Episode 3: The Spicy
Nigeria is the kind of place that defies one-line descriptions. One moment you’re dancing at a wedding where people spray naira notes like confetti; the next, you’re glued to the news because of a kidnapping in a town just two states away. This country is spicy — not just in its food, but in every breath it takes. And trust me, I’ve tasted it all.
Let’s talk about security, or sometimes, the terrifying lack of it.
As an American, my first warning came even before I landed. The U.S. travel advisory had splashed Nigeria in bold yellow and red: “Reconsider travel” and “Do not travel to Borno, Yobe, or Adamawa.” I thought it was exaggerated. I was wrong.
In Abuja, where I was based, things were relatively calm. But even then, everyone had that sixth sense — avoid certain roads after 9 p.m., don’t linger at junctions, and absolutely never flaunt cash in public. Kidnappings weren’t abstract news stories. I once had a coworker whose cousin was taken on her way to NYSC camp. The family paid ₦1.2 million to get her back. She came home shaken, silent for weeks.
Then there were the road trips. Oh, I loved them. Until I tried traveling from Abuja to Kaduna by road.
“Guy, you wan go Kaduna by road? You no dey fear?” my friend Uche asked.
Turns out, that route had been a hotspot for bandits — armed men who ambushed cars and buses, dragging passengers into the bush. I canceled the trip and booked a flight instead. It was expensive, but at least I wasn’t playing hide and seek with AK-47-wielding kidnappers.
There were places I was told point blank not to enter — no matter how curious I was. Some parts of Zamfara, Sokoto, Borno, even parts of Benue. “Oyinbo,” people would say, “your skin go attract wahala.” As a foreigner, I stood out. A target. And in those places, law enforcement was either outgunned or simply absent.
But Nigeria is more than its insecurity. It’s a country with so much sprawl and soul that you feel like you’re in five countries at once. From the cosmopolitan noise of Lagos to the serene plains of Jos, the terrain shifts like a mood board.
The diversity is mind-blowing.
There are over 250 ethnic groups. Each has its own language, customs, food, and dress. I once attended a cultural festival in Cross River — one minute, dancers in Efik attire with coral beads were performing traditional songs, the next, Fulani herders were displaying an elegant cattle procession. I was stunned. It was like a human version of the United Nations.
One weekend, I was in Kano watching a Durbar procession — warriors on horseback, dressed in embroidered robes, parading with swords. The next, I was in Calabar, eating afang soup and watching masquerades twirl in palm-fringed courtyards.
And don’t get me started on languages. English is official, sure, but Nigerians remix it like DJs. Pidgin is the default in many places, and it’s no joke. I had to learn phrases like “how far?”, “you dey craze?”, and “I no go gree” just to keep up. Once, someone told me, “Abeg, shift small,” and I thought he was asking for money. He just wanted space on the bench.
Love? Ah. Let’s get personal.
Her name was Amaka. Smart, headstrong, and full of that Lagos fire. We met during a friend’s birthday hangout in Lekki. She was sipping Chapman, wearing a red bubu, and giving no one the time of day. Naturally, I was intrigued.
We dated for over a year. She taught me how to eat eba without looking awkward, how to haggle in Yaba market, and how to navigate Nigerian family politics (spoiler alert: aunties will always ask when you’re getting married, even on the first meeting).
But dating a Nigerian woman as a foreigner was a cultural safari. You don’t just date her — you date her family, her church, her village people, and her WhatsApp group chats. Amaka was kind and loving, but she had expectations. Commitment. Traditions. Bride price lists. She once joked that her dad would charge me in dollars, not naira.
It didn’t work out in the end. Not because of love — we had that — but because our timelines and priorities didn’t align. But she gave me memories that still color my life with warmth.
So, what’s the takeaway from all this?
If you’re planning to visit Nigeria, come with an open mind — and a power bank. Don’t romanticize it. Don’t demonize it either. It’s a place of contradictions: chaotic yet vibrant, rough yet soulful, flawed but fiercely alive.
You will be frustrated by the bureaucracy. You’ll curse the heat, the traffic, and the occasional power outage. You’ll wonder why your Uber driver is blasting Fuji music at 8 a.m.
But you’ll also laugh like you’ve never laughed before. You’ll dance in the rain at an open-air bar. You’ll taste jollof rice that makes you question everything you thought you knew about food. You’ll meet strangers who treat you like family. You’ll feel alive.
Nigeria will shake you, stretch you, and sometimes scare you. But if you let it, it will also spice you up — in the best way possible.
I came for a job. I stayed for the story. And I’m still writing it.
