There’s something strangely comforting about IKEA. You walk in for a light bulb and walk out with a couch, six tealight holders, and a new philosophy on minimalism. You feel powerful—until you get home, open the box, and realize you now have 437 parts, one Allen key, and no emotional stability.

But what if your entire city worked the same way?

Step 1: Unpack Your Downtown

Your city arrives neatly boxed—streets, towers, and parks, all packed flat and labeled in Swedish. You open one box: “Etobikön.” Another reads “Transit Kit.” The smallest one? “Bike Lane (Optional).”

Inside the manual, a smiling Swedish architect waves reassuringly:

“Step 1: Align your downtown with your waterfront. Tighten bolts until hope appears.”

Each street is a rectangle that connects to another rectangle. The skyline comes in three finishes: Birch, Walnut, and Existential Beige. And, of course, there’s always one missing piece. Probably in Etobikön.

As you unpack, you realize your “urban density” module is stuck to your “parking structure” module, and no matter how you twist it, the instructions don’t quite match your reality. But that’s okay—who reads the manual anyway?

Step 2: Assemble Carefully (or Don’t)

Your family gathers around with Allen keys, ready to build a new skyline. Everyone’s optimistic for the first 10 minutes. Then someone misplaces a bolt, someone else swears in three languages, and the cat has disappeared under the “Highway Expansion Kit.”

Halfway through, you realize your subway line loops back into your own living room. The “Transit Connectivity Pack” was supposed to connect to the downtown core, but somehow it now ends in a cul-de-sac beside a furniture outlet.

Still, there’s something magical about watching it come together. Kids are laughing, bolts are tightening, and for a brief moment, it all makes sense. You even start believing this could actually work—until you notice the “Public Consultation” step you skipped earlier. Turns out the neighbours wanted a park, not a skyscraper in their backyard.

Too late. The Allen key has spoken.

Step 3: Enjoy the Organized Chaos

At last, it’s complete. The skyline gleams. The streets line up (mostly). The parks look good from above, even if no one can find the entrance. You step back, wipe your brow, and admire your masterpiece.

Then rush hour hits.

Your perfectly aligned streets now look like spilled spaghetti. The bike lane merges into a coffee shop patio, and the “Smart City Wi-Fi Hub” is buffering—ironically. The “Green Transit Option” you proudly installed? It only runs on weekdays between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m., except holidays.

But at least everything matches. The city feels… coordinated. People walk, talk, and argue in predictable patterns. Every building has that faint smell of fresh plywood and self-doubt.

And every City Hall meeting ends with free meatballs. So that’s something.

Bonus Section: The IKEA City Manual (Limited Edition)

Page 12: “To attach suburbs, use Connector J4 and a 40-minute commute.”

Page 34: “If potholes appear, tighten screws B17 and reapply asphalt paste liberally.”

Page 56: “For community cohesion, add benches and three mysterious sculptures no one understands.”

Page 87: “If traffic persists, turn entire city off and back on again.”

Page 108: “When all else fails, visit customer service. Take a number. Wait three years.”

The Final Step: Sit Back and Hope It Doesn’t Collapse

When you’re done, you realize your city—like that IKEA bookshelf—isn’t perfect. It wobbles a bit, makes strange noises at night, and probably isn’t level. But it stands. It works (mostly). And it feels like home, even if it came with too many instructions and not enough patience.

Because maybe cities, like IKEA furniture, are never really finished. You just keep tightening bolts, swapping pieces, and pretending the leftover parts were “extras.”

And honestly, if building a city came with one simple Allen key instead of a thousand committees… wouldn’t that be nice?

Tarek builds stories the same way he builds cities — with optimism, missing screws, and a touch of Swedish confusion.