Chapter 1: Wine, Wahala, and Marriage Certificate

When I dey bar dey watch male models dance, one babe just waka come pour red wine for my body sharp-sharp.

The place still dey hot, club light dey blink like Christmas, DJ dey spin latest jam. As the cold drink soak my fine Ankara blouse, everywhere just freeze—people dey pretend busy but all eye dey chook my side. Naija people like amebo, wahala dey sweet dem to watch.

Na so one small girl begin shout, dey claim say na me dey scatter her relationship with her boyfriend.

She no even fear, just dey run her mouth, scatter face like person wey dem cheat for JAMB. Bouncers for door just dey shine eye, dey wait for show. Some girls behind me don dey record with phone, dey whisper. Na real drama dey start so.

I just lower my eyes, calmly unzip my small gold bag and bring out my marriage certificate.

My hand steady as I pull out the crisp government paper wey still dey shine. I hear gasp—marriage certificate for club? Na so Naija soap opera dey be.

"Thank you for looking after my husband."

My tone calm, but my eye sharp like pepper. I smile small, the kind Yoruba woman go use finish person for market. The girl surprise, her mouth shut, she dey eye me like say she dey watch film.

"Sorry, he too dey follow woman."

I nod, collect tissue from one of the models, dab my cloth. I glance at the wine stain—omo, dry cleaner go suffer. I hiss under my breath: men na wahala.

"No worry, I go show am pepper when we reach house."

My voice low, but everybody hear. Women for bar dey nod, dey whisper, 'Na so! Show am pepper!' For Naija, women dey always back each other if man mess up.

"Abeg, drop your number. Next time my husband dey find person, I go call you."

I stretch jotter and pen, the girl hand dey shake. Laughter dey burst round. The girl just freeze, mouth open like fish for basin. Na only for Lagos you go see this kind soap opera.

But this one na my own reality show, and e never even start.