The sun warms my face as a soft breeze swirls through the car window, gently lifting my hair. Fuel is so expensive that drivers can’t afford to use the AC, so open windows are the norm. I reach down to grab my sunglasses from my bag nestled safely between my feet. My mood is calm, and so is the road ahead. The low-hanging sun signals the afternoon hours and hints at the end of the rainy season. Despite the heat, I feel a smile tug at my lips—I realize I’ve missed the sun.
As we round a corner, my Uber driver slows down for a herd of cows crossing the road—still one of my favorite sights in this city. Abuja is unique. The wide roads promise organization, development, and efficiency. But like much of the culture here, the appearance often takes priority over the reality. Mudholes and dirt roads, street vendors, windshield cleaners, and corrupt traffic officers are just as much a part of Abuja as its luxurious villas on hilltops and high-end spas. As the capital of Nigeria, the city mirrors the country—albeit a very select version of it. And there’s good reason for that.
Abuja is one of the world’s youngest capitals. When most people think of Nigeria, they likely picture a chaotic street, buzzing with traffic, people weaving around cars and school buses, red mud beneath their feet. Lagos often represents Nigeria to the world, and until 1976, it was the official capital. But due to overcrowding and infrastructure problems, Abuja was chosen to take its place. The city was built almost from scratch to serve as the new capital, strategically located in the country’s center. At the time, only about 350,000 people lived in the area—hardly enough for a capital. But with the government and major economic players relocating there, Abuja became the fastest-growing city in the world during the 2000s. Today, the wider urban area is home to over 6 million people.
I gaze at the tall trees lining the road. Though there aren’t many large green spaces in the city, nature seems to find its way in. Towering tropical trees shade most roads, while smaller plants, neatly wrapped in black plastic bags, line the roadside in rows. What I first thought was an effort to green the city turns out to be roadside plant sales. Along these streets, many businesses operate—like mechanics working on cars parked right by the road.
As the trees thin out, the shimmering reflection of the sun on Lake Jabi comes into view. It’s a little oasis in the heart of the city, a popular weekend spot for relaxation. For me, it’s a familiar landmark amid the maze of highways that lead to my home. Today, we don’t encounter the usual traffic chaos of cars going the wrong way or trying to cross the highway. Then I remember—it’s Sunday, the seventh day of the week, a day of rest. If there’s one thing I’ve learned here, it’s that people take their rest seriously. When God calls for rest, no one argues, leaving the roads blissfully empty. On the other hand, Friday is the exact opposite. During prayer times, the Muslim population fills the mosques, which often overflow onto the streets, and traffic pauses as prayer mats cover the roads.
Even though Abuja is a young city, it has developed a culture of its own. People from all over the country come here, bringing hope, ideas, and openness. It’s a place where tribes, religions, cultures, and classes converge, and people identify as Nigerian first and foremost.
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