In the heart of Lagos, seven middle-aged women, jolly good friends from a certain Estate united for a fun night. Life had taken them down varied paths—corporate managers, homemakers and entrepreneurs—but they held their bond fiercely. This time, they were together to celebrate Adanna’s 50th birthday (fictional name and age, but true story). A club night had been the unanimous choice, something to bring back the zest of their younger days.
Days of planning went into this night, with contributions pulled from spouses and mutual friends. When the funds were gathered, they decided they could afford one of the biggest clubs in Lagos but had to be thrifty on the actual spending. The choice was made: they’d secure a cabana, order bottles of wine, some plates of spicy chicken suya, and some bottled water. The grandeur was set, and for that night, they would be "big girls" in Lagos. What they didn’t know however was that their thoughts were mere dreams of what was to be and not the actual reality of the night.
Dressed to the nines in chic outfits, they walked into the club, which of course didn’t grant them access to packing their cars within the premise as they didn’t meet expected standard (these women drove expensive cars but still didn’t meet up) to curious glances from the staff and patrons alike. The bouncers ushered them to a prime cabana with raised brows, expecting a night of high spending. Waiters buzzed around, eager to serve them, while the women shared knowing smiles. In true celebratory fashion, they ordered drinks, unknowingly so, one of the expensive ones which limited them to just two bottles and two plates of the most talked about pepper chicken suya. They began winning and dinning, clinking glasses, sipping drinks, and laughing at the endless jokes and stories that floated around.
As the night wore on, they dug into the suya, which was generously peppered, true to Lagos fashion (by which time, the leanly populated table was devoid of drinks). In the dim lights and amidst loud music, the pepper’s burn crept up on them. One after another, they reached for the bottled water, which of course had to be shared as they couldn’t afford a bottle each at this time. But their two bottles quickly ran dry, leaving them with nothing to douse the heat. It turned into a symphony of laughs and gasps, with each woman trying to power through the fire of the suya with napkins and deep breaths.
Around them, clients began trickling in and eyed the cabana they occupied, however swiftly declining to join after brief assessment of expected luxury. Their table, at which time was dry, save for two empty bottles of wine, two plates of now-barely-remaining suya, and a few empty water bottles, which was no high-roller setup, but they carried themselves like Queens. Unbothered by the occasional curious glances, they enjoyed the hang-out, laughing loud, dancing, and chatting as if it was all intentional.
When it was time to leave, they gathered their purses; looking every bit the part of big Lagos socialites who’d had their fill. They left the club with lighter wallets, pepper-scorched tongues, and full hearts. The night had been nothing short of memorable and dramatic—a reminder that a grand time wasn’t measured in bottles or bills, but in laughter, friendship, and unforgettable moments.
THIS STORY IS DEDECATED TO A WOMAN AFTER MY HEART....Go Girl...
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