THERE IS CITY AND there is spirit and the two coincide. Yes, this is about the texture of the bridge, the smell in the air, the thick noise everywhere, the inimitable attitude. But there is who the city is at the core: a glow-in-the-dark something, a luminant orb at night, a maelstrom, quicksand spinning. (Not a place, an idea. Not a place, an energy.) There’s the spirit named in its mother tongue; ruthless, faceless whirlwind dancing between land and sky. Nobody comes close. Ruled by a treacherous trinity: Èkó, the senior trickster, the melting pot in the sun, the overseer of all, the one who watches the underside of night; Lagos, the plain-mad, plain-fun, plain-loved; and LasGidi, the one with arrogance in its gait, who glimmers under strobe lights, who…