Lagos Man is the title work of the whole body, and the one that carries its argument in a single figure. A young man in a black durag stands against a pale, cracked ground scratched with faint red sigils, the surface aged as though the painting had already survived a century. His head is bowed, his eyes closed. Sharing his skull, pressed to his own face, a red skull under a gold crown screams with its eyes lit from within. At his chest he cradles a raw heart in both hands, gold light bleeding out of it. This is the Lagos man entire: his crowned death beside him, his living heart held in the open, the whole city carried on a surface built to endure it. He carries it himself.
