The Work Apartment Wahala: Wetin Happen to Washing Plates?

In the heart of Lagos, four colleagues were sharing a small but modern apartment in Lekki. It was a work apartment provided by their company, so they had to manage the space together. Omo! It wasn’t easy o. The apartment was fine—nice furniture, a small kitchen, and some Nigerian art on the walls. But with four people living together, there was always some drama. Chuks, the software developer, was the quiet one. He could spend hours coding on his laptop, headphones on, like he was in his own world. Amaka, the project manager, was the boss lady. She liked things in order and made sure everyone knew the weekly house rules. Ayo, the designer, was the creative guy, always blasting Afrobeat music while working on his laptop. Finally, there was Zainab, the marketer, who was always on the phone, talking with clients or scrolling through Instagram. Every evening, the real wahala began when they all wanted to cook in the kitchen at the same time. “Chuks, abeg shift! I need to make small stew!” Amaka would shout, trying to get him to move his laptop from the kitchen table. But Chuks never shifted fast enough. One day, as usual, Ayo was drying his Ankara shirts on the balcony, while Zainab was on a video call in the living room. Amaka, as per usual, was pacing around with her to-do list, and Chuks was glued to his screen. “Guys, we need to talk about this place,” Amaka suddenly announced. Everyone groaned. “Again? This girl no go rest,” Ayo muttered. But Amaka continued, “See, we all dey scatter this place. Wetin happen to washing plates? This is not a jungle o.” She pointed to the sink, full of dirty dishes. “Zainab, you dey hear me?” Zainab, half listening while on a call, just nodded, “Yes, yes, no wahala. I go clean am.” Chuks didn’t even look up, still coding. “We need to organize better. If not, we go just dey vex for each other every day,” Amaka said firmly. Surprisingly, everyone agreed. Living and working together was a real challenge, but they knew they had to manage. They decided to create a new house rule: Whoever cooks must wash their own dishes. No more pile-up in the sink! That night, they finally relaxed, and Chuks even took off his headphones to join the group. They all sat on the couch, watching a Nollywood movie, laughing at the ridiculous plot twists. For the first time in weeks, the apartment felt less like a battleground and more like a home. As the night went on, Zainab started cooking jollof rice, the smell filling the apartment. “Who go chop jollof?” she called out. Ayo, always ready for food, was the first to jump up. “Me! I no dey play with jollof o.” It wasn’t perfect, but they were surviving. And in Lagos, that was something.

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