pleasure. My aunt is a devout Christian who gets up at five every morning to spend an hour with the Bible and devotional texts before the sun rises. Her brother is a committed Muslim. The group he belongs to is called NASFAT, the Nasrul-Lahi-il-Fathi Society of Nigeria, the major Islamic renewal organization in Lagos. With his placid temperament, he is the very antithesis of a jihadi, which makes it funnier that his sister and brother-in-law sometimes tease him with the name Mr. Osama. But, as far as I can tell, they never actually discuss religion, much less attempt to convert each other.
We have several stops to make this morning: we have to buy some live chickens, we need to refill some large jerry cans with palm oil, and there are repaired suitcases to pick up from the leather worker. So we drive all around the neighborhood and I get to see how thickly populated even these outlying areas of the city have become in my absence. Out here, at the spreading edge of the gigantic metropolis, there is a feel of busy village life. It is an urban density, but in the rhythms of certain interactions, away from the highways and major bus stops, life is languid, and the general feeling less frenetic.
The woman selling the oil expertly measures out the exact amount required. The fluent substance is beautiful to watch. It falls in an orange-colored cord from one vessel to the other, gleaming in lines like twisted silk. Across
A legitimate business, with a public sign, on one of the busier commercial streets in town, catering to a sophisticated clientele, and all the while living on piracy. Do they have any idea that this is a problem? Or is it enough to settle for sophistication without troubling oneself about the laws that defend creativity? The following week, I visit a shop called Jazzhole on Awolowo Road in Ikoyi. And there I finally find myself in an inspired and congenial setting. The place is a combination music and book shop. The owner is one of a small but tenacious breed of Nigerian cultural innovators. The presentation is outstanding, as well done as many a Western bookshop: there is a broad selection of jazz, Pan-African, and other international music near the capacious entrance, and rows and rows of books for the general reader toward the back. The shop has a cool and quiet interior. Here, I think to myself, is finally that moving spot of sun I have sought.
I see music by Ali Farka Touré, by Salif Keïta. There are books by Philip Roth, Penelope Fitzgerald, and, as I had hoped, Michael Ondaatje. The prices are high; not higher than they would be in an American or British shop, but certainly beyond the reach of most Nigerians. And yet, knowingthat there is such a place, in the absence of good libraries or other vendors, makes all the difference to those who must have such sustenance. And better at these high prices than not at all. But the illegitimate business model of the other jazz shop is a threat to this essential work. The people behind the bookshop have also created a record label—they have released three albums by the wonderfully named highlife artist Fatai Rolling Dollar—as well as a publishing house. One of their newest projects, the book Lagos: A City at Work , is a huge textual and photographic compendium of the life of labor here. It features the work of Nigerian thinkers, writers, and photographers, all grappling with the “nonlinear nature” of the city. It is a brilliant confrontation with our great behemoth of a settlement. And there is really only one word for what I feel about these new contributions to the Lagosian scene: gratitude. They are emerging, these creatives, in spite of everything; and they are essential because they are the signs of hope in a place that, like all other places on the limited earth, needs hope.
TWENTY-TWO
I am in the van with Aunty Folake and Uncle Bello. They have many errands to run and I’ve come along for the ride. Every moment I can spend with them is a pleasure. My aunt is a devout Christian who gets up at five every morning to spend an hour with the Bible and devotional texts before the sun rises. Her brother is a committed Muslim. The group he belongs to is called NASFAT, the Nasrul-Lahi-il-Fathi Society of Nigeria, the major Islamic renewal organization in Lagos. With his placid temperament, he is the very antithesis of a jihadi, which makes it funnier that his sister and brother-in-law sometimes tease him with the name Mr. Osama. But, as far as I can tell, they never actually discuss religion, much less attempt to convert each other.
We have several stops to make this morning: we have to buy some live chickens, we need to refill some large jerry cans with palm oil, and there are repaired suitcases to pick up from the leather worker. So we drive all around the neighborhood and I get to see how thickly populated even these outlying areas of the city have become in my absence. Out here, at the spreading edge of the gigantic metropolis, there is a feel of busy village life. It is an urban density, but in the rhythms of certain interactions, away from the highways and major bus stops, life is languid, and the general feeling less frenetic.
The woman selling the oil expertly measures out the exact amount required. The fluent substance is beautiful to watch. It falls in an orange-colored cord from one vessel to the other, gleaming in lines like twisted silk. Across
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