Lagos is an operating system where each entrance is a loading screen.
You get reborn – or wrecked! And if you can make it through all seven, you unlock Level 8: the Lagosian mindset – a state of alertness, absurdity, and adrenaline.
A mental OS running on faith, fear, and fury.
Lagos isn’t entered; it enters you, but before it does, it tests your BP, then introduces thunder into your bloodstream. And as it enters, something in you either dies or becomes unstoppable.
But for those who understand the pulse, Lagos is a multi-limbed goddess with seven chaotic entrances, each gate a character, a vibe, and a moodboard for madness.
Berger gate is a baptism of hustle. If you enter Lagos through Berger, say goodbye to your innocence because the hood initiates you into the city’s hustle culture.
Berger is how Lagos tests your lungs, because the smog from a smoking danfo bus hits first, then the skyline of pure dysfunction. A right turn and you’re spiraling into Ojodu, Ogba, Iju-Ishaga, Ijaiye, and Abule Egba. Beyond that, Alimosho, where rent is cheap but sleep is rare, Egbeda, the land of infinite barbershops and five churches per street, Agege, where bread became legendary, and the cathedral of noise called Iyana Ipaja, aka the black hole of bus parks.
From there, proceed to the monster city of Ikotun, and finally get lost in the heart of Igando, LASU, Okokomaiko, Alaba, Ijanikin, and Badagary.
Berger doesn’t just welcome you. It wakes you up, but also offers something no other entrance does: the chance to disappear, because from here, you can fade into Ogun State and pretend you never entered Lagos.
MKO Gardens gate is a flex, a political perfume that smells of influence. This point leads to Alausa, the corridor of power, where laws are made, but traffic laws are broken by escorts.
This is Lagos’ VIP entrance. No dust! However, it is not just a road; it’s a red carpet for politicians and corporate dreamers. Slide in and you’re home in the Alausa secretariat, the government’s heartbeat.
This entrance connects you to Ikeja, where the air smells like money, suya smoke, and startup stress. Slide right into Agidingbi, cruising past aging billboards and the ghosts of TV stations; left into Oregun, or just drive straight and you’re on Awolowo Road, where boutiques, barber shops, and lowkey hustlers remix street legacy with Yoruba loudness.
Then bam! Allen Avenue hits you in the face by the left. Once Lagos’ most legendary Olosho district, now a rebranded mix of banks, bars, lounges, and the occasional “aunty” who still remembers the glory days, staring like “I sabi wetin you dey find.”
Say hello to Opebi, the road where church, club, and café live like confused siblings, and the classic party street of Toyin. Then brace yourself for the wild, glorious chaos called Computer Village; Lagos’ own Silicon Valley run by touts and powered by second-hand phone parts. Your iPhone 16 can transform into a Nokia torchlight in 10 minutes, no jokes. Everyone here is either scamming, getting scammed, or pricing “original” chargers that expire in 24 hours.
Like someone said, ‘This is Lagos in a suit and tie, with bootleg AirPods and three power banks in one pocket. Here, money meets mischief’.
Then boom! Murtala Muhammed International Airport appears like a mirage of hope and jet lag. From here, you can either fly to Canada, or go back to your trenches; because once you step out, you’re at the gateway to the real jungle: Oshodi, where humans and buses move in perfect, lawless rhythm; Mushin, where the energy is louder than loud; and Ojuelegba, the legendary crossroads of dreams, daredevils and danfos. Here, you either lose your way or find your calling. Gbam!
Toll-Gate / 7Up entrance is a link between two worlds, and if you blink, you’ll miss it. This entrance is like a cheat code, if you know it, you skip two hours of pain.
It is also a U-turn to everything – to the left, and you sneak into Magodo, Shangisha, Omole Phase 2, and back to Berger. A right loop ushers you into Ikosi, Opebi, Oregun, and also back to Alausa. This route is where shortcuts get spiritual, and it’s for Lagosians who know how to dodge traffic with jazz and Google Maps.
