A Thousand Ways to Leave a City

Photo: Opeyemi Adisa

Attempt 1: The Easy Way

I booked the bus two weeks ahead. ABC Transport. Air-conditioned. I chose a window seat, even paid the extra fee to avoid arguments. I made a checklist and crossed things out as I packed. Rice in a ziplock. Chin chin from Mama Kehinde. One wrapper for sleep. I folded my clothes carefully, rolled my pants into tight tubes, packed my notebooks last. That night, I dreamt of red dust. In the dream, I walked barefoot on a long road with no name: there were no buses honking, no beggars tapping windows, no shouts of people forcing their way through a crowd. Just that road, stretching far into silence, nobody asking me where I was going. 

The rain started at 2 a.m. I woke to its taps against my louvre windows, then closed my eyes again, hoping it would stop, even though I was enjoying the much cooler air and the soft, steady drumming on the glass. By 4, my feet were wet. Water had crept in while I slept, quiet and stubborn, rising past the base of my mattress. I stood in the centre of my room with my shoes in one hand and my phone in the other. I didn’t cry. I just watched my suitcase float slowly toward the bathroom like it was making its own escape, the last faithful thing I have abandoning me. 

The bus left without me. I didn’t call the company. I didn’t ask for a refund. I just mopped the floor in silence, then carried the mattress outside and leaned it against the wall to dry. I told myself Lagos was testing me. I didn’t yet know it was a warning.

Attempt 2: With a Man

Fola said, “Come with me to Ibadan.” He was smooth with his words, said what I needed was fresh air, said Lagos was sucking the colour from my skin. I laughed and told him I had already tried to leave. He told me he had a car, a black Corolla, good AC, soft seats. I said yes because it was easier than saying no. I said yes because I thought maybe Lagos would let me go if I was not alone.

We were meant to leave on a Friday. I packed a small bag and wore lip gloss, the same kind my sister used to wear when she had somewhere to be. Fola came out of his compound limping. Blood on his shirt. His face swollen like bread. I stared at him.

“They robbed me,” he said. “The car is gone.”

I reached for him, but he turned away. I went home with my bag and didn’t bother unpacking. I left it by the door. Slept with my shoes on.

The next day, he texted, “Sorry.”

I didn’t text back. Some things don’t need a reply.

Attempt 3: With God

I decided to do it the holy way. Seven days of fasting. I joined a prayer group online. Women from all over the country typed fire emojis and verses into the chat. I told God I didn’t want wealth or love, I just wanted out. I didn’t ask for peace. Just exit.

On the last day, my church caught fire. I watched it happen from across the road, holding the envelope that had my bus fare. The smoke rose before the flames did. The pastor ran into the street barefoot, shouting scripture in a voice that sounded more afraid than faithful.

People screamed. One of the women fainted, and someone poured pure water on her face. A boy ran in with a bucket and ran back out coughing.

The roof groaned, cracked, and then folded into itself.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text from the transport company: “Are you still coming?” I ignored it.

I didn’t go near the flames. I walked home instead and didn’t tell anyone that I had already forsaken that church long before the fire did.

Attempt 4: The Lie

I told everyone I had gone. I posted a blurred picture of red soil and cassava leaves. I captioned it “Peace, finally.” People congratulated me. “You did it,” they said. “You’re free.” “Thank you,” I replied and switched off my phone.

I stopped going out during the day. Bought food from the woman on the corner who never asked questions. My landlord didn’t see me for two weeks and started knocking to make sure I was alive. I stayed silent. He left.

One afternoon, I found a note under my door. Scribbled in pencil on torn paper. No name. Just the words: You cannot lie to a city that knows your footsteps.

I threw it away. That night, I turned off all my lights. Even the fridge.

Attempt 5: On Foot

I woke up one Saturday and didn’t brush my teeth. Wore sneakers, no bra. Took a bottle of water and my ATM card. Didn’t leave a note. Didn’t charge my phone. Didn’t tell anyone. I just walked.

I passed the vulcaniser who always stared too long. The children who begged in groups. The woman who sang gospel songs with her eyes closed. I walked until I reached the motorway and kept going. Sweat soaked my back. The sun clung to me like a tight-fitting T-shirt. I didn’t stop.

A bus pulled beside me. The conductor leaned out, voice sharp. “Where you dey go?” I didn’t answer. I just kept walking. He hissed and drove ahead.

Seconds later, the tyre burst.

The bus somersaulted twice. People screamed. A child cried. I stood still, heart hammering.

I turned around and ran. Not toward them. Away. I didn’t know why. I just knew I had to.

Later, I would tell myself it was a coincidence. But at that moment, I felt the city pulling me back by the ankle.

When I got home, I sat by the door for hours. Didn’t turn on the fan. Didn’t eat. Lagos had drawn blood again. Not mine, but enough to remind me.

Attempt 6: With Silence

I stopped making plans. Stopped pretending. Woke up, brushed my teeth, ate rice, and wrote short poems on the backs of receipts. Went to the market. Allowed the pepper woman to touch my arm when she joked. Nodded when my neighbour talked about the price of gas.

Weeks passed.

One night, I dreamt that my body turned to smoke. When I woke up, my chest felt empty in a good way. Like breath.

That same day, an old friend texted me about a job in Akure. “Small money,” she said, “but enough.” I didn’t reply immediately. I stood by my window and looked out at the street. The danfo drivers were yelling. Someone’s generator coughed into life. A hawker passed, dragging his feet like it was personal.

I left that evening. No goodbye. Just one bag, my wallet, and my name.

The bus was half-empty. The seats smelled faintly of diesel and sweat, but the windows opened wide. A woman beside me offered groundnuts. I ate a few, even though they made my throat itch.

I slept through most of the trip. When I woke, the sky had changed.

The air was cooler. The silence wasn’t hollow. It held itself together.

The bus didn’t crash. The road didn’t fight me. The sky looked different. Less angry. More tired.

But I did not smile.

Because even in that silence, I could feel Lagos watching. Not angry. Not vengeful. Just patient. The kind of patience that comes from knowing. Knowing that the heart never leaves the first place it broke.

I know what this city does to people like me. The ones who leave with soft bags and silent hopes. The ones who swear they will never return. It keeps us in its mouth. Not swallowing. Not spitting out. Just holding.

Even now, I can feel the weight of that one-room apartment on my back. The way the heat sat heavy on my chest in the mornings. The way the neighbours called me sister only when they needed salt. The way the pepper woman looked at me, like she knew things I hadn’t said aloud.

I know that if I come back for Christmas, something will shift. My body will remember where the potholes are. My feet will lead me to the place where I used to buy bread. My mouth will say “sorry” before asking a question. Something will pull me back into that rhythm. That ache. That room. That life.

Lagos will not chase me. It doesn’t have to.

I left. I stepped on a bus and didn’t look back. I found a new sky, a quieter road. But some days, I still hear the city breathing through me. In the way I rush to speak, the way I scan every room for exits, the way I never truly unpack.

It is not haunting. It is not possession. It is just the shape of a city I once loved and feared, curled somewhere beneath my ribs.

I know Lagos left something inside me. A small thing. Sharp. Familiar.

Something it knows I will return for.

And when I do, it will be waiting.

Not to punish.

Not to forgive.

Just to remind me I was never really gone.