“The belle of the ball had become the hag of the highway.”
I was once the toast of the continent; young men wooed me, belles adored me. I was elegance, class, and culture rolled into one. Oh, FESTAC Town, that was my name! The one they called “the best-planned settlement south of the Sahara.”
I was conceived in opulence, birthed in abundance, and christened with Pan-African pride. I was the beautiful child born for the World Festival of Black Arts and Culture: The world came to celebrate me. Shrines and gods arrived from every coast: Ogun shook hands with Sango, while voodoo from Benin and jazz from Haiti shared the same air. Even my drains smelt faintly of perfume from the Brazilian Quarters back then.
Ah, I was magnificent! My avenues—1st- Greatness, 2nd- Beauty, 3rd- Love, 4th- Peace, and 5th- Prosperity—all strutted like catwalk models. My streets were lettered, not named. My lawns manicured. My air, aristocratic. Lovers strolled, bikers rolled, and children glided on bicycles as birds chirped in rhythm with Fela from a nearby stereo. Osibisa’s famous hit rent the airwaves, while Manu Dibango’s deep sax filled the atmosphere.
I was open, transparent, and safe… no high fences, no open gutters, no refuse dumps. My nights sparkled like gold foil beneath the streetlights. The world called me modern. Some even whispered that I was Lagos’s answer to Beverly Hills.
Then the drums stopped. The fiesta ended. The festival guests packed up their gods and left. The music faded… and suddenly, silence settled like a curse.
Maybe I offended their spirits. Maybe I didn’t bow low enough. All I know is this: one morning I woke to find ballots flying in the wind, my manicured lawns turned to trenches, and my orderly streets under siege… from citizens who had long been waiting in the wings for a taste of comfortable living.
The government threw my gates open. “Let the people in!” they said.
The people came. Oh, they came with gusto.
The lottery was transparent; only a tenth of the thousands who applied won. Some allottees got fully detached houses, others semi-detached. Some were lucky to win duplexes, others flats. Hundreds of thousands won nothing. Soon there was clamour for an extension. More plots were carved out and sold. Extensions grew like tumours, and before long my golden glow was replaced by the glare of sudden urbanism. Tenements soared, revenue ballooned, and for a brief moment, I was buoyant again.
Then the quarrel began—Federal Housing Authority versus Lagos State.
Who allocates? Who collects revenue? Who maintains infrastructure?
And when two elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers.
Maintenance became a rarity. My streetlights died. My drains began to vomit. Sidewalks cracked. Weeds grew taller than tenants. The underground sewers clogged; faeces oozed from manholes, and a foul stench ruled the air. Illegal structures sprang up like mushrooms on steroids. My once-proud prototype houses mutated into confused clones. Every car park became a bungalow, every bungalow became a duplex, and every duplex became a shrine of desperation.
My green spaces vanished. Every open space sprouted a structure.
Markets mushroomed. House-fronts turned into trading stalls.
Potholes widened into craters. Roads became rivers of dust and despair.
A new ecosystem was born. I became home to Yahoo Yahoo boys.
The red-light trade thrived. Gangs found me fertile.
Crime became a booming industry—and decent people fled in droves.
Whispers began: “FESTAC is finished.”
Some swore the festival gods were angry, that they had cursed me with ugliness.
The belle of the ball had become the hag of the highway.
People stopped visiting. Investors ghosted me. Even the breeze avoided my streets. And then one day, I heard someone mutter, “May FESTAC never happen to you.”
It stung. I, who once hosted the world, had become a proverb for decay, a byword, a cautionary tale.
But then I remembered my brother… the National Theatre, lying in ruin for decades until the Bankers’ Committee laid healing hands on him. Today he glitters again, the phoenix of Iganmu, radiant in splendour and majesty.
So why not me? Are the gods so angry that I am beyond redemption? No.
If the Theatre can rise, so can I.
If the private sector can see value in art, it can surely find beauty in a once-famed community and help restore me to glory through collaboration.
Yes, I can.
Sure, I will.
Because beneath my cracked pavements and broken drains lies a beating heart—waiting for resurrection.
MORAL OF THE SATIRE
• The gods are not always to blame—sometimes it’s just bad governance.
• Infrastructure is the soul and lifeline of a community; it must be maintained.
• A city that respects the rule of law nips decay in the bud.
• Beauty fades only when vision dies.
• Maintenance is always cheaper than resurrection.
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