Fridays in Lagos had a certain feel, especially Friday nights on the island—it marked a transition into another reality. The corporate ties go loose, skirts become shorter, the formal facade, quickly replaced with an alter ego—one who just wants to party away the stressful week.
The streets got louder, busy—bubbly. The air pulsed with bass-heavy music, the kind that rattled glass and bones alike. Neon lights danced against the dark sky—LED blues, champagne sparkles, and camera flashes like paparazzi in a fast dream.
He watched, unseen, from across the road.
He knew this Friday night ritual all too well—his office suit still hanging over his skinny body, laptop bag slung over one shoulder, as he waited for the BRT that never came on time.
After waiting for what felt like an eternity, he began trekking the high way, dreading his salary to salary existence. Long day, long calls, long meetings, long spreadsheets—short income, short break, shortbread? Ah yes, shortbread, his favorite snack—but he had not eaten it since the price tripled over the past few months.
He looked down at the blue light flashes scattered around the tarred road. He looked up, and there it was, just across the street—that place. The popular lounge everyone talked about in hushed admiration or loud envy, depending on who was speaking. There was something about the way the building glowed like a portal into another Lagos.
Outside the entrance, a red G-Wagon purred low, tear rubber—freshly washed and still reeking of strong Dubai oud and car polish. A valet sprinted across to grab the keys from a man in a cream agbada who didn’t even spare him a glance. The man’s wristwatch alone could fund his rent for a year.
The music inside was loud enough to leak into the street. That deep, throbbing sound that made your ribs vibrate. Through the open glass doors, he caught a glimpse of the scene: Lights pulsing over bodies—some half-dressed, some overdressed. The shimmer of red cups and stilettos, red lips, a bottle of Azul, Ice in cans—Ice on thick necks and skinny wrists and all the flavors of recklessness money could buy.
His eyes flew to a woman laughing too hard in the corner, her hand resting on a man’s thigh. Her laugh echoed—sharp, a bit forced. Behind her, a waiter held a sparkler-lit bottle of champagne, leading a mini parade to someone’s table. Everyone turned. Phones out. Dangerous cheers. The bottle wasn’t even open yet.
He saw the men, eyes sharp and quiet, clutching glasses and surveying the room like kings behind tinted designer lenses. The green notes in their protruded pockets did the talking.
He watched from outside as a man in a black shirt whispered something to the bouncer, and slipped in a roll of cash into his hand. Nearby, a girl in silver heels laughed too hard, almost slipping into the arms of someone she barely knew.
Big bellies; Buff Daddies, Sugar Mummies…Naira notes taped to the ground like carpets…hard currency in high wads and rolls like POS paper. A gamble rumble for a good night bet.
Suddenly, a loud scream split the street.
It was sharp. Real. Not from the DJ booth or some drunk girl’s laughter. This was different. The music didn’t stop. No one rushed. People glanced, shrugged, sipped. A security guard stepped out, muttered into his walkie-talkie, and disappeared again.
One man down… Another bloodied shirt or gown.
He exhaled deeply. The highlife. The cost. Sometimes in naira, sometimes in dignity.
A light drizzle started. Typical. Lagos never warned you when it was about to rain—or when the fun turned dangerous.
He adjusted his bag and kept walking, stepping around a wet N1,000 note stuck to the pavement like a forgotten promise.
The club lights danced behind him, now blurred by the mist.