7Up is for those who don’t enter Lagos, they slide in sideways. And if you miss the turn, you might still be battling traffic at 11 pm.
Ojota gate is the furnace where Lagos baptizes you with fire. Forget those travel blogs showing palm trees and posh rooftops, here is the first honest handshake with the city, or the first whiff of what Lagos smells like – burnt dreams and burning plastic.
What hits you at Ojota isn’t the noise, but a stench, a punch in the nose, and a slap in your nostrils. A gritty remix of dump site, exhaust pipe, sweat, and hope on fire. It’s not air, it’s seasoning. Ojota dump site is the hellfire before the hustle.
Ojota is Lagos 101, a rite of passage and sensory bootcamp.
It’s the burning trash, the traffic smoke, the sigh of 200 people packed into one danfo bus, with a conductor screaming ‘Oshodi – My tuuuuu’.
Ojota doesn’t just test you. It cooks you and gets you ready for the Lagos test.
It steams your spirit, pressures your patience, and grills your grit. But if you can stand the heat and inhale the funk, dodge the keke, hold tight your bag, ignore the insult, and still move with grace, congratulations, you’ve entered Lagos, and Lagos haff entered you.
So breathe, step forward, the city’s watching.
And Lagos, my friend, never blinks.
Ori-Oke is a hidden detour.
Someone said it’s the side entrance for the soft-wired Lagosian. How?
Not every Lagos entry wants to punch you in the face.
Some just want to slide in with a small “hello dear, how was your night?” energy.
Ori-Oke is that quiet back door.
It doesn’t scream or honk. It is subtle, like our Lord’s prayer.
You enter Ori-Oke and you’re in Ogudu, but a 360 detour links to Alapere, Ketu, Ikosi – places that feel like the Mainland but with a whisper of dignity.
It’s the quiet hustle where Lagos mothers still sweep their compounds, the gates are painted, and dogs actually bark – not just watch robbery happen.
Ori-Oke is the gentleman’s entrance to Lagos, a backdoor to the chaos, but only the sharp see it.
But don’t be fooled, Ori-Oke or not, Lagos’ stress will still find you.
Now this is where young Lagos logs in.
Enter Gbagada, and you’re in the belly of the millennial monster – Anthony, Oshodi, Ilupeju, Cele, Ajao Estate, Okota, Festac – the home of creatives, and God-fearing baddies.
Gbagada is for the soft-spoken freelancer who codes by day and tweets fire by night. It is also the hub of creatives, accidental influencers, crypto bros, and artists renting short-let apartments they can’t afford.
Go farther, and you’ll hit Mile 2, and a right swerve takes you to Alaba International Market, Ajangbadi, and Badagry, where Nigeria whispers its border’s secrets.
Or straight drive to Orile, and get enmeshed in the chaos of Lagos trenches.
Gbagada is the LinkedIn of Lagos, but everyone’s lying. It is not a mere entrance, but a statement that says, “I didn’t come to Lagos to play.”
Iyana Oworo is the big one – the gateway to the Island.
It looks peaceful from afar, but once you enter, Lagos asks: “Are you sure?”
Because what follows is a 12km long existential reflection – the 3rd Mainland Gate.
Across the bridge is a long stretch of promise and punishment:
Obalende, the ghetto that thinks it’s part of the “Island Cult.”
Ikoyi with its perfume-rich pretenders.
V.I., whose clubs close at 7 am.
Lekki, where land is overpriced and drainage is theoretical.
Ajah, where people live like they’re in exile.
Forget it! Epe is not even part of the conversation; it only exists on the Lagos map, and no Lagosian lives there.
Shebi, you’ve entered a different kind of Lagos – the one that smells like perfume and panic.
Iyana-Oworo is the neck before the crown. You cross it to chase gold… or crash in traffic. You cross this bridge, you become part of the Lagos myth: big dreams, big rent, bigger floods.
