“You are the only person I’ve ever met to go on holiday in Lagos. Ever.” Ansi says, flabbergasted as I run into her while attempting to retrieve my still visa-less passport from Andre’s pile in the HR office. “And I lived there for three years.”

When we arrive in the airport and are greeted with a sweltering humidity that just feels like chaos, I know what she’s talking about. We are hustled through a narrow hallway and turn a corner to be greeted by Sayo’s crisply-suited “guy,” standing with his arms crossed against his chest. “Anjarae, Alli, Anna?” he asks. I’m confused as to how he knew to walk straight up to us, until I realize that we…uh…stand out a bit. I’ll totally be able to pass for a Nigerian.

And then there’s Sayo, waiting to lead us to the big black SUV that will take us to his place. “Sayo, why are these doors so heavvvyy?!” we complain. “Because they’re bulletproof.” Casual. The driver opens the door of the trunk. And then another metal door, before securing our bags in the boot. The most valuable thing I brought was the Duty Free perfume I just bought after drinking two bottles of free South African Airways wine on the six hour flight up, so… I don’t know if two layers of bulletproof metal are going to be secure enough, sir.

We’ve been parting the sea of traffic for about ten minutes when I lean over and whisper to Anna, noticing the persistent blue and white police lights in the rear view mirror. “Are we, um, getting pulled over? Is he going to stop, you think?” But she’s learning quicker than I am. “Alli, I’m pretty sure this is our police escort…”

When Sayo said he lived on Banana Island, he wasn’t kidding. I had never seen so many bananas – or rotting fruits of any kind, for that matter – in one place. They looked more attractive, though, once we opened up our greased newspaper full of suya for dinner. Why is it furry? Apparently the insides of “mutton tummy” (as we’ve so aptly named it) have a kind of fuzzy mini tentacle texture. Washes down real nicely with Veuve. Because that’s how it’s done in Nigeria, it seems.

One thing I did expect from Nigeria was good music. So for our first night in Lagos, we weren’t going to accept anything less than an epic dancing night. We started off at a bar called Sip and then moved to a club called Liquid, which seemed appropriate. When we walked in, we were swarmed. My answer to “Where you from?”— “Nigeria, why?”—wasn’t as convincing as I’d hoped. “I can’t take you girls anywhere,” Sayo complained. “You’re like frickin’ fresh meat.” I posed that it was probably just because there weren’t many white girls in the bar. “McBeal, you’re the only white girls to ever step foot in this bar,” he corrected me. Feeling right at home.

Whatever suspicions my “white” hair had risen about my identity were promptly confirmed by my very non-Nigerian dance moves. There are two options: (1) the “surprised-karate-chopper” dance and (2) the “lip-bite-body-roll.” Neither is particularly cool (unless you’re the one doing them). I just figured I’d become a good dancer by being surrounded by good dancers. Judging by Sayo’s raised eyebrows and SMHs, though, he wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t force us to go home until after 4am, so he couldn’t have been too embarrassed.

Saturday morning slapped us silly. A nice icy shower woke us up before we headed out to begin our Lagos ‘vacation’—a beach party. We strapped on our mandatory life jackets and took the boat towards ‘the island’ (wherever that was), gliding in between monolithic ocean liners on our right and seaside slums on our left. Sobering, until they were gone.

Once on land, we hurriedly trek through the scalding sand to Ogi’s house where the party was…supposed to be. But when we arrived, it was just an empty porch overlooking a limp hose trickling water into an empty pool. 

A few minutes later, three Dutch milk men (employees of Peak) show up, confused as to why we’ve crashed their private “poolside” afternoon. One thing led to anotha... and before long we’re hamming it up, hearing about how the closest thing to fresh milk in Nigeria is evaporated syrup in a can. Just as we’re about to score an invitation to come visit them in Amsterdam though, the four-wheeler arrives and Sayo whisks us away to the actual party. He looked like a real badass… until the ATV started to burn the backs of his calves, at which point he screamed “AHHH! OWWW! IT HURRRTS! OWWW! AHHH!” the whole way there, like a little girl. Schwarzenegger Swag? Check.

We pull up to Don’t You Worry Child blasting as a near-professional bartender double fists colorful concoctions, and jollof rice overflows out of a big yellow cooler that smells of Clorox, right next to the “Suya guy” that has somehow been transplanted from streetside to poolside. It was surreal, until I caught the giant eyes of bare-bottomed children peeking through the splintered slats of the fence. A sobering reminder that in this Coachella-esque bubble, we’re in Lagos, not Indio.

The second reality check came when Ogi urged us to hurry up and board the boats home, before the 6pm Pirate Curfew. Apparently, if you’re on the water past 6pm, the police shoot first and ask questions later. It sounded so...real at the time, after a few too many Stars, clearly. Didn’t stop Ewan, the German tourist, from pulling the Titanic move on the bow the whole way home. “This is the BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!” he yelled at the wind. Ok, buddy. I remember my first beer.

“Rally” is an enormous understatement. Showering required tremendous effort, and I failed to convince Anjarae to let me wear my bathing suit out. I remember sneaking away from the Domino’s pizza dinner to snuggle up in a corner on the couch, thinking I was invisible to the party going around behind me. And then being woken up with a shot of tequila chased with an orange slice dipped in Nescafe instant coffee on one side and sugar on the other. Is this a thing? But it worked, and we were off to further confuse our body clocks with Café Patron and Azonto-ing well into the early morning.