▪︎ Love is not declared; it is enforced.
▪︎ A city that loves protects its people—even from themselves.
▪︎ Urban design is love made practical.
WHEN a city loves its people,
it does not just say it.
It behaves it.
Some cities love through poetry—
Florence comes to mind.
Some through order—
Berlin.
Others through indulgence—
Las Vegas, the unapologetic sin city.
London does not flirt; it shows up.
Paris whispers sweet nothings.
Its streets seduce.
Its architecture romances.
So what do I say about my Lagos?
A city of excellence.
Of aquatic splendour.
Yet I struggle to decode her love language.
She showers me with public attention,
but practises private neglect.
From touchdown at the port,
I don’t smell roses.
I meet warm people—
generous, resilient, endlessly patient.
On the airport road, the city provides footbridges.
A caring gesture.
But no enforcement.
If you truly love me,
you won’t just show me the right thing.
You will insist I do it.
Isn’t that what love is?
At Oshodi Bridge,
yellow buses claim half the carriageway.
A steel transport hub stands wrapped in billboards—
a gift that forgot its recipient.
Dust rises.
Confusion reigns.
And I ask politely:
But you said you love me.
I look for love in trees,
in gardens,
in clean, flowing drains.
Instead, I find gutters choked with weeds,
digital billboards stretched across highways,
forcing me to strain my neck
to admire the beautiful lady in red.
Is this love—
or just attention wearing makeup?
I watch faithful adherents sprint across highways,
leap over medians,
daring the devil
to offer them a shortcut to eternity.
If you love me,
you will insist I don’t die
just to cross the road.
On Ikorodu Road,
the conversation turns cold.
No love notes.
Only barren medians,
tired greys,
mangled mesh,
and overgrown weeds.
People wait patiently at BRT stops—
with no buses in sight.
I whisper again:
Is this love?
On Adeniran Ogunsanya,
love becomes complicated.
Children out of school.
No public school buses.
Sidewalks playing Russian roulette.
No crosswalks.
Drains holding grudges.
Missing slabs over gutters.
Drivers honk—not to warn,
but to intimidate—
pedestrians meant to be protected.
Is this love?
They say physical touch is a love language.
So I look around.
Quiet streets once dressed in green
are now suffocated by metal on wheels.
Buildings rise out of rhythm—
blocking sunlight, airflow,
and neighbourhood peace.
Urbanism, at its core,
is love or neglect made visible.
Still, Surulere remains my first love.
My cradle.
My quiet beginning.
Back then,
green spaces,
schools,
post offices,
health centres—
all spoke love fluently.
This Valentine,
I desire intentional love.
Less poetry on billboards.
More care on the streets.
Sidewalks for the old,
the young,
the weak,
the vulnerable.
Lagos, my Lagos—
if you truly love me,
make my daily life kinder.
Not puffed.
Not prideful.
Not congested.
Just caring enough
to cover my shortcomings.
Moral of the Satire
▪︎ Love is not declared; it is enforced.
▪︎ A city that loves protects its people—even from themselves.
▪︎ Urban design is love made practical.