You might search for Ajijola Adebiyi Street on Google Maps and find no trace. Not because it doesn’t exist, but because, in the grand scheme of digitally mapped landscapes, it’s deemed insignificant. The Google Street mapping vehicles, with their cameras poised to capture every accessible road, simply have no way to navigate its challenging terrain. Yet, for hundreds, if not thousands, of our fellow humans, this unyielding path in Akute forms the very arteries of their daily commute, day and night. It offers a glance to the myriad unseen worlds that hum beneath the radar of our modern conveniences.
Ajijola Adebiyi stands at a precipice, descending steeply into the ravine carved by the Ogun River. It’s a “street” truly devoid of vehicular clamour, of the ubiquitous Okada traffic that defines much of the Lagos/Ogun axis. Indeed, it couldn’t host them. Jagged rock outcrops and treacherous inclines serve as formidable barriers, rendering even a wheelbarrow or bicycle useless. Here, humanity relies solely on the two legs nature bestowed upon us.
My temporary abode for a night stood resolutely at the bottom of this perilous descent, a simple, rectangular two-bedroom home. Arriving the previous evening, I had parked uphill, then followed my host, navigating the treacherous slope. Any misstep, any lapse in concentration, would surely invite tragedy – bruised skin, fractured bones, a rolling piece of flesh gaining momentum towards the ravine, hopefully saved from a calamitous ending by a house or a lone thicket of bush.
Morning broke, painting the landscape in hues of gold and possibility. As I stood before the house, a mixed scent of vibrant vegetation, wafting from the expansive bushland behind me within the Ogun River’s path, and human waste from the piles of dirt scattered in the valley below, to my left where a wooden bridge has been constructed, permeated the air. My gaze swept across the delicately perched buildings on nearby hills, and the humble, patched creations surrounding me – homes cobbled together out of sheer necessity, providing shelter for diverse families. And then, there was the procession: a flowing tapestry of humanity, traversing this arduous street in pursuit of whatever it is humans seek daily.
Overnight, from my perch on a well-worn sofa, I had been an unwitting eavesdropper to the unfiltered symphony of human existence. Conversations drifted in, raw and resonant, from passersby, their voices clear through the unpaned openings, guarded only by iron burglaries and simple blinds. As the human traffic waned, a new rhythm emerged: the intermittent, rhythmic thud of goats kicking their food buckets in the neighbouring compound. This unexpected serenade continued until the early dawn, when, as if by a pre-arranged handover, it yielded to the rising crescendo of human commuters.
Stepping inside the house was like stepping back in time, into a memory long forgotten, yet intimately familiar. I had been here before, figuratively. To the right of the metal entrance door, crafted from carefully welded iron bars, stood a lone, black Singer sewing machine. Its sturdy black balustrade iron legs and foot pedal spoke of decades of tireless service, the original black paint peeling, the “S” of its golden name almost lost to time.
Three worn sofa chairs, arranged in a U-shape facing the well-used curtain on the entrance door, served as the primary living space. The central chair became my bed. On the sofa to my left lay unarranged books, their untouched state suggesting a long respite from curious eyes. Beside them, the sole relic of yesteryear’s luxury – an out-of-use 21-inch television, its dark plastic back silently observing the room. The sofa on the right, against the wall, backed a window, outside which a pedestrian path snaked down to the ravine, leading to a makeshift plank crossing over the seasonal Ogun River, linking to other sprawling communities beyond.
Looking up, the composite ceiling showed signs of wear, giving way in places. The absence of internal doors, replaced by long-drawn curtains for privacy, echoed the homes of my own early years. Only the windows facing the rain-bearing winds boasted glass panes; the others, stark iron burglaries, offered unhindered connection to the outside.
Yet, this was not a tableau of idleness. The family residing here exemplified resilience. The father, a determined silhouette against the pre-dawn sky, left home as early as 5 AM for his daily grind. The mother, steadfast in her tailoring trade, poured her dedication into every stitch. Their children, with their impeccable English, bore the indelible mark of the University – a can-do ambition, an all-or-nothing spirit that drove one daughter to resign her appointment in pursuance of her passion for fashion. Amidst their daily struggles, one constant shone brightly: an unwavering, growing love for Christ and for each other.
As the morning rays strengthened, I stepped out, drawn by the increasing torrent of human traffic. On Ajijola Adebiyi, creed and tribe dissolved. I heard conversations in Hausa, then an old woman carrying a heavy sack on her head soliloquising in Igbo. A school student, his blue trousers at odds with his rubber slippers, having outgrown the trouser, walked by, his backpack zipper-less. Soon, another followed suit. A Youth Corper, immaculate in her starched khaki green uniform and white sneakers, stood out. Her choice of white footwear, on the red dust of these trodden paths, subtly revealed her newness to the area – a lesson long-time residents learn about the unwelcoming nature of white shoes here. The ascending and descending figures were differentiated only by age, each carrying their burdens, their hopes, their humanity etched on their faces. I saw a mother, a baby strapped to her back, with two bags weighing her down, carried on each hand. Yet, a common thread bound them all: a profound kindness. Many, young and old, stooped or knelt, offering sincere “good mornings” as they passed. Their shared ambitions, too, were palpable. From inside the humble sitting room, I overheard a future international soccer player explaining VAR to his friend and a budding beauty queen discussing an upcoming pageant. Even a beggar found his place here, spreading his nylon mat, jug of water, and walking stick, teaching us that even in scarcity, there are always those one is “better than.”
Reflecting on Ajijola Adebiyi Street, I realised it is not unique. There are countless such pathways woven into the fabric of our existence. Yet, our “posh lives” in gated estates and exclusive enclaves like Lekki and Banana Island often blind us to these realities. Ajijola Adebiyi is a powerful reminder that the fundamental necessities for existence are few and not costly. It is our boundless wants, our insatiable desires for excess and flamboyance, that become our Achilles’ heel, distancing us from the very essence of our shared humanity. This street calls us to embrace a life where true value lies not in accumulation but in connection, community, and the quiet dignity of simply being.