The journey to church

The journey to church is hazardous and slightly entertaining. It is no small feat to traverse the scarred and beaten lands on a holy mission....wait....forget that. It’s just a weird trip, ok? I decided to walk you all through it, and have added multiple pictures to appease my mother and her bragging tendencies.

Church starts at 9am, which means we leave at 7am. Why? Because traffic is unpredictable and the roads are even worse.



I took these series of pictures on the way to church the Sunday before last. This particular one is an Okada; A motorcycle turned taxi. I have seen as many as four people on one scooter, not including children.

These taxis are amazing and scary. Very often they come within scant inches of the car and are very....vocal...about their desire to move in front of your vehicle and what they think about you, your family, and your awebo skin as they squeeze into impossible places between cars. Yes, I do know naughty words in three different Nigerian dialects, thank you.



The worst part of the trip is by far the actual road that the church is on. It’s a massive pothole infestation. Technically, I don’t think its even is a road anymore; its more like separate little communities of canyons and lakes. On the sides of the roads are piles of garbage.

These piles will continue to grow until finally they will be lit on fire to make room for more piles. The best is when the chickens roam aimlessly over the rotting heaps in search of food. These holes are at least a foot deep and usually larger than the car that we are in.
















On the way to church there are exciting venues to see. Such as the Okada station, where men of all ages and, um, hygiene levels, gossip and fix their scooters. Among others are such gems as this....the local electronics store.








Of course, there are many very large buildings that appear empty. Please do not be fooled. Many have huge signs such as this one, warning that this prime real estate is definitely NOT for sale.





This beauty of a market is the meat market. No, Mom, they don’t refrigerate their meat. In fact, I couldn’t even hazard a guess as to what kind of meat this is. The sellers are lovely and are very kind, but I don’t think I will be purchasing my meat from this market any time soon.






















Getting closer to the actual church are scary little alleyways that lead down to the slums of Lekki. I was either too afraid or too sensitive to photograph the Nigerian people living in this type of squalor but I can paint a picture clearly enough to satisfy the craving for visual imagery. The one lane road is paved in cobblestones and around 7-10 feet wide. On either side of the lane are two feet deep ditches for all sewer related functions. There is no water flow and so the ditches stay stagnant with their excrement and food wastes. In the monsoons, all of the ditches flood into the streets and houses. You can see why malaria is so prevalent in this environment. Next to the ditches are the plywood lean-tos that make up the entire housing communities. There is one community faucet for contaminated water, which the residents carry buckets to go and fetch water. There is no power and no privacy. Since the unemployment rate of Lagos is around 70%, there are also always people milling about.



When we finally arrive at the church building I am exhausted from the drive over. I am not the one driving, mind you, but the rollercoaster ride combined with the heart wrenching poverty is enough to make me want to crawl back into bed and forget how unequal my situation is to theirs and how much I never want to be in their situation. I always feel selfish and gluttonous after the trip to church.

But the church is not a vacation spot itself. The building is an old empty house that is rented. It has no power or water and the doors are always open to create the illusion of a non-existent wind. I get the worst bug bites when I am at sacrament meeting.

This is the outside of the church wall. It’s a non-descript building on a side street leading to nothing.












After you enter through the front gate, the building looks impressive. It would most likely be lovely if it had been maintained.









Stepping inside you have rows of chairs facing the front window. This is our sacrament room. The podium does have a microphone but since the generator does not work and Nigerians are soft spoken by nature, I usually make up my own services. They are entertaining and help take my mind off of the heat and bugs. One huge benefit is the fans that are sold at Lekki market. They are made of light straw and are huge. More than enough oomph to keep a breeze on your face, at least.










My favorite part of the church, however, is the font outside in the back yard. There is no grass, just dirt outside of the door until the wall surrounding the entire property. I found a certain irony in the razor wire on the decrepit wall on the other side of an otherwise beautiful font. (I also quickly found the difference between razor wire and barbed wire....there are definite gruesome characteristics to razor wire)




At the end of church services at around 12:10 pm, I am hot, aggravated and ready to go home. Unfortunately, the friends that I catch a ride with have meetings and commitments at the church until around 1:15. This is the painful time when single Nigerian men find it expedient to hit on me. I know I am not special, or charming or even particularly dazzling in looks....but you wouldn’t know it by the attention I receive between 12:10 and 1:15 on Sunday afternoons. It would be flattering if the men in question weren’t so aggressive. Instead, I begin to feel dirty on the inside as well as the outside. (Especially after that 3-year old boy peed on me my second Sunday, but that is a different story altogether and could take an entire blog to explain)

So the moral of the story is to be patient, thankful and to wear a wedding ring all the time.