I resumed the new year as the worst version of myself—like a phone with 2% battery and no charger in sight. Sluggish, overfed, and slightly resentful that the holidays vanished faster than small chops at a wedding. One minute, I was living my best life, the next, I was worrying if my office chair would still be able to hold my weight or if my body would stage a protest every morning when my alarm goes off.
Like everyone else, I assumed the holidays would be low-key—after all, 2024 wasn’t exactly the year of financial milk and honey. Brethren, we saw shege-like things. But Lagosians took one look at their dwindling savings and said, “Fudge it!” Because, let’s be honest, what money were we even saving when inflation was treating our naira like Monopoly cash? The city had been fasting all year, and December was the feast, the culmination of ‘no gree for anybody.’
Then came the IJGBs—the “I Just Got Backs”—returning from ‘the abroad’ with accents as suspicious as a waiter saying, ‘Trust me, it’s not that spicy’ and their foreign currencies stretching like chewing gum. Dollars and Pounds Sterling (because yes, their currency comes with a surname), flowed through the streets, and Lagos responded the only way it knows how to—turning up with reckless abandon.
Personally, I took it ‘easy.’ And by ‘easy,’ I mean I hosted two house parties that could’ve qualified for Coachella, ordered a medium-sized crocodile from Onidoko in Surulere (because why eat regular meat when you can channel your inner Bear Grylls?), and, of course, made my required pilgrimage to South Social. If you’ve never been, South Social is like a music festival and a family reunion had a baby—chaotic and full of vibes. It was 2005-Titus-Sardine packed.
The madness even seeped into my dreams—I dreamt I got into a full-blown fistfight with a hypeman who refused to let the DJ play Oblee.
But as with all good things, the holiday has packed its bags and ghosted us. Just like that, we’re back—back to endless emails, back to circling back, touching base, and plucking low-hanging fruits like overzealous farmers. WhatsApp messages have gone from ‘outside tonight?’ to ‘this meeting could’ve been an email.’ The nightlife warriors have retreated, my liver is in recovery, and all that remains is the countdown to the next public holiday.
And so, we move, dragging our reluctant bodies back into the 9-to-5, sorry 8-to-whenever battlefield, staring longingly at December photos, and counting down another approximately 300 and-something days until we do it all over again.
PS: No pictures, you people will judge me.
