Lagos Is Africa’s Most Vibrant City Right Now — Here’s How to Visit

The last time i traveled to Nigeria, I was seven years old. It was 1994 and my parents, who had emigrated to the U.S. in the early 1980s, had not returned home since. They were eager to introduce their four daughters — including me, their second oldest — to their family. 

In the town of Port Harcourt, the capital of my parents’ home state of Rivers, my sisters and I were dropped into the arms of cousins, aunts, uncles, and friends who had been waiting years to squeeze, kiss, feed, and spoil us — and also introduce us to our “Nigerianness.” My parents had spoken some Igbo to us when I was learning to talk, but I had already lost the language. I stared blankly into the eyes of dozens of brown-faced, white-toothed strangers, while my older sister, who was still fluent, translated. “Where are you from?” I was asked. “America,” I would reply, a bit confused. I was promptly told that I was not an American, but a child of Nigeria.

Being in Nigeria may afford me the luxury of being unapologetically Black, unlike in the white spaces that I navigate in the United States. But most of my extended family in Nigeria doesn’t know that I’m gay. And, in Nigeria, being openly gay is an actual danger. In 2014, Nigerian president Goodluck Jonathan signed the Same-Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Act, and since then, authorities have carried out mass arrests and have looked the other way as citizens commit violence against Nigerians suspected of being gay. Many of those accused of violating the law have been charged with either planning, celebrating, or participating in gay marriage or simply appearing queer. The penalty for a conviction is imprisonment for up to 14 years. 

In my early 30s, I moved from the Midwest, where I was born and raised, to New York City. I was both exhausted and excited. I had spent years denying my creative passion and my identity, but I was going to be a writer, and in one of the gayest cities in the country. 

Not long after I arrived, I went to the Whitney Museum of American Art and walked through “To Wander Determined,” an exhibition of works by Nigerian-American artist Toyin Ojih Odutola. One of the charcoal sketches depicted a scene from the marriage celebration of two men, joining together two fictional aristocratic Nigerian clans. To me, these canvases were a portal to a world of audacious possibility. The little queer kid in me was awestruck; the adult me was radicalized. 

About five years after that experience at the Whitney, I decided it was finally time to go back to Nigeria, but alone, and on my own terms. I traveled to Lagos, about 400 miles northwest of my parents’ home state. With 17.5 million people, Lagos is both Nigeria’s and Africa’s most populous city. (Lagos was also the capital until Abuja was given the title in 1991.) It’s a coastal city, bordered in part by the Gulf of Guinea and a large lagoon that forms stretches of scenic beach. 

Lagos might be best known for Afrobeat, the music genre pioneered and named by the late Fela Kuti, or as the setting for many “Nollywood” films. But the city has also become one of Africa’s major festival destinations; it hosts Art X Lagos, West Africa’s first international art fair, and Lagos Fashion Week, the leading event of its kind on the continent. It felt like the right place to reacquaint myself with the country and to immerse myself in its creative scene.

I knew that once I was on the ground, I could not openly exist as a queer person. I didn’t know how that would make me feel, and I was afraid to find out. But I knew I wanted to see art by Nigerians, in Nigeria.

My cousin Ebuka made plans to join my weeklong trip. I hadn’t seen him since that first visit nearly three decades ago, but I trusted him. (My mother had also warned him that if a single hair on my head was hurt, there would be hell to pay.) 

Ebuka is very tall and sturdy, with a smile as wide as his face. As soon as I landed at the airport, and began to look for him, I felt I was somewhere exotic and familiar at the same time. Nigerian words flowed into my ears and out of my mouth as I tried to pick up the Igbo flow.

When I stood in front of the first artwork of the trip, I felt whole-body relief, just as I had in the Whitney so many years ago. Ebuka and I had stopped into Untitled, a gallery that looked like a shabby concrete cube, but with a colorful sculpture of a butterfly on its exterior. It was International Women’s Day, and the gallery was hosting a panel to accompany “Split,” an exhibition of works by women.

One of them, Fiyin Koko, was kind enough to pose for a photo with me in front of her paintings I’m Learning and Can You Hear Me? In the works, two women who resembled the artist — but with blue skin and flowing hair, like tendrils of seaweed — are playing telephone across the two canvases. Each woman is holding a paper cup to her ear and listening to the other, as if the two figures are one former and future self. 

