Arden Blackwood's first impression of Lagos was chaos dressed as opportunity. The moment the plane's wheels hit the tarmac at Murtala Muhammed International Airport, the humid air slapped him awake. It smelled like gasoline, fried plantains, wet concrete, and—he thought—something oddly sweet he couldn't identify. The combination was oddly intoxicating, and Arden had to resist gagging.
He adjusted his collar, wishing for a moment that he had packed lighter. The heat was oppressive, sticky against his skin, making his crisp white shirt cling uncomfortably. As he wheeled his suitcase past the crowds, he felt like a fish flopping onto land, entirely out of place.
"Mr. Blackwood?" a deep voice called.
Arden turned to see a tall, well-dressed man with a stoic face and dark sunglasses. He didn't offer a smile, didn't extend a hand. He simply held out a car key and motioned toward a sleek black SUV parked outside. Arden nodded politely, feeling the weight of his father's instructions pressing against his chest.
"Safe. Keep your head down. Blend in. Don't make waves," his father had said over a secure call. The words had seemed simple enough, but standing in the midst of Lagos traffic, he realized they were more of a challenge than he'd anticipated.
The streets were a living organism—constantly moving, honking, shouting. Motorcycles weaved between cars like schools of fish. Street vendors yelled over the roar of traffic, selling everything from roasted corn to bright orange mangoes. Music pulsed from every corner—drums, highlife, Afrobeat—an unrelenting, vibrant soundtrack.
Arden sat back in the car, trying to take it all in. "Blend in," he muttered to himself. But how do you blend in when the world feels like it's dancing around you and you don't know the steps?
By the time the SUV pulled into the compound his father had rented, Arden was drenched in sweat, his hair sticking uncomfortably to his forehead. The building was modern but modest, a glass-and-concrete structure hiding behind a high wall. Two security guards nodded at the SUV as it passed. Arden felt both relieved and unnerved—the kind of relief that comes from escaping immediate danger but realizing you've only stepped into another layer of it.
His room overlooked a bustling street below. From his window, he could see vendors calling out their wares, cars honking endlessly, and people moving with an energy that made him feel simultaneously alive and out of place. He sat on the edge of the bed and sighed, running a hand over his face.
Two years, maybe three. And then I'm out of here, he thought. That had been his plan: survive, stay safe, and wait until his father's enemies lost interest or he was strong enough to confront them. Simple. Predictable.
Yet, deep down, he knew it wouldn't be that simple.
The next morning, Arden decided to explore. His father's warning echoed in his mind: Don't attract attention. Yet, curiosity pulled him out the door, into the thick Lagos morning. He hadn't walked far before he realized just how different this city was. Cars honked incessantly; hawkers called out with exaggerated urgency; children played football in puddles left by the previous night's rain.
He tried to walk casually but immediately tripped over a pothole. A woman carrying a basket of oranges laughed and shook her head. Blend in, Arden. Blend in. He muttered under his breath, brushing off the dirt from his designer shoes.
It was in a small café tucked between two towering buildings that he first saw her. She had dark, almond-shaped eyes that sparkled with mischief and curiosity. Her braids were tied back casually, but strands had escaped, framing her face perfectly. She held a book in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, and wore a grin that made Arden suddenly aware of how conspicuously stiff he had been since arriving.
"Excuse me," she said, stepping backward and almost knocking into him. "Are you new here? You look… confused."
Arden blinked, taken aback. "Uh… yes. I just… arrived." He adjusted his tie, although it had done nothing wrong. "I'm Arden."
She grinned wider. "I'm Ife. But everyone calls me Ife. Welcome to Lagos… kind of."
There was something in her tone—playful, teasing—that unnerved him. He wasn't used to people speaking to him like that, and yet, for some reason, he didn't want her to stop.
"You must be one of those… foreign types," she said, peering at his crisp outfit and pale complexion. "How long do you think you'll survive without tripping over something?"
Arden opened his mouth to reply but realized he had no witty comeback. She laughed at his silence, and he couldn't help but smile, despite himself.
This city is going to destroy me, he thought. And somehow, that thought didn't scare him as much as he expected.
The rest of the day was a blur of smells, sounds, and experiences. Arden tried street food, which ended with him nearly choking on spicy pepper soup while Ife laughed uncontrollably. He got lost twice, asked directions from strangers, and accidentally bargained with a vendor for twice the actual price of a trinket. Through it all, Ife seemed effortlessly at ease, guiding him, teasing him, and keeping him alive in ways he didn't yet appreciate.
By the time the sun began to set, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink, Arden found himself sitting on a low wall, watching the city come alive in the evening glow. He felt a strange warmth in his chest—part relief, part excitement, part something he didn't want to name.
Lagos was loud, chaotic, and unpredictable. And for the first time, Arden realized that maybe, just maybe, this city was going to change him.
And if it did… maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.