No one told me we lived in a ghetto.
I only realized it when I visited my cousins during the holidays, first in Ejigbo, then in Iyana Iba. It was in the way they said it—half amusement, half pity—how they wrinkled their noses and called my home “Ajegunle,” with the kind of finality that needed no further explanation.
Funny, coming from them.
They weren’t exactly living in luxury either, but they had one thing we didn’t: indoor plumbing. They had the privilege of toilets and bathrooms built into their flats, while we had our outhouses—rickety wooden structures that stood like reluctant sentinels in the backyard, doors swinging on rusty hinges, their insides dark, damp, and forever rank with an odor that refused to be washed away.
Oh, how I hated those days. And yet, I loved them just the same.
Some memories remain sharp as fresh wounds.
The desperate, urgent need to relieve myself, the panicked dash to the latrine, only to find it locked. The frantic dance of forbearance, shifting from foot to foot, muscles clenched, praying for deliverance. My friends would knock on the door, their voices high-pitched with shared urgency, only to be met with an irritable grunt from inside.
“Who be dat? Abeg commot!”
And so we would scatter, only to regroup seconds later and knock again, giggling at our own audacity. But my laughter was strained—I was locked in battle with a relentless force determined to make an untimely exit.
“Put spit for your hand, rub am for your dodo,” a concerned friend suggested. A ridiculous old wives’ tale, but desperation leaves no room for doubt. I did as I was told, even as sweat beaded on my forehead and goosebumps pricked my skin. Just as I began to accept my fate, the door creaked open. A short, wiry man emerged, jumping down from the raised concrete slab of the latrine, adjusting his trousers as he shot us an unimpressed glance. The pungent air that escaped with him wrapped around us like an unwelcome embrace.
I barely greeted him before scrambling up the platform, passing my friend the battered plastic kettle we used for washing up. “Go fetch water,” I commanded breathlessly.
As I squatted, I hesitated. The previous occupant had left a parting gift—a brownish-yellow smear sliding languidly down the algae-streaked hole. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself not to breathe, but the acrid scent invaded my nostrils anyway.
“Take the water,” my friend called, her small hands gripping the kettle.
I opened my eyes to find the water thick with floating debris, the unmistakable green slime of Spirogyra swaying on the surface. My stomach twisted, but what choice did I have? The well was nearly dry—this was what remained. I poured, hoping it would be enough to wash away the horror.
Ajegunle.
AJ City.
My beginning.
My ever present past.
A cacophony of hope and hardship, of resilience wrapped in relentless struggle. Some called it the United States of Ajegunle—a reflection of its diversity. A melting pot of Ijaw, Urhobo, Igbo, Hausa, Yoruba, Edo, Isoko, and even Togolese immigrants, all crammed into overcrowded, crumbling tenements, bound together by the shared dream of survival.
It was home.
My childhood was a symphony of stark contrasts: the stink of open gutters and the tantalizing aroma of frying akara; the shouts of street vendors hawking their wares and the distant hum of generator-powered nightlife; the filth of the clogged drainage canals and the undeniable beauty of the people—vibrant, unbreakable, alive.
In the afternoons, children ran barefoot on sunbaked earth, weaving between danfo buses and okadas, their laughter rising above the honking horns and marketplace banter. We had little, but we found joy in abundance.
Ajegunle was not just a place; it had a soundtrack. The beats of Daddy Showkey, Mad Melon, and African China blasted from crackling radio speakers and massive wooden speakers balanced precariously on street corners. Their voices became anthems, their lyrics speaking to our struggles and triumphs. We moved to the rhythm of galala, our feet shuffling, our shoulders jerking, our bodies swaying in defiant joy. The dance was ours, raw and unpolished, an expression of resilience in a world that gave us little but demanded much.
Now, as I sit in my Manhattan apartment, gazing out at a skyline that glitters with promise, I think of those days. The silence here is almost unnatural, a far cry from the ever-present hum of life in Ajegunle. My bathroom is pristine, white-tiled and gleaming, with a toilet that flushes at the mere press of a button. My kitchen faucet releases clean water on demand—no wells, no rust-stained buckets, no floating debris.
I sip my wine, the rich, full-bodied flavor foreign to the garri-soaked childhood I knew. The sheets on my bed are soft, a far cry from the thin, faded wrappers I once curled up under. Luxury, comfort, ease—things I once saw only in foreign movies are now my reality.
Yet, Ajegunle never truly leaves me. It lingers in the way I savor my meals, never wasting a morsel. It echoes in the way I hustle, never taking opportunities for granted. It humbles me, reminds me, grounds me. Because I have known struggle, I can fully embrace abundance. Because I have seen hardship, I do not flinch at adversity.
I was raised in Ajegunle, and because of it, I know the worth of everything, the price of nothing, and the resilience of the human spirit.
And for that, I am grateful.
