Let’s get straight into it. You know us Lagos girls don’t know how to greet 🤭
What can I say? The lore surrounding Lagos after the 2025 edition of Detty December has everyone in a chokehold. Christmas in Lagos has always been a spectacle but for some reason, this past December had an extra dash of seasoning. And it wasn’t just the usual crowd of performers and diaspora returnees excited for their annual dose of culture. From Real Housewives of Atlanta to R&B songstresses and rap baddies, the streets were flooded.
But of all the storylines unfolding along Lagos’ 180km coastline, none ruffled feathers quite like the “Lagos babes are mean” discourse sparked by a post-night-out Snapchat from a British-Nigerian podcaster. I won’t be resurfacing the video as the responses devolved into some nasty commentary. However, this face-off between the final bosses of standoffish babes LondongirlsI’mlookingat you resulted in a fascinating case study of all the academic terms we love to hate on the app formerly known as Twitter — desirability, classism, virality, and neocolonialism. It’s deep, y’all!
At its core, much of this debate sits within the larger context of Detty December’s annual cycle of desperate romantic pursuit mild sexual tourism. But let’s set men aside for a second and address the claim itself—yes, Lagos girls may appear mean. But have you ever lived in a city where every second of the day, someone is trying to finesse you? Being nice doesn’t get you very far and looking too approachable can often be an invitation for embarrassment. In Lagos, being seen as prey is to be the architect of your own misfortune.
Now, onto the subtext—the assumption that women are competing for the limited attention of men. For the most part, Nigerian men like, and at the very least publicly desire, Black women. In Western countries where most IJGBs flock from like the U.S., there is a strong sentiment that upwardly mobile Black men prefer non-Black partners (despite statistics showing that Black men mostly marry Black women). So I get why women seeking to be treated a certain way are drawn to “provider” Nigerian men, who have the reputation of being loose with their credit cards and body parts. Get your lick. But it does get weird when playful interest crosses into sinister fetish and reduces human beings to mere props in an “Africa to the world” remake of Girls Trip Is the the sequel set in Accra still a thing? *cringe.
Beyond that, some foreign women carry an unspoken, though misguided, expectation of preferential status over Lagos-based women—a mindset, whether intentional or not, that echoes colonial superiority. For the most part, I find that Lagos women are bewildered by this, unable to fathom a world where anyone assumes a higher social standing than them.
And then there’s the talk of “decentering men.”In theory, I hear you. Howeverrr, in practice, it’s a little out of touch. In a city like Lagos, centering men is often a matter of survival. As progressive as Lagos can be, men have access to money, power, and influence in ways that women simply are not privy to. We’re talking about a country where only men can pass down citizenship to their spouses and where a government agency only just removed its requirement for married women to get travel permission from their husbands. In Lagos, everyone has “a guy”—someone who can make problems disappear, whether it's a police officer getting too carried away at a checkpoint or a mechanic running up the bill. And usually, we don’t mean “a guy” in the gender nonconforming sense. Because that’s who the powers that be respect. The city’s nightlife, in particular, revolves around men—table culture dominates the scene, and some restaurants won’t even let in single women.
To live in Lagos is to constantly negotiate between ideals and survival. And the women of this city are no different.
I have no verdict, just analysis. In this case, everyone is found guilty. *slams gavel
Good to see Lagos girls have been causing a ruckus since 1948. Archivi.ng is amazing project to digitise the archives of Nigeria’s newspapers. It’s a fantastic approach to making history accessible in a country that doesn’t teach it. Here is an agony aunt submission during Nigeria’s colonial era.
Hate To See It
Yes, Rema. It is a crime! The fact that we had to go through the entirety of December in Lagos without this slow wind masterpiece soundtracking my strut into the section Belly style is actually offensive.
In November, Rema teased a snippet laced with a dreamy Sade sample. In the instagram post, he executes the smoothest lighter flick since mixtape Wayne—igniting both his spliff and the internet in one go. Fresh off the critically acclaimed HEIS, Rema seemed poised to deliver another banger… until whispers of sample clearance drama turned hype into pessimism. But good things take time, and it looks like the wait is close to finally being over. Here’s hoping the full song hits just as hard. If approval from another one of Nigeria’s greatest treasures (the ever-elusive and selective Sade Adu) means anything, then even poor timing can’t stop its greatness.
Love To See It
Morayo just keeps getting better. Wizkid’s third installment in his grown-and-sexy, R&B-infused era sees the veteran hit a new stride as he effortlessly serving up a little something for every faction of his motley crew stanbase fanbase .
One of my facourite things about falling in love with music is how the right setting can completely shift your experience of it. “Kese” rattling through club speakers at 4 AM? Perfect. “Time” setting the vibe for a lazy Sunday at the beach? Inject it. And let’s be real, watching Big Wiz manoeuvre through Lagos all festive season, serving effortless superstar energy, was a highlight in itself. I believe that’s what the kids call aura?
Other Things I Really Mean
I spent a week in Salvador de Bahia, Brazil, and got to share a personal essay with ESSENCE. Growing up in Lagos and witnessing sprinkles of Afro-Brazilian legacy in food, architecture, and surnames, I had long been fascinated by the mecca of Black Brazil. As a result of the transatlantic slave trade, Brazil is home to the largest African population outside Africa and holds the largest Yoruba population outside Nigeria. That history lives on in ways both subtle and striking, and in my essay, I explore what it felt like to walk through those echoes of home.
Frejon? Fray John? The name sounded odd to my six-year-old ears. It didn’t quite possess the same melody as the spicy Yoruba soups I saw the adults pair with pounded yam, nor did it have the casual charm of the sandwich names at the American diner we visited after Sunday mass. Yet, every Good Friday, as Catholics around the world prayed and fasted, my grandma would carefully prepare this dish. A mixture of beans, coconut milk, and fish, its distinct scent mingling with the smoke of incense, would drift through our Ikeja home in Lagos. It was a reminder that in two days, we’d celebrate, but today was sacred.
“Grandma, where is frejon from?” I asked, with the curiosity of a child eager to learn about a distant relative. That’s when I learned that frejon had traveled to Lagos, Nigeria from Bahia in Brazil. Over the course of the transatlantic slave trade, around 4 million Africans were captured and enslaved in Brazil, most from present-day Angola and many of Yoruba descent, an ethnic group that now spans parts of Nigeria, Benin, and Togo. On May 13, 1888, Brazil became the last country in the Western hemisphere to abolish the slave trade, after which thousands of formerly enslaved Africans crossed the same waters that had once torn them from home, this time to begin anew in Lagos. Easily identifiable by their Portuguese surnames, the Afro-Brazilian population of Lagos, referred to as “Aguda,” has left an enduring legacy on the city that raised me. Along with dishes like frejon and mingau, they brought a unique architectural style and lively carnaval celebrations that still color the streets of Lagos Island’s Brazilian Quarter.