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I was curious. I bought the Bradt Guide, the only travel guide dedicated to Nigeria.
From the confines of my Parisian flat, I studied each page. I read the street and district names, trying to memorise the addresses of restaurants arid hotels. Adeola Odeku. Awolowo Road. Ikorodu. Apapa. Karimu Kotun. They sounded so beautiful.
“[Nigeria) is simply one of the world’s most difficult places to travel in and the notion of travelling here conjures up a horrific reaction. It’s far from a holiday destination, there’s very little to see in the way of conventional sightseeing, and it’s an environmental disaster. There is no tourism industry to support the national parks or historic sites. For the adventurous traveller, Nigeria offers the opportunity to see the country in its raw and naked state. Travelling there is challenging but exciting and your experiences will be memorable. (…)“
God knows why that made me want to go.
I believed at this time that it would be easy for a white girl to jump on a plane for unknown destinations. 1 had navigated life this way for years. But right from this stage, Nigeria already bared its teeth. The country never liked Western journalists, or outsiders poking their nose into its business. It took several months and many return trips to the embassy to get my visa. The staff were unwavering. “You’re too late.” “Applications have to be made on Tuesdays. It’s Wednesday. See you next week.”
‘We need a certified translation of your proof of address. See you tomorrow. Next.”
I grumbled. I got angry. But I didn’t give up. I hated them as much as I admired them. I knew that it was nothing compared to what Nigerians had to go through to come to my own country, to travel to Europe.
After weeks of waiting and supplications, I finally got my pass. “Take. And thank God and your skin complexion.”
I still remember pushing open the heavy carriage door of my building in Paris, setting off on the dawn of a freezing morning in January 2014. I felt like I was launching myself from the top of the “black slope of Africa,” as my friend Georgina would call it years later. At the time, 1 didn’t even know that life was too expensive in Lagos and that my writing would pay for neither hotel room nor taxi. I went there simply because 1 wanted to, without connections or any assignment. That wasn’t downhill skiing anymore. That was off-piste skiing: pure thoughtlessness. But I didn’t care. I lifted my eyes to the heavens, and I left.
Nigeria was about to become the largest economy in Africa, overtaking South Africa. Nigerians were still rolling up their sleeves every day, and their stomachs were empty, but they looked to the future with confidence. At the time, Nigerians were said to be the most optimistic people on earth, and it was true.
Excerpted from Manuwa Street, by Sophie Bouillon, published by Farafina Books Lagos 2022
