I woke up on a fine, random morning and decided I wanted to be a fit girlie, for real this time. As someone who has had numerous stints in the gym that always ended with me deciding that being lethargic isn’t so bad after all, I needed to make this personal. For once, let me see what I would look like with muscles. Let me see how strong I could be. Let me see how well I could defend myself. Let an agbero talk nonsense to me at the bus stop, and I’ll deck him with one or two slaps straight. Then, as he tries to retaliate, I’ll unleash some fast taekwondo moves, pew pew! and before you know it, bystanders will be hailing me. “Aunty yen strong gan o!”

You would think that someone like me, who sometimes has to chase after danfo like Arjun chasing after Priya in an Indian love story, would be fit. You would think the incessant trekking from one end of Yaba to the crevices of Ikeja would tone my calves. In fact, trying to hold steady in a Lagos red bus should count as aerobics if you really think about it. But that’s the irony of being Nigerian. Doing so much with nothing to show for it.

This is why I hate those lying TikTok influencers who suddenly have toned bellies just from WALKING! Do they know how much walking I do? I have trekked so much I could give a Kenyan a run for their money if there was a WALKATHON!

Also, I have treated the gym like an understanding girlfriend for a while. I join with the intent of staying loyal, then get distracted by the well-shaped mounds of chocolates. The alluring seduction of my bed. The bedrotting bliss of ambling around, doing nothing tangible. So I quit, just like an unserious partner ghosts an understanding girlfriend. I abandon the gym without a care for my subscriptions. It’s too much pain and stress anyway. My body would hurt like I was beaten blue-black in Balogun market for sending a fake transfer receipt. My legs would vibrate when I try to climb stairs or sit on the toilet after a gruelling leg day. My chest would pound like it’s about to jump out of my body just because I did small jumping jacks. Jumping jacks that I used to do for fun as a child? I DON OLD O.

And let’s be real, the gym can be an intimidating place, especially for a beginner. The core fitfam warriors, who have successfully built muscles that make them look like the Hulk from Okokomaiko. The ladies with toned, well-sculpted booties who keep turning sideways and recording in the mirror, making you wonder when you’ll finally build a yansh that enters the room ten minutes after you do. The people who run on the treadmill for six hours, making you question if they are training for an alien invasion.

All these thoughts were running through my head as I signed up yet again for another gym. In fact, a good part of my first day in the gym was spent looking around before working on my sets because I didn’t want to look off and end up on someone’s TikTok. And this was after I kept telling myself I’ll go tomorrow every day since I made my first payment. It wasn’t until my barrel-chested friend, Ameen, increased his hounding that I finally went to the gym, just to shut him up!

Ameen can talk. He sculpted his body, and his before-and-after videos are a huge testament to the power of consistency. But am I consistent? No. In fact, inconsistency is something of a pattern for me. I start things and dump them when they no longer stimulate me. I hate monotony, but I also love orderliness. You could say I’m a controlled-chaos kind of person.

Which is why this gym thing is an I die there kind of situation.

I am here to stay forever o

“The gym is an awkward place,” were the words my trainer said to me on my first day, and honestly, that helped a lot. Because if a professional could relate to what bothered me the most, why should I give a hoot?

Who cares if I fart as I contort my body in different yoga poses?
Who cares if I grunt while trying to push through a heavy weight?
Who cares if I randomly break into bata moves to Numb/Encore mid-set?

Nobody. So, I fart. I grunt. I push. I pull.

And it’s fascinating to experience the dynamics of the fitness lifestyle. From ladies sharing booty-growing and tummy-flattening meal plans in the restroom to guys who act like they sniff and inject protein shakes. Kilode? Muscles pumping up and down like they’re about to slap you with them.

It’s also thrilling to witness the mating dance in the gym. You’ll see a wide-chested guy suddenly ego-lifting after spotting a lady who catches his fancy, going crazy with the weights. The result? Clang! A grunt of pain. Then he chests it and limps to the restroom to go and cry quietly.

And that’s just the beginning, because this is an enclosed space where testosterone is pumping on overdrive.

One day, as I sweated through a crazy arm workout, my eyes rolled back in frustration. I scolded myself, wondering who sent me to use my own money to put myself under punishment. Only for this burly guy with freeform locs who looked strikingly like Kelvin Ikeduba to start striding toward me. I was alarmed, wondering if he was one of the random people I’ve insulted on Twitter because lots of popular Twitter folks and celebs work out at my gym.

His chest flexed as he strode over, then he stared at the weights on the floor and said, “You done with that tweinray?”

“Huhn?”

“He’s asking if you’re done with the 20. The weight,” my trainer, versed in their language, explained, rolling his eyes.

“Toh,” I said, beckoning at him to carry the weights.

Apparently, the best way to be a proper Lagos gym bro, aside from walking around with menacing muscles, is to twist your tongue like hot potatoes are burning it. That, and being a tech bro with locs who does Johnny Bravo struts around the gym.

Later that evening, as we stretched, my trainer told me, “Everybody in the gym is abnormal, including you and me.” He said gym heads can sniff out newbies easily, they’re like sharks looking for blood.

It made sense in that moment. Everyone is there to work out, and some are there to actively work out their genitals as well.

So dear reader, the next time you go to the gym and a random guy sidles close, asking if you’ve got a “twenray” in a non-descriptive accent, just know he’s one of them.