I was once in a Danfo Bus in Lagos between Anthony and Oshodi, and a well-built man beside me was forcefully shaking his head in a dance to an imaginary music. I initially thought there was a hands-free device at the other ear and stylishly peeped, but alas, it was empty. He suddenly increased the tempo of the head-dance, wearing a happy, wide grin on his face, and drawing the attention of all the passengers in the bus.
‘What in hell is wrong with this man?’ Someone whispered, throwing a quizzical gesture at other passengers for a clue.
‘O ti ya were,’ someone from behind whispered, meaning he had run mad.
In another instance, a hollow-gaunt woman clutched a bible to her chest in a Danfo Bus and talked to herself throughout the journey. In between, she prayed, sang hymns, and read the bible. Then preached, stopped, and started talking to herself again until I alighted.
Today as I walk the streets of America, I see similar occurrences. From Boston to
Washington, I see people soliloquizing on the road. In the language of a traditional Lagosian, ‘won ti ya were’.
‘Were’ is a popular term casually used by the Yorubas in Nigeria to mean a non-serious person, or at the extreme, an insane or a really mad person.
From the hustle and loud bustle of the streets, to the heartbreaks hidden in our WhatsApps, the never-ending job hunts, NEPA’s hide-and-seek, Lagos traffic that makes you question your entire existence, or the demonic ATM queues where you finally reach the front only to hear, “No cash.”
Chai. That’s not just frustration, my guy. That’s pure were.
Lagos is not for the weak. Lagos will infect your software with virus, and crash your hardware. Lagos is a pressure cooker without a timer. And if you stay long enough? It will reprogram you.
Everybody in Lagos is mad.
Not mad as in psychotic – though some are riding that wave – but mad with motion, ambition, and survival. Madness is currency here. If you’re too calm, too measured, too slow, you’re seen as unserious. Walahi, you go carry last.
Let me break it down for you:
If you shout at your steering wheel because someone double-parked under a “No Parking” sign, or squeeze your face in traffic while calculating fuel cost, lunch budget, and the meaning of life, or even answer “God forbid” when someone says, “What if you lose your job?” – then congratulations. You’ve caught it. You’re mad too. O ti ya were.
Lagos is a city where the absurd is normal and normal is suspicious.
You see a man shouting at himself in Oshodi? That’s your Uncle running late to work and rehearsing how he’ll talk to the HR when he finally snaps. A babe dragging three bags, one wig, and two phones on a bike? That’s not chaos – it’s coordination. And your mum praying in tongues at midnight? She’s not overdoing. She’s just trying to survive a country that doesn’t want her children to prosper.
Even your father, yes, your unserious, newspaper-reading, remote-hogging father, he’s mad too. He argues with the news like the news can hear him. He shouts at PHCN as if the light will come back out of fear. He yells at Nigeria with a fire that feels personal, as if Nigeria owes him money. O ti ya were.
We are all mad here.
Because sanity in Lagos is a luxury. And survival? It requires a certain level of constructive insanity. You must dance in the rain of nonsense, laugh through disappointment, and still wake up the next day like, “We move.”
We move – because stillness is surrender.
So next time you see someone grinning in a Danfo, head-bopping to the rhythm of silence, don’t ask what’s wrong. Just know – Na Lagos dey play beat for hin head.
And if you listen closely? You’ll hear the madness in your own head, too.
That’s when you know that iwo gangan o ti ya were.
