There was a kind of magic that lived in the streets of Lagos in the ’90s. You didn’t need to go far to find it; just wait till December, and it will come to you.
Most people my age would remember massive jollof pots as a staple of the season, but Christmas was so much more. It was also the season of street carnivals; the raw, chaotic kind that turned neighbourhoods into a wonderland. Every street wanted bragging rights, so they took turns throwing the wildest parties. One day it was Adeola Street, the next it was Awofeso. Multicoloured bunting stretched across every street, while somewhere nearby, a child whimpered softly as the hairdresser singed the frayed ends of her braids, preparing her for the holidays under her mother’s watchful eye.
The air was thick with smoke from bangers, with the distant sound of Nigeria’s emerging pop scene blending into the chatter of excited kids and the clinking of bottles, or the smashing of them. Those egbons no too get joy back then. One thing, one thing, bottles don dey break.
Corporate-sponsored events were not a thing yet, and brand ambassadorship never too dey like that. These were bloc parties before the term caught on. Community-funded, heart-led celebrations where everyone chipped in. There’d be DJs blasting from rented Ahuja speakers, local dancers and underground music stars hyping the crowd, and these white-painted mannequin men who could stay frozen for hours. I never understood how they did it. The temptation to poke them and run was real. The inner crack-headedness of every child screamed, “Just one small pinch!” We probably dared one another to do it as well.
It was especially electrifying after dark. All day long, we’d be at war; banger wars, that is. Street versus street, throwing knockouts like it’s miniature Gaza (Don’t cancel me, please). The money for treats we obtained from willing uncles, aunts and big cousins funded our acquisition of ammunition. This part was my favourite. In fact, I missed it so much that in 2021, when the girl I was dating casually mentioned she’d never thrown a banger in her life, I bought a whole cache. That Christmas Eve, we did nothing else but light knockouts into the crossover. No child should be deprived of that joy.
But of course, not every part of Lagos had that culture. Growing up in Maryland, it wasn’t really a thing. I only discovered the magic when we’d go spend Christmas at Grandpa’s place in Somolu, off Shipeolu. That’s where I got my first taste. Later, Grandpa retired to Festac, and that’s where the carnival culture truly thrived. Festac was a bubbling cultural hub. Its energy was infectious. Entire Avenues would band together to throw mega bashes. Closes had reputations. Roads formed alliances. It was pure, unfiltered chaos, beautifully organised into the community spirit that raised a generation.
I imagine our older bros and ‘fun uncles’ were there too, mingling with ‘babes’, collecting addresses, plotting their next moves. But for us kids, it was just lights, colours, music, sugar rush, and a sense of belonging. Festac was one big village.
These days, that culture is a distant memory. The carnivals are gone. The banger wars have fallen silent. The mannequin-men don’t freeze anymore. I feel for the kids growing up now, the screen generation, whose Decembers are quieter, whose nights aren’t lit by street parties or firecrackers.
Sometimes, I wish we could all go back. One more street carnival. One more night of dance battles. One more reason to throw a banger and run.
Take me back.
