Day 2: The Pulse of Mile 12
UDEME ABBA@udemeabba089100
1 month ago
The morning at Mile 12 market began like any other—chaotic yet vibrant. Traders hurried to set up their makeshift stalls, covering their wares with brightly colored umbrellas to shield them from the unpredictable Lagos weather. The air buzzed with the distinct blend of voices calling out prices, laughter from familiar faces, and the honking of impatient buses navigating the nearby road.
Under the green signpost that read "Mile 12," amidst the hum of commerce, stood Mama Bisi. Her small stall, laden with fresh vegetables and spices, was a beacon for her regular customers. Every day, she woke up at 4 a.m., traveling from Ikorodu with baskets full of produce freshly harvested from her farm. By the time the first streaks of daylight appeared, she was already setting up shop, ready to haggle with customers who came to her for quality and honesty.
Nearby, young Seyi weaved his way through the narrow paths between stalls, carrying a tray of snacks atop his head. At just 12 years old, he was learning the ropes of survival in Lagos. “Buy your gala! Cold drinks!” he shouted, his small frame navigating effortlessly through the crowd. His voice blended with the symphony of the marketplace—a living, breathing organism where every sound told a story.
The market's backdrop was a testament to Lagos's spirit: the power lines stood tall, a reminder of the city's relentless energy, while the distant road led travelers to Ikorodu and beyond. The overcast sky, heavy with moisture, hinted at rain, but this did little to deter the traders and buyers who understood that life, like the weather, was unpredictable and unstoppable.
As the day progressed, the market grew busier. A cacophony of voices rose into the air as buyers bargained passionately for better deals. The sharp scent of peppers mixed with the earthy aroma of yams and the tang of freshly caught fish, creating a sensory overload that was quintessentially Lagos. Somewhere, a preacher with a megaphone implored the crowd to turn to God, his voice cutting through the clamor like a knife.
For decades, Mile 12 has been more than a market; it’s a community, a melting pot of cultures, and a hub of survival. It’s where dreams are forged, where laughter coexists with struggle, and where every soul has a story to tell.
As the rain finally began to fall in the late afternoon, traders quickly covered their goods with tarps and plastic sheets. For a moment, the market paused, as if taking a collective breath. Then, just as quickly, life resumed—because in Mile 12, the rain is just another part of the rhythm.
photo credit: Google
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