December lands in Lagos
like a push notification
bright warning, no mute button.
Harmattan dust floats
between flyovers and Instagram stories,
and the air thickens with premium expectations.
Not gratitude, expectation.
Hands bloom open,
old classmates reborn as contacts,
cousins upgraded to “Heyyy,”
palms polished with hope,
voices wrapped in tinsel-bright ease
elastic, stretching toward my balance.
They ask as if the calendar
has stamped permission
on every desire.
They say it cheerfully,
never shy, never softly:
It’s Christmas.
As if the phrase unlocks my bank app,
as if joy were a group project
I forgot to opt out of.
As though celebration were compulsory,
and I the designated sponsor of vibes,
tasked with funding enjoyment
I will only see online.
I check my account
the way Lagosians check traffic
with hope, then realism.
I count in survival units:
transport, data, fuel,
the small bribes life demands.
I know this city’s math:
spend like a baller in December,
wake up in January like a lesson.
Give beyond my measure
and the new year will find me
side-eyeing noodles,
negotiating with landlord,
asking God for understanding.
So I send what I can:
a “small something,”
a prayer emoji,
a voice note blessing
compressed for data.
Enough to say I tried,
not enough to disgrace my future.
I keep the rest close
like phone battery on red,
like sense in traffic
because even enjoyment needs boundaries.
They say, Ah, you’ve changed.
Say Lagos has hardened me.
I say Lagos has taught me
budgeting as a spiritual discipline.
And somewhere between
their festive audacity and my polite decline,
I master the Lagos miracle:
how to say no with laughter,
how to love without overdraft,
how to draw a line that doesn’t fight,
doesn’t shout
just stands there,
unmoved,
holding.
by Siji Atagbon