The piece that had the biggest impact on me was Chigozie Obi’s An Open Garden, which shows a young woman sitting back on her elbows, flipping the bird. Her legs are open to expose pink lace panties, and her belly is revealed under a green crop top. Green vines curl around her thighs. In capital letters, the artist had written, in Igbo, “Meche Okpa Gi, I Bu Nwanyi!” This piece scandalized my cousin, but I squealed in delight when I realized I could read, pronounce, and translate “Close Your Legs, You’re a Woman!” without assistance. 

Memories flooded back of the many times I was told to carry myself in a manner that suited my gender and the norms of Nigerian culture. I laughed to myself, wondering whether my parents would be proud to know that their second daughter wasn’t completely useless at speaking Igbo, or if they would be mortified to find out that a sexual display of resistance was the reason for this linguistic revelation. I decided the answer didn’t matter. 

One of the most notable places to see art in Lagos is the Nike Art Gallery, the country’s largest privately owned gallery. Every inch of the walls, and many inches of the floor, were covered in paintings, sketches, sculptures, and mixed media, all strewn about without any apparent curation. 

It was one of the most diverse collections I’d ever seen, with as many styles as there were works. I saw replicas of the kobo, a Nigerian coin that is rarely in circulation. There were numerous paintings of people with traditional Nigerian scarves and clothes wrapped around their heads and bodies; the figures were holding babies, selling products at markets, smiling, crying, laughing. Some body parts, like eyes, butts, and bellies, were exaggerated into absurdist forms. Some pieces were monochrome, executed entirely in yellows and blues; others exploded with multiple colors. 

Ebuka and I also stopped at the Tiwani Contemporary Gallery, an outpost of the London art house that’s known for showcasing African artists and those of African descent. The Yoruba word tiwani loosely translates to “it belongs to us.” (In Lagos, much of the population speaks Yoruba.) The new location had opened the month before I visited, and British-Nigerian artist Joy Labinjo’s “Full Ground” had been chosen as the opening exhibition. Labinjo had made a series of nude self-portraits, transforming phone selfies into large-scale paintings that filled the room’s white walls, reaching toward the tall ceilings. Every curve, roll, and “imperfection” of her body was contained in the frame: nothing was airbrushed. 

The show reminded me of a conversation I’d heard back at my hotel, Bogobiri House. The property, in the posh Iyoki neighborhood, also hosts events at its adjoining art gallery. I’d been able to attend one earlier in the week, where Tola Akerele, an interior designer and Bogobiri’s co-owner, had said: “Put it out there, believe in yourself. You won’t be satisfied if you don’t bring out what’s inside of you.”

I also made time to eat. A lot. In Lagos, travelers can eat at fast-food joints that serve traditional dishes cafeteria-style. They can also eat at contemporary bistros that serve espresso martinis or at restaurants with prix fixe menus featuring high-concept Nigerian cuisine. I did a mix of all three.

Ebuka and I had brunch at Calabar Aroma, a casual spot in the Lekki Leisure neighborhood that serves staples like jollof rice and goat or white rice and tomato stew. At Atmosphère Rooftop, another Lekki bar and restaurant, we had a whole catfish, grilled and garnished with peppers, onions, and greens. Later in the trip, I was delighted to find ofe, a soup that is usually paired with a soft starch like cassava or plantains to help sop up the broth. I always choose my favorite: pounded yam.

One of our standout meals was at Nok by Alara, a restaurant and lifestyle boutique that’s also in Lekki. We ate plantain beignets — no real Nigerian restaurant’s menu is complete without plantains — with house-made spicy ketchup and a green salad topped with grilled chicken, locust-bean croutons, and mustard dressing. The main dish was “orange fish,” a deep-sea perch laid on a tomato-based spicy curry and topped with fried spaghetti.

One night, Ebuka and I capped off our day at Sailors Lounge, a two-story waterside bar with a giant terrace adorned with string lights. A waitress in (what else?) a sailor’s uniform served us goat meat and mixed peppers, plus large pints of Heineken and Orijin, a mixed drink of African herbs, fruits, and spirits. We toasted, looking out at the lights of the city below.

A few days before the end of the trip, I began to feel homesick. Not just for my literal home, but for my unencumbered self: my womanhood, my queerness, which in Lagos could not be openly shown. I was craving solitude. When I walked into Art Twenty One, a gallery in the high-end neighborhood of Victoria Island, I was pleased to find it empty, except for one staffer. 

Nigerian mixed-media artist Olu Amoda’s solo show, “Carte Blanche,” was on display. Circular sculptures made of pieces of scrap metal appeared to stare down at me from the white walls. In a separate room was a sculpture of two large metallic circles connected by a thin red thread; one hung on the wall, while the other lay on the floor. Strewn around were dead leaves, mixed with champagne corks. More red threads were bleeding into the leaves, interwoven with metallic cutouts of beasts and birds. 

