Between the weight of reality and a light night out

I’m watching the lights in the dark merge as the elevator makes it way down to the ground floor. A security guard welcomes me warmly and wishes me a good night. The headlights of my Uber light the way towards it. I get in the car, and we drive across the spacious parking lot surrounding the big shopping center. On top of the high building, one of the most famous clubs in town. I went out with a couple of friends, and it has been a fun night. I still feel the lightness of the music entering my cells, my feet dancing away the heaviness that life tends to build up after a while in this country.

Abuja by night

As we drive out of the parking lot, the driver starts conversing with me. I wish he wouldn’t. I enjoy watching the city pass by as a silent observer. But I feel a sense of responsibility to be friendly to the locals as a guest in their country. So I answer his questions about the country I am from and that I am here for work. “I hope you are enjoying Nigeria”, he says, following the unwritten dialogue script all Uber drivers seem to follow when speaking with foreigners.

As we drive up a steep slope to a street located a couple of meters higher than the one we just came from, my view opens up to a grand, beautiful building, lit up majestically. It’s the national mosque and probably my favorite architectonical landmark in Abuja. I am anticipating in which direction the conversation with my driver will go. The two options are to ask me about my marital status or how I like the food. He surprises me and instead tells me that he is a very confident driver. He has already accumulated 10,000 rides on the Bolt app says he would love to drive in my country. He recently sent a request to Bolt for them to send him there. He never got a response. Feeling pity for his hopeful naivety, I assure him that he is a good driver.

We are slowing down. The right lane is blocked with tires and the car in front of us dutifully slows down and threads into the accessible lane. The car comes to a halt next to the two men dressed in camouflage and chunky boots with flashlights in their hands.  The officer shines a light into the inside of the car, and gives a signal to pass. It’s our turn now. Slowly we roll the few meters towards them, turn on the light in the car and roll down the windows. My driver and I throw a “Good evening sir” through the window. The officer reacts with a big smile. “Oyibo, I like your tattoo!”- instead of a classic “Ma”, I am often greeted as white person in pidgin. He indicates us to proceed. We pull up the window and continue our way.

In my mind, I am trying to hold onto the recent memory of the colors lighting up happy faces on the dancefloor. A sense of timeless and placelessness filled the space between the moving bodies. House music is Abuja’s second language-after Afrobeats. Especially in spaces like this, where the higher classes get together and the ratio of foreigners is among the highest in the city. Several splendid chandeliers decorate the five-meter-high ceiling next to the wall that is decorated in a marble look. I’m pulled back to reality when my driver reiterates his driving skills.

The outside area of the Club

He asks if I couldn’t help him to get a job as a driver in my organization. I apologize by saying I don’t know about any open positions. He explains what I already know. “There are no open positions, you just need to know somebody”. Nigeria’s labor market in one sentence. Trying to get out of the situation, I tell him I am low in the hierarchy and don’t have many buttons to press. As expected, he won’t let loose, and I am slowly feeling myself losing the newly gained lightness again. He trusts that soon I will have a high up position and I will then remember that I have promised my friend Thomas a job. Having learned from too many similar situations, I put on my new, less-friendly face and jokingly prompt him, “I didn’t hear myself promise anything”. He starts laughing. This is the Nigerian way. Never be too friendly because people will try to make use of it. But when being direct, make sure that you’re ‘just joking’. The topic seems to be finished, and I enjoy some seconds of silence while watching the few cars on the road.

The width of the express highway is that of four lanes, are no real lanes. And so, my driver honks and crosses to the right side of the road. I see another car driving in the wrong direction on the very edge of our road. I try to avoid looking into the cars on the opposite side, the lack of street lighting in the middle of Abuja’s main roads makes everybody use their high beams constantly, and I feel blinded by night when looking into them directly. We confidently cross a red traffic light and enter a roundabout that assures me I am close to home. The roundabout is so big, there is probably space for three football fields in the middle of it.

