You never met Man Murphy, and you probably never will.

Man was an airport worker in Lagos, Nigeria, in the 1980s. Lagos was a treacherous place back then—cages filled with convicts lined the roadside as you approached the international airport. Less décor, more warning: a blunt message to anyone willing to cause upheaval in a climate of dust, dirt, and crime.

Let me explain his curious name first—because I know you’re wondering. Yes, I know. A man called Man.

Man came from a tribe deep in the heady jungles of central Nigeria. Generations of in-fighting had driven him to the city, where he met his wife and scraped together enough education to become an aircraft engineer. Tribal naming conventions don’t follow Western first-and-last-name standards.

When Man started work in the hangar at the airport, an impatient and highly strung engineer flown in from British Airways would simply roar “Man!” at him—an appalling lack of respect, though thankfully not understood by Man himself.

A few years later, it was Aer Lingus’s turn to supply qualified avionics engineers to support the local crew. Somewhere along the line, an Irishman asked Man about his name and—frustrated by the awkwardness of calling him “Man”—decided to call him “Murphy” instead. Man, not quite understanding the logic, decided that he now had two names and was therefore truly Western.

Eating an orange and squinting into the sweltering midday sun, he smiled to himself and softly whispered in his Nigerian brogue:
“Man… Murphy. Yes, that is my name now.”

One afternoon, someone shouted, “Man! Hello? Man!”
He didn’t hear—he was asleep under the wing of a stricken 737.

“You are Man Murphy, right?” a tall, thin white man with gold-rimmed glasses ventured.

“Yes, yes, I am Man,” he replied, gathering himself off the ground and dropping a pen and an orange in the process. Sleeping on the job was commonplace at the airport. Nigeria Airways had only six planes, and usually only one or two were operational.

The man introduced himself as Eddie, as if there were no difference between their worlds, and they got straight to work. They shared coffee before listing the faults on the 737 stuck in the hangar.

A couple of months before Eddie’s arrival from Dublin, another British man had lost his life when his apartment was broken into. Robbery had a different flavour there—less sneaking, more brutality. Eddie was reassured that his apartment had been upgraded with an extra layer of bars on his single porthole window on the world.

By November, Eddie knew he’d get home briefly in December, but Christmas itself would be spent in Lagos. As the days passed working in the unbearable heat of Lagos International, he began to realise that Man was unique—the only worker consistently willing and able to carry out instructions. Jobs were even finished ahead of schedule.

Man took huge interest in Eddie’s stories, and the two spent long hours chatting and laughing—much to the disdain of other local workers, many of whom specialised in avoiding tasks. Eddie later joked that they had the WAS installed: the Work Avoidance System. There’s an acronym for everything in aviation.

One night, as Eddie got into his car, Man asked for a lift home. Eddie hesitated—things were rarely straightforward in that place. On the drive, Man repeatedly asked Eddie to meet his wife and children, explaining how proud they would be to meet his boss.

Eddie declined two or three times. Safety, after all, was an optional extra.

Eventually, he agreed to a quick two-minute hello and goodbye. They arrived at a half-built car park beside the motorway. Man explained they had arrived. Eddie cautiously followed him under the motorway to a disused concrete structure. In the corner was a single room.

This was home.

Man lived there with his wife, Amaka “Murphy” (I suppose), and their two children.

There was no running water, no flooring, and very little furniture—yet Eddie was greeted with dancing, laughter, and a welcome that lasted far longer than he had planned. They sat and talked. Eddie noticed how good Amaka’s English was; she was a nurse looking for work.

From then on, Eddie dropped Man home every evening. One night, he even stayed for dinner before returning to Dublin for his December break.

I was just a child then—eight years old—when my father arrived home from Nigeria that Christmas. After the excitement settled, we went on the strangest shopping trip imaginable. We bought carpets, rugs, little chairs, mini cookers, toys—everything random you could think of. I assumed it was just Christmas.

The next morning, the largest wooden crate I had ever seen sat in our driveway. We filled it with all of it. No questions asked, I helped my father load it.

I was seventeen when I finally heard the full story.

That Christmas, my father spent the day with Man Murphy and his family in their newly decorated apartment—carpeted, furnished, a Christmas tree lit. They listened to the BBC World Service, danced to the Bee Gees, and laughed.

The children wore shoes for the first time. They played with toys they had never dreamed of.

My father said it was one of the greatest Christmas Days of his life.

To Eddie and Man.