On August 30, 2025, fresh off turning thirty-something, I attended my third block party.
The drill was the same: I got sh*tfaced, danced with friends, and had a blast. The difference this time? I felt old. Too old.
It began at the entrance. I picked up wristbands for myself and my friends, looked around, and realized I’d been dropped in a Gen Z fashion parade.
Colorful tops with interesting art, baggy jeans and big boots. Micro-minis, tight tops. Three-quarter jeans shorts, armless crop tops, white socks and sneakers
Me? I was wearing a bare grey T-shirt, slightly faded, normal-sized blue jeans and sneakers.
These were the first signs that gnawed at my mind as I walked away from the ticketing booth down the thin, dimly-lit alleyway that led into the big field within Secret Garden.
I was attending with four people, three of whom were my friends and a plus-one. It should have been five, but one of us had already “left the block party before the block party left him.”
Upon entering the party zone, the air greeted me like a lost lover, not a long-lost one, but one with enough love to still manage an embrace, albeit a side-hug.
My first port of call at the Alhaji-popping led parties is always the same. The Jameson stand.
I often flash a trademark smile and ask for a double shot. As a mainland block party veteran, my advice to you is NEVER ask for a single shot. Always double.
With drink in hand, I waded into the crowd, music blaring at an ungodly volume.
The girls and boys were locked in a call and response with the hypeman. As I meandered further, I was confronted by gyrating bodies with no care in the world; girls were throwing their backsides at boys who gleefully accepted the rock. The vibe was reckless joy on a Saturday night in Tinubu’s Nigeria.
But my mind wandered. Work. Relationships. Money. They jostled for space in my head as though a deadline was looming. For a moment, the party felt heavy.
However, anyone who knows me knows I’m never sad for long. And just as one who received renewed breath of life from a lover’s kiss, I was back up and active. Curious too, about how these youngsters were able to party this hard in a country that did not guarantee or even consider their future.
So, I did what any sane journalist would do. Whipped out my phone and began to badger these youngsters.
One guy told me, “People need distraction. If young Nigerians keep dwelling on the state of things, we’ll fall into depression. Better to spend our small, devaluing naira to stay happy.”
He added, “Happiness is golden and is what everybody is looking for because already the country is messed up”
Another partygoer who works in marketing called Nigeria a “pressure cooker.”
Everybody wants to let off steam someway
His wife chimed in: “Most people here don’t survive on salary alone. Everyone hustles. These tickets aren’t outrageous. So to unwind after the week, it’s worth it.”
Others echoed the same. A cybersecurity analyst said, “It’s been a while since my friends and I partied. Regardless of the country, we need to enjoy ourselves.”
A businesswoman was blunter: “The country is too hard. We need something to cool our minds.”
Then came a sharp curveball. I asked a young woman why she was there.
“To shayo,” she said.
“Because the country is tough?” I pressed.
“No. I just like to shayo.”
“What would you tell President Tinubu if you met him?”
She didn’t hesitate. “He should f**k off.”
Looking to end on a polite note, I said, “Okay, thank you very much. What’s your name?”
Wrong question.
“Shuo, you wan arrest me….which one be what’s your name?” she queried
Me: Okay, I’m so sorry.
Another partygoer I spoke with shrugged. “The country is hard. What else can we do but have fun?”
A young lady I spoke with echoed similar sentiments, “Young Nigerians save up to afford parties and other raves like this at least once a month
President Tinubu needs to work on the economy and make life easier for everyone”
And then there were the hustlers. A young party organiser, Alien, new to Lagos, told me he throws the biggest parties in OAU.
“I’m here to study how it’s done here,” he said. “But Lagos is expensive. If you want to survive, you charge more. Double. Triple.”
By 2 a.m., I was drunk enough to stop overthinking and just lose myself in the noise. But even as I danced, one thought stuck: these parties are more than escape. They’re therapy.
Alhaji Popping, the block party’s ringmaster, agrees. “If I had to describe the spirit of the block party in one word, I would say democracy,” he told me. “It’s more than just music and drinks. It’s therapy.”
Six years in, the block party has already produced four marriages. Is your husband/wife waiting for you at a block party?
And the fans get it too. A fan once told him, “Energy is your currency. You sell an experience. It’s not about the artists you book.”
For Alhaji, that feedback sums it up. “My primary goal is to make people happy.”
Me? I felt old. But maybe the trick to surviving Nigeria is simple. Forget your age, order the double, and dance anyway.
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