Freedom At The 22nd Level
As I open the door of the car, my nostrils are bombarded with the incessant stench of garbage and urine. The parking lot is filled with random people; vagabonds who live here, with their never-ending arguments about everything from politics to football; trader women who provide the vagabonds with local cigarettes and astonishing alcoholic concoctions; swindlers that walk up to you and try to sell fake products at the price of the original.
I walk through the lot towards the exit, dodging puddles of rainwater, mud-filled potholes, and the usual drunkard or mad man. Exiting the lot, I enter one of the busiest roads in Lagos State: Marina Road.
The smell in the environment changes almost immediately. The air shifts into a kaleidoscope of odors; an inexplicable yet amazing fusion of fragrances too numerous to be counted, too distinct in its oneness to be divided. Each aroma mingles in immaculate blend with every other, like an intricate design skillfully sown upon cloth. My skilled nose can distinguish a few: body odor, food, perfume, soot, money; all of this and so much more, coming off nearly a million people and thousands of vehicles that tread upon Marina Road every single day.
I cross the road, with some difficulty, having to weave between cars driven by rush-hour crazed workers. The air is filled with the sounds of honking horns, screamed obscenities, and the sporadic screeching tire. I make my way through a large alleyway, packed with shop-less roadside traders selling groceries, household appliances, paintings, and other products, into one of the skyscrapers.
As usual, I haggle with one of the security guards over the money I should offer him. Eventually, we reach a deal and he lets me through into the elevators that lead to the many offices above. Unlike every other person in the building, I do not work here. What I do here is rather emotionally inclined.
I enter the elevator and press button ‘22’. As the elevator smoothly makes its way up, men and women in impeccably tailored suits move in and out on different floors, while I stand unmoving at the very back of the cab; they are variables but I am constant. The thought makes me smile. Finally, I reach my destination. I exit the elevator and stroll towards my favorite spot in the world: The balcony of the 22nd floor.
Looking out, I can observe miles and miles of Lagos; the Atlantic Ocean spreading into the horizon; the cars and people, grasshoppers. I can see beauty everywhere I turn. The city becomes a painting in my eyes and I can see every brush stroke, every curved line. I can distinguish the flawless art of architecture and nature, balancing out carefully on a pivot. I easily notice the astounding blend between the huge buildings and its wealthy occupants and the little thatched-roofed fisherman huts just beside the ocean. The irony is overwhelming.
An infinite sense of utopia bubbles within me and overcomes me utterly. I laugh, cherishing its very resonance. Raising my arms sideways, I lift up my head toward the sunlit sky and close my eyes. I am on top of the world. I feel omniscient. I feel intoxicated with power. I feel like the owner of the universe. I feel strong. I feel whole. I feel free.
About the Author: Nnanyelugo Yahka-Mba (pen name: Nnanna Mba), aged 19, is currently in his third year pursuing a B Sc. in Biochemistry at Covenant University, Nigeria. He enjoys playing with words, using them to paint pictures. He loves reading novels, especially fantasy and horror.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
