WeekendSalvo: Song for the Lagoon by Remmy Nweke - NaijaAgroNet

 ... Linking agrobiz, sustainable environs, people & technology

The Lagos I grew up in sang with a different rhythm. Not the constant, honking chorus of traffic we have today, but the gentle lapping of the lagoon against the sand, a melody that whispered stories of fishermen and traders. 

Our backyard faced the water, and I knew every shade of its blue, from the deep sapphire of the clear morning to the shimmering gold at sunset. I was Ejaluku, and the lagoon was my silent companion, as the "fish of the gods."

But over the years, the song began to change. First, it was a subtle discord—a single plastic bottle bobbing near the shore. Then, it became a full-blown cacophony. The surface of the water, once a mirror for the sky, became a quilt of discarded plastic, styrofoam, and oil slicks. The air, too, grew thick and heavy, especially in the mornings when the generators hummed in a defiant, smoky chorus. 

My neighbors and I, we all noticed the difference. The children coughed more, the smell of burning waste hung in the air, and the fish seemed to disappear. We would talk about it, shake our heads, and say, "This is Lagos," as if it were an unchangeable fate.

One morning, I watched a young boy trying to fish with a flimsy net, but all he caught was a tangled mess of plastic bags. His shoulders slumped in defeat. In that moment, the silent despair I had carried for so long turned into a quiet anger. I couldn't accept this "unchangeable fate" anymore. 

I started small. I bought three bins—one for paper, one for plastics, and one for organic waste—and placed them in my kitchen. It felt like a tiny, futile act, but it was a start. I started composting the kitchen scraps and using them to nurture a small garden of pepper and okra in my compound. When my neighbors saw me, they were curious.

"Ejaluku, what is this new thing you are doing?" one asked. I explained the simple act of separating waste, how it could keep our gutters clear and our water cleaner. I showed them my small, thriving garden. 

The next week, my neighbor, Mama Ifeolu, had a small bin for her plastic bottles. Slowly, the idea spread. We started a small weekly cleanup of our immediate shoreline. We were not fixing the entire city, but we were reclaiming our small piece of it.

The lagoon's song is not the same as it was in my youth, but now, mixed in with the old melody, is the new sound of community. It is the sound of neighbors talking, laughing, and working together. It is the sound of hope. 

And I, Ejaluku, finally feel like I am singing along, at least for the gods' sake.