The mobile department store - Lagos style

27C was the seat allocated to me on the Kenya Airways flight from Lagos to Nairobi and after I politely asked an usurper to vacate my place, I sat down for the 5 hour trip back home to Kenya.

Kenya is celebrating its 50th birthday this week and while I could rant on about that for a good blog entry or two, that's to be left for another time.

This particular story is about the "mobile department store" as a colleague referred to it.  

Lagos is as you might expect from its reputation or know from reading about it in other blog entries of mine, a chaotic, rumble-tumble, fight-for-your-life, snatch it or lose it, shout as loud as you can kind of place.  Some of you may remember my tales of Kenya road disobedience and the cursory decorative nature of traffic lights in Nairobi.  Well, the Naija folk do abide by most traffic rules - certainly their police are a tad more concerned with enforcing the Highway Code for the greater good.  So, red lights are mostly observed and junctions treated with a modicum of respect.

And as the minibuses, cars, trucks, motorcycles all come to a grinding halt at the red-amber-green, a sea of hawkers descend on the drivers and passengers to sell their wares. The cornucopia that the eyes behold is boggling and incredible.  One might not be too surprised by steering wheel covers, car air fresheners, and even phone accessories, yet this is the mere first floor of the great Nigerian equivalent of the Grace Brothers' bazar.  

Fruit balanced on ladies' heads, SIM cards by the hundred dangling like heliconia flowers, ice cold drinks promising a welcome respite from the dusty Lagos sun, peanuts neatly packed into triangular plastic bags bursting with cellophane goodness, chewing gum and CDs displayed on a metre square board ready to be popped into your player in the car: even these are bland plainsong in the cacophony that is  Captain Peacock's sanctuary in Lagos.

Then you notice the less obvious department store items - the lift has moved through floors 3 and 4 and continues upward.

Self-help books are offered here; fluorescent framed pictures of Jesus glinting in the headlights - it's getting dark by now; tea-towels, socks, handkerchiefs, and other cotton items; and the obligatory fire extinguisher.  Did I just obligatory?  Hmmmmm, well.....

You think you've seen it all and then the merriment of the festive season assaults the senses:  Christmas trees, complete with twinkling lights, Santa hats in "traditional" pointed style and also the rather avant-garde Stetson-with-white-fur-trimmed version.

With all this profiteering and darting around on the part of the vendors, I must confess, sometimes my appreciation for the male form trumps the produce on offer and the lithe gleaming physiques on the left and right are a delight to behold.  But caveat emptor: make eye contact and the potential sale becomes a distinct reality.  The car continues ahead, and the seller, sensing a willing buyer, jogs, skips, runs to keep up with the car in the hope I'll relieve him of some of his stock.  I quickly look the other way and pretend to be busy iPhone-ing.   Usually, they give up after about a 100m dash - and lurch towards the next upcoming car.  Phew...that was close!

I don't consider myself a John Inman wanna-be and certainly any references to Molly Sugden's errant pussy are in your own mind, reader, but this tale has its parallels.  I have withheld and restrained from such gratuitous references - well at least up until now.

But as I am bombarded via my iPad with Yuletide yodeling from Cliff Richard, Bing Crosby, the Jackson Five and many others aboard my Boeing 737-rather-old-200, I wish I'd bought one of those Christmas Stetsons, to at very least prove I managed to get to the 7th floor of Naija-Are-You-Being-Served - the topmost floor where the milliner entrepreneur spirit reigns supreme.

Long live the mobile department store and may its employees reap even greater success in 2014.!!