Warning: This post contains painful images- specifically, a pair of Jimmy Choos are defiled in a horrific manner; and, there exists discussions of excrement. Readers are advised to use caution in reading this. Sensibilities may be offended.
So a little more than two weeks ago I moved to Lagos permanently. Exciting, yet. The packing involved- not so much. I thought that I had a lot of stuff when I moved from Toronto to London but somehow over the last six months in London my belongings seemed to have exponentionally increased. I’m personally putting it down to some act of fashion mitosis- rather than through any personal cause of action on my part.
I am now therefore the proud owner of multiple storage spaces in not only Canada but now in London as I simply couldn’t bring everything and more to the point half of the things weren’t, what I considered at the time, to be appropriate Lagos wear. Although I was right on some points- the Maje fall jacket and Mackage puffer would have been completely redundant in this ever increasing heat; however, other items- Equipment silk shirts, some Anna Sui cocktail dresses and some Issa blouses would perfectly befit the oddly formal dress code that is Nigeria. The plethora of short shorts and tank tops on the other hand- not so much.
However, despite the fact that I miss certain pieces of clothing dearly on a Friday night it is the shoe issue which causes me daily woes. As some of you might remember I am a HUGE fan of the Jimmy Choo classic flat. I will staunchly hold that they are the BEST flat currently on the market anywhere. They are comfortable, classic and the plastic sole makes them infinitely more practical than their Chanel or Feragamo counterparts. Also the standard of repair that Jimmy Choo offers, albeit at a rather extortionate price, is bar none. The fact that they even offer to repair them, regardless of the price, sets them far above labels like Chanel who offer no aftercare for their footwear (I am not joking- begging and pleading will get you nowhere, they won’t touch a pair of footwear with a ten foot pole once you’ve purchased it…. Which reminds me I definitely left those flats in London as well). HOWEVER despite the many benefits of the Jimmy Choo flats they are simply not meant for Lagos. No shoe is. Which is why my decision to purely bring 250 pound Jimmy Choo flats can now be definitively cast as a fail of epic proportions.
At no point was this profound failure in foresight made clearer then when I attended a certain ‘bar’. I use bar in quotation marks because it consisted of a grouping of chairs under some trees with music blasting out of a sound system hastily erected on the sand and connected to a generator with a very angry Nigerian woman sitting in front of what may once have been a shack but was now somewhat pushing it at even being considered a structure, selling bottles. Yes, they only did bottles and no shots- beer, vodka you bought it- poured it and mixed it all yourself. Thankfully there was at least no service charge. I have to say I may be painting a grim picture but between good music, vodka and a beach- you really can’t go wrong. Where it all did start to all go a bit pear shaped was when I asked for the loo. I may have had an idea that it wouldn’t come complete with an attendant and vials of perfume but the look on the large, angry Nigeria’s face when I asked where it was, was priceless. All night I bore witness to a stream of men simply walking to the side of the ‘structure’ to relieve themselves or simply walking a few paces from where they were seated (public urination in Nigeria is a sight as commonplace as an Evening Telegraph seller in London); however, for some reason I still held out hope that there would be a designated out house for women. At first it looked promising. The fat woman directed a younger, slimmer women to take me to the side of the building. As I carefully maneuvered around the stream of urine and urinators hope quickly began to fade. However, the spark was reignited when the young lady pointed into a darkened alcove. Considering the stench that was emitted from the alcove I thought there must be a hole in the ground after the door in the end. However, after further inspection there was no hole- not even a door. Just an alcove covered in human waste. The woman offered to wait while I relieved myself. Overcome with concern for the bright pink spring 2010 Jimmy Choo flats on my feet and disgust I posited that I could hold it. Steps later however I realized it was a pipe dream. So I bade the young woman farewell and embarked on cleaner pastures in which to both tread and relieve. I had in mind a trash dump to the left of the alcove- a perfect, more private location in which to find myself. However, after a few squishy pungent steps I realized that it was no trash dump- it was a dump of human waste. Accordingly I leapt out and sought solace in the alcove. Carefully lifting my feet as high as possible of the ground- like some sort of defiled ballerina.
Since that day. Despite the surprisingly non-existent toll the encounter took on my shoes (another testament to Jimmy Choo) I haven’t quite been able to look at them the same way. I imagine it’s a bit like seeing your only child tuck into dog excrement. You love them but you just can’t look at them the same way… for a bit.
Needless to say I intend to buy some cheap and cheerful flats for my next visit to the bar. I agree that beauty, and fashion, are pain- however, although I may be able to endure pinched toes, calluses, discomfort and just simple pain from my shoes- I cannot, and refuse to bear, the pain of inflicting pain on them. I cannot continue to defile such regal footwear in such a horrific manner.