There is a small traffic jam by my exit from the roundabout. As is the case every night, there is another police checkpoint here. We slow down, let down the windows, and turn on the light in the car. The officer directs his flashlight into the car and greets first my driver and then me. His wicked smile already tells me that I don’t like this situation. He reaches his arm through the window into the car towards me. Perplex, I shake it and realize while doing so that he what he was reaching for wasn’t a handshake but my hand to pass him a bill. He still tries and bluntly asks if I don’t have anything for him. He doesn’t accept my “No sorry” and keeps trying. He imitates eating with his hands and says that he is hungry. I tell him “Next time, sir” and my driver heads off. What a sad representation you are for the deep routed problems of your country, I am thinking.

The fancy Club from the inside

As we accelerate, I see three cars parked on the side of the road and their drivers heatedly discussing with other policemen. Surprisingly, all three cars are polished, high-class cars from big brands. What a coincidence for the police to pull over only those that seem to have a full wallet. Usually, they don’t get into trouble with foreigners, but it’s hard not to feel that the main purpose of these police checkpoints is corruption. I genuinely question what their real purpose is. It’s certainly not giving anybody a safe feeling. What they convey is that they treat you based on the money you have for them rather than your behavior. But this seems to be more of a general rule than an exception. Nigeria is often ranked as one of the most corrupt countries in the world, and every day experiences have given me insight into why. The way money handovers rule in most aspects of life is a clear sign of how deeply ingrained corruption is into every fabric of daily life. If you get a contract with an employer, of course, you will hand over a couple of bills to the HR so they will have you in mind for the next opportunity. The stereotype that Nigerians are very entrepreneurial is definitively true, but it comes with the aspect that money tends to dominate all aspects of life including personal relationships. After a while I must admit I have become a bit short-tempered with this. Every second Uber ride, the driver asks for more money and generally, I cannot count the times in a day that I am being asked for money. While understanding that this is part of the culture and the impact of inflation, I often feel that my interactions with people even if I think we have found a personal connection, are overshadowed by a transactional nature. The utility of a person in financial and reputational aspects plays a significant role in a society in which knowing the right people is essential not only to have access to certain spaces but to get through daily challenges. While acknowledging these cultural values, I’m still often left with a bitter taste after feeling used.  

A couple of meters later, we enter my neighborhood and pass through another checkpoint. It goes smoothly. After ten more minutes through the dark roads of my calm neighborhood, we finally reach my street that is secured with a big gate. My driver honks three times until the security guard wakes up and comes out. He looks confused into the car and asks what we want. I get angry. “I live here!” I exclaim. Of course, he also tries to get some money out of me. I tell him “Next time” and after some discussions he finally opens the gate. I am annoyed, he is supposed to protect me from others, not protect the house from me. I get to my house, and we have to honk another time for the security to open the gate to my house. Luckily, they seem to be still awake, and I am let in. I apologize to my friend the security guard for the late hour, and he smiles to me “No problem ma. Have a good night”. He is one of the good ones.

I am finally home, I think. I try to push aside the stress and tension from the ride back, focusing instead on the joy I felt during the night out with my friends. But my mind keeps returning to the daily, small moments of stress that seem to pile up, draining my energy little by little. I feel guilty for my frustrations, fully aware of my privileged position and the suffering that many people face every day. Yet, I can’t ignore how corruption continues to undermine the long-term progress and future opportunities of this country. And by giving money to anyone who asks, I only perpetuate the colonial legacy of the "white savior."

Life becomes incredibly frustrating because of these small, seemingly insignificant things that add up over time, leaving me feeling exhausted. These are things I can't avoid or escape. But by understanding the reasons behind them, and the history of the cultural context, it’s hard to judge too harshly. At the same time, I have my own needs and boundaries that I must respect—not only for my own well-being but also as a responsible visitor to this country. There are many fine lines, and I am still learning how to walk the tightrope between them.