Abuja Diaries: My Six-Month Escape from Lagos

Exactly two years ago, I packed a bag and took up a six-month contract job in Abuja. I didn’t think twice about it, I jumped at the opportunity.

Why? Well, for starters, I desperately needed a break from Lagos. The constant pressure of my finance job, the fast-paced lifestyle, and the same routine I had followed for over a decade,  it was draining. I just needed something different.

Plus, I hadn’t been to Abuja since 2007. Back then, I visited for a student meeting for young farmers as I was the Ogun State’s secretary at the time, still in university. So this job was the perfect excuse to reconnect with the city, this time as a working adult.

My office was in Wuse 2, around Banex, and I stayed with an old friend in Mararaba,  technically outside Abuja and part of Nasarawa State. That meant a daily commute using public transport. And if you know Abuja well, then you already know where this story is going.

Commuting in Abuja is not just stressful, surprisingly thorough, it can be genuinely terrifying.

There’s this thing called “one chance”  a popular name for criminal taxis that operate like normal public vehicles. But once you hop in, the nightmare begins.

There are different “types” of these criminals: some just rob you, some kidnap for ransom, and the scariest stories are about those who kill for reasons no one fully understands. People talk about organ harvesting,  and while it sounds like a movie plot, the discovery of bodies with missing eyes, breasts, or private parts keeps those rumors alive.

With all that in mind, I became very cautious. I scanned faces before entering any car, avoided suspicious-looking groups, and never sat in the front seat if there were people at the back. My friend had drilled those safety rules into me from day one.

Then one day, something happened that really shook me.

I was at Mararaba, trying to get a ride to work, when a car pulled over. As usual, I leaned in to check who was inside. But the driver got irritated and snapped at me to get in or move away. I told him to relax, and he lashed out,  called me an idiot for hesitating and making him wait for longer.

I was already backing away, but out of annoyance, I said something like,

“Aren’t you the one that kidnapped me last time?” Kind of a sarcastic jab. Before I could even close the door, he sped off,  ignoring the traffic light, zooming off like someone with something to hide.

That moment hit me. I had probably just avoided a one chance ride. Whether they were robbers, kidnappers, or worse, I didn’t want to find out. After that, I stopped going home to Mararaba every day. I started sleeping in the spare space at the office during the week and only went home on weekends. I even began choosing the rickety, old long buses over small cars. Of course they were slower, but somehow felt safer.

That experience never left me. It was one of the reasons I didn’t stay in Abuja beyond 2023, even though several job offers came my way. I just couldn’t shake the feeling of being constantly on edge.

The insecurity in Abuja especially for everyday commuters is real, and yet, strangely underreported. It’s like no one wants to talk about it.

So here’s my two cents: if you’re planning to live in Abuja and you can afford a car, get one. It doesn’t solve everything as there’s still the risk of break-ins and certain neighborhoods you shouldn’t walk alone after 7 p.m. but at least you won’t have to gamble your life getting to work.

Honestly, I’d rather live modestly in peace than feel unsafe in a place where danger could literally pull up beside you and say, “Enter.”