I couldn’t help associating the red threads with blood or, rather, bloodlines. I pondered the difference between my American upbringing and my estranged relationship to this homeland, a relationship that had always felt as delicate and thin as those threads. It was difficult to start the process of (maybe) falling in love with this country when there were so many barriers to making and maintaining a healthy connection. 

At this point, I was just beginning to value myself as a woman, a queer person, and a writer. Being in the closet, at least in Lagos, seemed a small sacrifice compared with some of the realities that Nigerians face. I felt an uncomfortable privilege, one that my parents had often pointed out to my sisters and me when we were growing up. They shamed us for complaining about freedoms — of expression, of identity — when for our Nigerian family, electricity and water were not always certainties. 

I didn’t know what my life was going to look like over the next few years, but I knew what I needed — and it was to be lifted by, and immersed in, as much art as I could take in.

I spent part of my last day walking along the beach in Lekki Leisure, a serene getaway from the rush of the city, with Ebuka and his fiancée, Berta. We watched other beachgoers sunning on recliners in cabanas, and I paid for a guided horseback ride.

That night, I splurged on an eight-course meal at Ìtàn Test Kitchen — ìtàn is Yoruba for “story.” (The restaurant closed in July when the building was sold; chef Michael Elégbèdé is looking for a new location.) A dozen diners sat together at a wooden table shaped like a tree. I looked around at my tablemates, all dressed in smart clothing: brown leather suspenders, gator-skin flats. It could have been a scene from New York, but it was also distinctly Nigerian. 

Each course had a theme corresponding to a different Nigerian festival, like Agemo, which celebrates children. The dishes were exquisite: inside an empty snail shell sat a piece of lightly battered yam, with black fermented locust beans molded into the shape of fish roe. Another plate had fried mackerel topped with spicy peppers. 

As I sipped my wine, my mind drifted to a meeting I’d had earlier that day with a queer photographer named Ade. We met for a beer and suya — skewers of heavily seasoned beef or chicken — and it was by far my favorite part of the trip. We both were very aware of our surroundings; every minute or so, we looked over our shoulders to make sure no one was looking at us for too long.

Ade told me he was still living with his parents, and even though he hadn’t come out to them, he was pretty sure that his mother and father knew he was gay. When I shared my story of coming out to my similarly traditional Nigerian parents, he visibly winced. Ade had spent the first years of his twenties building a career as a photographer, and he hoped to earn a scholarship to move to New York City. As we said goodbye, I wished him luck in finding the sort of freedom I’d been experiencing recently. No other moments in my trip were as sweet as that one hour I spent with him. It underscored my need for — and my right to — living as freely, and as queerly, as I can. 

I never thought my return to Nigeria would be one of assertion, power, and self-love. These things were totally anathema to what my parents’ home country had long represented for me. By taking in these works of art, I recovered a spark of love for a place I’ve always been afraid of. There was so much vitality, I found, and so much determination for a good life. 

Where to Stay

Bogobiri House

The 16-room Bogobiri House hotel is a gathering spot for the Ikoyi neighborhood’s creative set.

16×16

Each of the 10 rooms at this Victoria Island property was designed by a different artist.

Where to Eat and Drink

Calabar Aroma

Head to the low-key Calabar Aroma for traditional Nigerian cuisine.

Nok by Alara

Nok by Alara is a contemporary African restaurant helmed by Senegalese-born chef Pierre Thiam.

Atmosphère Rooftop 

Join Lekki Beach residents for alfresco drinks long after dark.

Sailors Lounge 

Expect a pulsing cocktail bar with views of Lagos Lagoon at Sailors Lounge.

What to Do

Art Twenty One

Catch solo exhibitions by prominent figures, like multi-disciplinary artist Tejumola Butler Adenuga, at the Victoria Island space, Art Twenty One.

Nike Art Gallery

Nike Art Gallery, the country’s largest privately owned gallery, is part of the Nike Art Foundation, established by textile artist Nike Monica Okundaye.

Tiwani Contemporary

An outpost of the London flagship, the Tiwani Contemporary gallery spotlights artists from across the African diaspora.

Untitled 

Untitled, an Ikoyi gallery and event space, often invites makers to give studio sessions and talks.

A version of this story first appeared in the October 2024 issue of Travel + Leisure under the headline “Lagos Rising”