Love on Third Mainland Bridge

The afternoon sun burned lazily over Lagos, casting golden hues over the sluggish traffic on Third Mainland Bridge. Horns blared impatiently, voices rose in frustration, and hawkers weaved through the standstill, selling everything from gala to power banks.

Inside a weathered danfo, wedged between a sweating businessman and a woman with an impossibly large basket of plantains, Chigozie sighed. His guitar case pressed awkwardly against his knees. He had just left another disappointing audition—one of many. The dream of making it big in Lagos was proving more difficult than he had imagined.

“Na wa o,” a woman’s voice muttered beside him. “Lagos traffic will humble even the most powerful.”

He turned to his left and saw Aisha—a striking woman in a crisp white blouse, her hair tucked into a neat bun. Unlike most passengers who had surrendered to their fate, she was tapping furiously on her phone. Her deep brown eyes darted across the screen, her lips pursed in frustration.

“Battery don dey die?” Chigozie asked, smirking.

She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Worse. My meeting starts in twenty minutes. Zoom.”

He chuckled. “You want to Zoom inside Danfo? In this Lagos noise? Madam, that one na movie.”

She sighed, leaning back. “I should have just taken a Bolt.”

“But then, you wouldn’t have had this priceless Lagos experience,” he teased.

She smirked. “Oh yes, the authentic ‘sardine life’ experience.”

Their laughter broke through the tension of the stagnant commute. For the next thirty minutes, they talked about everything—the insanity of Lagos traffic, Nigeria’s terrible network providers, and why suya tastes better when bought from a roadside vendor. By the time the danfo finally coughed back to life, an unspoken connection had formed between them.

Just before Aisha jumped down at Oworonshoki, she turned to Chigozie. “Maybe I’ll see you again… in another traffic jam?”

“Or a less chaotic setting?” he countered.

She gave a small laugh. “We’ll see.”

And just like that, she was gone.

A City That Refused to Let Them Go
Days later, Chigozie was at the Lekki Night Market, haggling over the price of grilled catfish, when he heard a familiar voice.

“I hope you’re not being scammed.”

He turned to see Aisha, dressed in a casual jean jacket, holding a bag of roasted plantains.

“What are the odds?” he mused.

She shrugged. “Lagos is small.”

They ended up sitting on a wooden bench by the water, sharing food and talking for hours. This time, the conversation deepened, dreams, fears, and ambitions. Aisha, a tech entrepreneur, was working on expanding her company’s digital reach. Chigozie, despite setbacks, still believed he’d make it as a musician.

“Do you ever feel like Lagos is trying to swallow you?” she asked.

He exhaled. “Every day. But somehow, we’re still here.”

From that night on, they kept running into each other. During a power outage at a café in Yaba, at a mutual friend’s wedding in Victoria Island, even at a book festival where they reached for the same copy of ‘Half of a Yellow Sun’.

It was as if Lagos itself refused to let them forget each other.

The Choice
One evening, as they sat on a rooftop overlooking the shimmering lights of the city, Aisha turned to him with a conflicted expression.

“I got an offer,” she said. “A big one. A chance to take my company to the next level… in Canada.”

His stomach twisted. “That’s great.”

“But?” she probed, sensing his hesitation.

“But… what about us?”

She bit her lip. “I don’t know. Do you think something like this can survive?”

Chigozie looked at her, really looked at her, the woman who had walked into his life on a broken-down danfo and stayed through fate’s many interruptions.

“I think Lagos has done its best to keep us together,” he said with a small smile. “Maybe we should try to do the rest.”

She smiled, tears glistening in her eyes. “Maybe we should.”

And for the first time in a long while, Lagos felt less chaotic, less uncertain, and more like the beginning of something real.