A Wild Week in Lagos
Yellow minibuses, or danfos, clog the streets in a city with only 68 (working) stoplights over 385 square miles.
Credit: Jonathan Torgovnik
My last night in Lagos, Sunday and I went to see Seun's brother Femi play at the Shrine. We ate goat-meat suya and drank palm wine, and watched as a young woman in khaki short-shorts shook her ass in a cage. Sunday took pictures with my camera and made me promise to email them to him.

On our way to the airport, we found ourselves stuck behind an old man in a Nissan, driving very strangely. When he needed to merge, he slowed down. At stop signs, he came to a stop. After a minute or two, Sunday lost patience. "What is wrong with this man?" he said. "Has he lost his way?" He honked and went around.

But the image I'll remember most came one afternoon in the Ikeja market. It was a typically anarchic Lagos afternoon – growling engines, blaring horns, bumping, shoving, shouting, smoke, exhaust, sweat, heat. All of a sudden, without even a drop of warning, it started pouring down rain. Everyone in the market scrambled for cover: ducking inside shops, huddling under awnings. The honking stopped. The shouts turned to whispers and giggles. The loudest sound was raindrops hitting the dirt.

The lull lasted for five idyllic minutes. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was over. The rain began to let up. People started trickling back into the streets. And Lagos took a deep breath, started its engine, and came rumbling back to life.