Aguda has never lacked information. What it lacks is verification. News travels fastest there when it has first passed through a beer parlour, gathered exaggeration, and been baptised with laughter. That was where I made my announcement last Saturday—among plastic chairs, brown bottles, and men who once ran after buses but now only run their mouths.
“I’m joining the marathon next weekend,” I said, calmly, with the confidence of a man who had not yet tested his knees.
John nearly spilled his drink.
“Marathon ke? Which one? From this chair go toilet?”
Chiboy looked me over slowly.
“Guy, no let motivation finish your body.”
I explained—patiently—that it was the Access Bank Lagos City Marathon. Forty-two kilometres of discipline, endurance, and hydration. This was greeted with disbelief.
John shook his head.
“Na insurance you dey sell. You suppose dey avoid risk, not to dey chase am.”
Chiboy leaned back.
“Abeg, make una break am into two days. My body no dey do emergency movement again.”
Their reaction was expected. Middle-aged Lagos men are suspicious of any activity that involves sweating without financial reward. We are enthusiastic analysts of fitness, as long as someone else is running. We know the science. We have watched the videos. We just prefer commentary.
I pointed out—reasonably—that the average Lagos man knows everything about health except exercise. John sells medication for blood pressure, yet behaves like jogging is a controlled substance. Chiboy installs high-speed systems for customers but has refused to update his own body since the early 2000s.
John tapped his belly defensively.
“This one na senior fat. No be ordinary.”
Chiboy added,
“Na experience dey show.”
I reminded them that Lagos itself is a marathon. Daily survival involves endurance, dodging obstacles, and patience. If you commute in Lagos, you are already an athlete in denial. From Aguda to the Island is not transportation—it is training disguised as frustration.
Chiboy raised a practical concern.
“Dem go dey sell beer for road?”
When I said no, he lost interest immediately.
“Then na not my calling.”
The truth, of course, is that many Lagos men retire from physical effort the moment life becomes slightly comfortable. Once the rent is steady and the car has air conditioning, movement becomes optional. Knees suddenly develop opinions. Backs begin negotiations.
John sighed theatrically.
“My knee no dey support ambition again.”
I spoke about training early in the morning—quiet roads, cool air, Lagos still asleep. He interrupted.
“You no fear armed robber?”
I replied that fear itself is excellent motivation. Nothing improves pace like imagination.
As the jokes continued, something subtle changed. John stopped mocking and started asking questions.
“How long person suppose train?”
Chiboy followed carefully.
“Dem get short version? For people wey get self-respect?”
Mockery, I have learnt, is often curiosity wearing slippers.
I told them the marathon is not about winning. It is about finishing—something Lagos men understand deeply. We finish rent. We finish school fees. We finish arguments. Finishing, in this city, is already a victory.
As I stood up to leave, John spoke more softly.
“If man dey run small, e fit help BP?”
Chiboy nodded.
“If I jog, my body go behave better?”
That was how it always starts. Nobody wants to be the first to try. But everybody wants to be healthier by association.
On Saturday, I will line up. I may not run beautifully. I may not run fast. I may even walk creatively. But I will not sit in a beer parlour explaining life to people who are slowly negotiating with it.
If you see a man from Aguda running with confidence greater than form, greet him well. That is Syracuse—insurance salesman, professional know-all, and late-blooming athlete—trying to prove that Lagos men can still move without emergency.
Because in this city, if you don’t choose to run deliberately, life will pursue you anyway—and it does not wait for warm-up.
- Na so we see am is a satirical weekly column that captures Lagos street conversations—where humour, exaggeration, and unexpected truths meet in the everyday observations of Syracuse of Aguda.
