The first time I rode a motorbike taxi through a West African capital was in early December, over five years ago, in Lagos. I was giddy with infatuation, overwhelmed by the city’s frenetic crush of yellow busses and packed bridges and industrial edges crumbling into urban fishing villages. I wore heavy wood earrings that morning, a gift to myself in a market in Johannesburg a week before. When the bike hit the smooth roads of Victoria Island and picked up speed, I had to take my hands off the seat to press the earrings against my neck.
So here I am again, in a long skirt, on the back of a cheap motorbike, heading toward the river. In this country, I’m shouting broken French to the driver, who is also my friend. Speeding through cities this way– without a helmet, the heat of the exhaust at my heels– must be one of my great loves. We join the traffic over the bridge.