As we eased away from Five Cowries Terminal, the photographer and storyteller in me awakened. I could not help but reflect on the terminal building itself, its architectural elegance softened by later commercial alterations. Having documented the structure during its original design and commissioning, I knew what it once was and what it could still be. I silently prayed that time would preserve its intent rather than erode it
Our arrival carried us into historyโs waiting arms. The ๐๐จ๐ข๐ง๐ญ ๐จ๐ ๐๐จ ๐๐๐ญ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ง beckoned, and we answered with tired feet and heavy hearts. Under an unforgiving sun, we walked past the ๐๐ญ๐ญ๐๐ง๐ฎ๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐๐๐ฅ๐ฅ, where enslaved Africans were once forced to drink water believed to erase memory and identity. I watched emotions surface, tightened faces, distant gazes, quiet tears. The heat drained us, yet the spirit of the place demanded attention. Coconut water became both refreshment and small mercy along the way
TRAVELLING, they say, is an education, and once again, that truth revealed itself to me.
Today, I took my family on their first journey to Badagry, not by the familiar stretch of road, but by the ancient, living waters of Lagos. In that gentle glide across the lagoon, learning unfolded in layers of beauty, history, memory, and meaning.
Lagos is an aquatic state by nature, and its waters are not obstacles, but arteries, designed for movement, connection, and renewal.
There is something deeply humbling about witnessing the ordinary transformed into the extraordinary, how an unassuming stone becomes art, how discarded wood is reborn as something magical. In moments like these, one understands why Lagos endures. This city is not accidental; it is sculpted daily by resilience, reinvention, and belief.
Less than twenty-four hours after planning what would have been a three-vehicle road trip to Badagry, inspiration found me, as it often does, in quiet solitude. I placed a call to the Managing Director of ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐, Mr. Ladi Balogun, a true gentleman and an exemplary public servant. I shared my thoughts, and his response was immediate and reassuring: โ๐ธ๐๐๐๐, ๐กโ๐๐ก ๐ โ๐๐ข๐๐ ๐๐๐ก ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐.โ Within thirty minutes, the Director of Operations, Mr. Amos, called to brief me on the ferry assigned to us and the comfort it would offer. Shortly after, Mr. Samson Ugoro, calm, professional, and attentive, took charge of our movement.
At the ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ ๐๐จ๐ฐ๐ซ๐ข๐๐ฌ ๐๐๐ซ๐ฆ๐ข๐ง๐๐ฅ in Ikoyi, the experience spoke for itself. Every detail was orderly: the manifest prepared for my family of fourteen, modern life jackets issued, children gently assisted. Mr. Samson personally led us aboard and delivered a clear safety briefing. It was public service at its best, efficient, human, reassuring.
As we eased away from Five Cowries Terminal, the photographer and storyteller in me awakened. I could not help but reflect on the terminal building itself, its architectural elegance softened by later commercial alterations. Having documented the structure during its original design and commissioning, I knew what it once was and what it could still be. I silently prayed that time would preserve its intent rather than erode it.
As the ferry gathered momentum, Lagos began to reveal herself. And it was at that moment that the larger truth became clear: this is how Lagos should be experienced. The waterways offer not just an alternative to road travel, but a superior one, cutting down hours lost in traffic, easing the stress of movement, and restoring dignity to daily journeys.
There is a quiet luxury in gliding past congestion, breathing in fresh air, and watching the city unfold across open water. The ferry invites Lagosians to slow down, to see their city differently, and to rediscover the scenery that roads have long denied them.
Past Apapa and Tin Can Island Port, industry gradually gave way to poetry. Mangrove forests rose from the water like ancient sentinels. Fishermen paddled wooden canoes with practiced grace, lifted rhythmically by our wake like dancers responding to unseen music. It was turbulence without fear, motion without chaos. Lagos, in her natural cadence.
Approaching Badagry, a Nigerian Naval checkpoint brought us briefly to order. Passenger details were verified, faces matched, protocols observed. I was quietly impressed. This, too, is Lagos when systems work, disciplined, watchful, intentional.
Our arrival carried us into historyโs waiting arms. The ๐๐จ๐ข๐ง๐ญ ๐จ๐ ๐๐จ ๐๐๐ญ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ง beckoned, and we answered with tired feet and heavy hearts. Under an unforgiving sun, we walked past the ๐๐ญ๐ญ๐๐ง๐ฎ๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐๐๐ฅ๐ฅ, where enslaved Africans were once forced to drink water believed to erase memory and identity. I watched emotions surface, tightened faces, distant gazes, quiet tears. The heat drained us, yet the spirit of the place demanded attention. Coconut water became both refreshment and small mercy along the way.
History does not shout here; it whispers, and the whisper is devastating.
The sandy path resisted us, pulling us back with every step, as though the earth itself remembered reluctance. Relief came when interlocked stones appeared, easing the final stretch. At the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, silence took over. Some wept. The ocean was calm, but it carried centuries within its depths.
Badagry is not merely a town, it is testimony. The return walk tested our strength, bodies weakened and thirst amplified. Yet life offered kindness. Beneath a simple shed near the jetty, a woman returned from her farm with fresh, undiluted palm wine. We bought some and stored it carefully in our cooler, a small reward awaiting our return to Lagos.
Across town, the ๐๐ซ๐๐ณ๐ข๐ฅ๐ข๐๐ง ๐๐๐ซ๐๐๐จ๐จ๐ง stood in solemn dignity. Here, Seriki William Abass once confined captives within over forty rooms before shipment across the Atlantic. The stories are heavy, unbearable at times. As our elders say, may we never be born in times of war.
At the ๐๐จ๐๐๐ ๐๐ฎ๐ฌ๐๐ฎ๐ฆ, chains and relics bore silent witness. Then came the Badagry Heritage Museum, established in 2002 during the tenure of Asiwaju Bola Ahmed Tinubu as Governor of Lagos State, preserving centuries of memory and meaning.
Badagry holds many firsts: the first storey building in Nigeria, early missionary footprints, and the gateway through which Christianity entered the country. It is a town seated on heritage gold, still waiting to be fully honoured.
Lagos is Nigeriaโs heartbeat. Badagry is her conscience. And so, as the waters carried us home, I prayed: May Lagos continue to rise in vision and purpose.
May her waterways remain paths of connection, not neglect.
May Lagosians embrace the gift of the lagoon, to travel better, live calmer, and see deeper.
And may Nigeria, in all her complexity and promise, find peace within herself, so that history may instruct us, memory may humble us, and the future may finally redeem us.
