The Day Alaba Market Ruined My Wedding Anniversary
Kehinde Adeleye
That year was meant to be my second wedding anniversary. Instead of planning a romantic getaway or a fancy dinner, I found myself dealing with a faulty television that had refused to cooperate despite endless visits to an electronics repairman in Ipaja. His efforts, though consistent, produced no lasting result.
I decided it was time to take the hard road of replacement. Searching online for something durable yet affordable, I quickly discovered that the prices were far above what my bank account was willing to support. The more I scrolled, the more I wondered if television sets had suddenly joined the luxury class.
Two weeks to the anniversary, I resolved that the gift had to be a new TV. My wife had grown weary of my attitude toward her welfare, often pointing out that I never cared much for the things she enjoyed, chief among them her evening time in front of the screen. I wanted to change that, if only for once.
With determination, I armed myself with price details and began to explore alternatives. Not from the popular online platforms, but from the ever-reliable market of “fairly used” appliances that Nigerians call tokunbo. After all, what mattered was not where the television came from but that it came in time for the anniversary.
I eventually found myself in talks with a certain dealer in Alaba. We spoke on the phone, agreed on the price, and settled on the condition that I would not pay until he delivered the television, tested it, and confirmed everything was in order.
But my mind refused to rest. The “what if” questions would not stop knocking. What if he left and the TV suddenly stopped working? What if it was stolen? What if it had been refurbished? The doubts came in waves, and I could not silence them.
Finally, I told him to bring it. Yet, as fate would have it, the skies opened up that day. It rained as though the heavens had a grudge with Lagos. Streets turned into rivers, and the city into an ark waiting to be built. Naturally, he could not deliver. We rescheduled.
I convinced myself the storm was a divine warning not to part with my ₦80,000. Perhaps the rain was heaven’s way of shielding me from wasting money on a television that might not last beyond its first test.
So I ghosted him. He sent message after message, but I ignored them. Instead, I called up a friend who claimed to know the ins and outs of Alaba. With him beside me, my mind was finally at rest, until I realized he was just as much a newcomer to electronics as I was. His expertise ended at electrical parts, not televisions.
A day to the anniversary, we set out early for Alaba. I had heard about the market for years but never experienced it. Nothing prepared me for the sheer number of people streaming in and out like a human ocean. It felt as if the whole of Lagos had chosen to shop there that morning.
I asked my friend, if he was certain of where televisions were sold in the chaos before us. With confidence, he assured me he was on top of it and to his credit, he did lead us to a shop.
Although our budget was for a 32 inches TV, we found ourselves admiring 43 inches and above.
Temptation is a powerful thing. At one shop, we were shown a television priced at ₦130,000. It worked perfectly, but we convinced ourselves that if we walked around a bit more, we might find the same size within our ₦80,000 budget.
That decision marked the beginning of what would turn into a long, exhausting, and regret-filled day.
After strolling from shop to shop, I noticed slight variations in prices, though none matched my budget. With every step, a flood of young men hovered around, each eager to drag us into their corner. Still, I followed my friend like a man under a spell, allowing him to lead me deeper into the market.
Then we met the man who would change the course of my day. Calm, friendly, and persuasive, he offered us a deal that seemed too good to ignore. The television we initially agreed on had some minor fault, so he suggested we look at another one he had just “brought in” for a customer. Exhausted but hopeful, we agreed.
The TV looked fine, and when tested, it worked. There was only a piece of tape across the middle of the screen, which he claimed was there to protect it during handling. We paid ₦80,000, relieved that our search was finally over. He told us to take it to another corner where it would be packed properly so it would not break.
That was the beginning of my nightmare.
The tape, once removed, revealed a cracked screen. Shocked, we rushed back, only to be offered another television in exchange. This one was handed over hastily, without testing, and once again we were asked to take it for packaging. At the supposed packing point, we discovered yet another fault, this time with the panel.
What followed was a dance of deception. Repairs were suggested, money was demanded, and I pleaded my way through. First ₦30,000 went down, then another ₦15,000. Hours slipped by. By the time it was evening, I had lost count of both the money spent and the promises broken.
My friend, angered by the trickery, tried to cause a scene. He shouted, disrupted their flow of new customers, and branded the shop fraudulent. That only led us to another group, who boldly asked for an additional ₦80,000 if I truly wanted a 43 inches television. By then, my body was weak, my spirit broken, and my pockets empty.
I left Alaba with nothing. No television. No anniversary gift. Just a bitter story and the heavy silence of defeat.
Born and bred in Lagos, I had always believed I could never be duped so easily. Yet here I was, in broad daylight, caught in a carefully coordinated performance. The seller, the carrier, even the man who sold us the remote seemed to play their roles like actors in a script rehearsed a hundred times and were all of same tribr.
Even the repairer I begged with everything in me, my kinsmen, whom I thought would have my interest at heart, turned out to be part of the charade. That part of Alaba looked less like a marketplace and more like a demographic alliance of fraud.
In my frustration, I admit I walked away that day with resentment not only for the individuals but also for the tribes they represented. Yet looking back, I realize it was not about where they came from. It was about how deeply the system of deception in that market had been perfected, so much that ethnicity became just another costume in their play.
That evening, I could not even explain to my wife what had happened. How could I? Instead of a television to mark 2 years of marriage, I returned with a story of misplaced trust and a masterclass in deception.
But my story did not end there. On the very morning of my anniversary, I summoned the courage to try again. My friend and I boarded the first bus to Alaba and headed straight for the same shop to cause a commotion. The noise yielded nothing. We were dragged back to the same spot where we had first seen the “tested OK” television, and the seller still demanded the initial ₦80,000.
Frustrated, we decided to test the waters with the online seller I had first spoken to. His shop turned out to be real, and his prices reasonable, but after the ordeal of the previous day, trust had already flown out of the window. We walked away, unwilling to risk another blow.
Eventually, like men retracing their steps in defeat, we returned to the very first shop where we had priced a 43 inches TV for ₦130,000. This time, we settled for a 32 inches television at ₦70,000 and left the market in peace, forfeiting every kobo lost the day before.
My wedding anniversary was not what I had imagined. It was a blend of regret, hard lessons, and reluctant compromise. Yet, it gave me an experience I will never forget. Alaba Market left a sour taste in my mouth, a reminder that sometimes in Lagos, a simple plan can unravel into a tale of survival.
A year later, that 32 inches TV is still with us, working perfectly. Despite all the chaos and frustration, I am grateful for life, for lessons learned, and for the patience my wife and I share.
