3:15pm

Friday 8th August 2025

Maison Etienne Restaurant&Bar

‘I sha know they did not born him well to break up with me’ a loud voice pierced through the silent toilet. They moved into view, a buxom short lady and her friend, tall and heavily built. The tall friend was the one letting out a threat to an invisible man. She was still angrily talking about this man to her friend, who was more concerned with snapping selfies in the mirror and occasionally chipping in a “nah wa o”. They took no notice of me as I stood next to a stall, ready to mop up after them in case they left a mess. Like they always do.

Working as a cleaner in a Lagos restaurant is not easy. You get to see a lot. Hear a lot and smell a lot. Who am I to complain? When I need the money to put myself through school?

An older woman, with a botoxed face as tight as the silk turban wrapped around her head, wandered into the first stall. 

“That toilet is not working, ma,” I announced from the end of the room where I stood. She made a face as she shuffled towards another stall and I had to bite my lower lip to stop myself from hissing at her. It was not my fault; Mr. Felix, the facility manager, has chosen not to repair the leaking toilet. As if it pleased me and all the other cleaners to announce the leak to people before they use the toilet. One time, I was distracted and overlooked a 5-year-old prance into the toilet. It was after she was done and kept telling her mother’ It’s not flushing, mummy’ in a crisp British accent that I realized what had happened. I told them to go, that toilet is spoilt and I will get to it, but inside me, I cursed that foolish, tiny, rich, spoilt brat with tears in my eyes. Yes, I know it’s not her fault. Yes, I should have noticed on time and warned her off, but sometimes I get so tired and my eyes are only staring but not seeing. I become dazed and let my comfort memories wash over me. I imagine myself in other places, better places that don’t involve washing toilets and cleaning other people’s stinky, gooey DNA mess! Places like Marbella, Mallorca, Marseilles, and all the fancy M, M places mentioned by the ladies when they are talking about their next vacation.

Sometimes when I gossip happily with Risikat, another cleaner. We group the ladies who enter the toilet. We have the regulars whose icks are no longer strange to us. There is Miss Pepeye, a slim lady whom the other staff says is a big tech co-founder who walks with her wrists suspended in the air as if an imaginary purse is hanging on them. She flushes the toilet before use. She flushes twice after use and requests one of us to open the door for her so she won’t touch the doorknob with her washed hands. She is my favourite because of how nice she smells. A heady coconut scent that makes one feel like they are wrapped in a warm embrace. There was Alhaja Yellow, an Isale Eko market fabric mogul whose mother is credited for introducing lace fabric to Nigeria. Her poorly bleached skin and the distracting flash of yellow gold teeth lining her incisors sealed her nickname. She was often on business calls, mentioning figures I had never heard of in my life. She was also the nicest, stuffing wads of crisp naira notes in our hands when she was done with her business. Then there is Awele, a mulatto married into one of the elite families in Lagos. Those families with compound names that are a mix of Yoruba and Portuguese, telling a history of old money that has lavished different generations with affluence. She often looks morose and lost in thought whenever she comes in. Sometimes she pees. Other times, she stares for a long time in the mirror. There were days she cried in the toilet stall and then stepped out minutes later, as if nothing had happened. She would touch up her makeup and smile sadly at us before walking out silently as she came.  There are rumours her husband beats her, while some say he makes her sleep with his rich friends and some politicians to maintain the family wealth!

And there were my personal favourites. Miss Softlife, Slayqueens. Beautiful women around my age who are only there to have a good time. Some of them are downright rude, acting like they were above us and looking at us with derision as we stood there, mop in hand. Some turn up their noses at us like we smell, but I swear I wear deodorant daily. Some barely notice us there since they are only there to take pictures of themselves to show they were at Maison Etienne. They stand for minutes, twisting this way and that, trying to get the perfect mirror selfie in the toilet. It is interesting how Lagos caters to the vanity of women by ensuring the toilets of their restaurants are well decorated, but at the same time turns around and stigmatizes these same women by denying them entry if they are not holding a man’s arm.

There are days I curse my luck as a cleaner. Having to hold a 2-year-old steady on the toilet seat while the mum goes back to her brunch like it was perfectly normal, while inhaling the stomach-turning smell of a privileged child with a diet that consists of things I can’t pronounce. Expensive shit. Or when this pretty lady ran into the toilet mid-dinner with her date. The liquid content of her stomach sounded like a torn drum. The way she held her buttocks as if she was willing the contents of her bowels not to give way. The putrid smell of her stomach waste wafted through the air, and the lavender air freshener struggled to mask the odor. How she stepped out after to pout and take pictures with the mirror and sauntered off without a second glance at me. This same woman did not flush when she was done and left the toilet stall muddy, dirty, and wet. There were drops of rust colored liquids on the floor as well, and I shudder to think it was what I think it was. It irritates me, this irresponsible behaviour. I expected it from men, as my uncles have shown me men can be stupid goats who would rather die than flush toilets after use, even if numerous buckets of water were available for use. I never expected women to brazenly use the toilet and feel comfortable enough to wash themselves and leave it… for me?! 

This Friday afternoon, two ladies entered the bathroom discussing the surprise proposal of their friend, Uloma, which is to be held later this evening. One of them asked the other if she had told the Uloma she mistakenly slept with her about-to-be fiancé. The lady, being asked the question, scoffed and said she doesn’t think it was necessary. The lady asking the question shrugged and touched up her makeup. I observed them silently. I am sure they will come back into the toilet with Uloma this evening. Gushing over how beautiful her ring is and posing in the mirror to take mirror selfies together. They will fuss over her and tell her how lucky she is as she uses the toilet. Uloma will beam and giggle excitedly with them, not knowing the better.

In this toilet? I have seen it all.