The Pulse of Lagos.

Lagos Hustle and Bustle.

In Lagos, where the city never sleeps,
The streets are rivers of bustling feet,
With each dawn breaking, the world awakes,
To the rush of life that the city makes.
The skyline etched with towering might,
Wakes early to greet the first light,
And beneath it, the roads, forever alive,
With the hum of engines and lives that strive.

I stepped into the flow, engulfed by sound,
Where ambition and struggle are tightly bound,
A symphony of horns blared in the air,
As cars and buses everywhere
Jostled and jerked in the growing line,
Each lane a story, every queue a sign,
Of a city that runs on a pace so fast,
Yet every second feels like it will last.

The yellow danfos ruled the day,
Swerving through chaos in their own way,
Conductors hanging, their voices loud,
Calling passengers from within the crowd.
Okadas zipped past, nimble and quick,
Dodging potholes and traffic thick.
And in the mix, hawkers with grace,
Weaving through lanes, keeping up the pace.

Traffic lights blink, but none obey,
The road is its own ruler, come what may,
Patience is tested, a virtue to hold,
In the Lagos heat that burns so bold.
And there I was, trapped in the fray,
Caught in the Lagos gridlock’s sway,
Each minute passing, an eternity felt,
As the sweat on my skin began to melt.

The sun rose higher, baking the ground,
And yet, life never slowed down.
Vendors moved with bottles in hand,
Offering relief where we stand.
Water, plantain chips, bread in sight,
An entire economy in the traffic light.
Their faces smiled despite the strain,
Selling hope amid the urban chain.

From Surulere to Ikeja’s gate,
Ikoyi, VI, the bustling state,
Through Third Mainland, I watched the scene,
The water stretched, but the roads between
Held a story of a people strong,
Surviving, thriving, all day long.
The sun beat down, but spirits soar,
In Lagos, there is always more.

More cars, more dreams, more hands that try,
In the thick of traffic, you learn to fly—
Or crawl, or pause, or simply wait,
For Lagos has its own steady gait.
No rush hour escape, no easy way,
The hustle is the price we pay.
But in the gridlock, there’s a pulse, a beat,
A rhythm born of crowded street.

It’s in the voices shouting loud,
In the swarm of the human crowd,
In the bike that cuts a daring path,
In the laughter that follows the aftermath.
For every moment spent in line,
There’s an unseen thread that ties the time.
The Lagos spirit, wild yet true,
Is something I felt as I traveled through.

For it’s not just traffic or endless horns,
But the dreams this city adorns.
A million stories pass me by,
In the blink of an eye, the city’s cry.
I learned to breathe in the slow advance,
To feel the city in every chance,
To see the beauty in all the noise,
And in its chaos, I found its poise.

So, as I sat there in the car,
Waiting, inching, not getting far,
I realized Lagos, in all its sprawl,
Is a city that captures the heart of all.
For it’s not the speed or the open space,
But the determination, the human race,
That makes Lagos the giant it is today,
Where hustle and bustle carve the way.

In Lagos, traffic’s more than a grind,
It’s a mirror to the city’s mind.
And though I waited, crawled, and sighed,
I felt alive in that Lagos tide.
For every honk and every stall,
Is a testament to the city’s call:
To rise, to move, to always press,
For in Lagos, life is a constant test.

But even in the midst of that snare,
There’s a joy, a love, a hope to bear.
And though the traffic may drive you mad,
Lagos is a city that makes you glad,
For it’s alive in every way,
In its hus
tle, its spirit, day by day.
So while I waited, trapped in the throng,
I knew in Lagos, I truly belonged.