Chapter 1: Bill Wahala at the Party

The air thick with party heat, fan dey blow but sweat still dey drip for neck—everybody dey shine, no mind weather. I just dey look Tunde as he carry chest like cock. The whole living room smell of fried chicken and perfume; some girls don already remove shoe, leg dey free, wig almost commot—party don set. For Naija, you sabi who dey form—him body language no dey hide am.

“This small money, abeg, make we no stress the babes. Na we go run am, make dem just enjoy.”

He drop this line with one kain swag, voice loud pass generator. Some of the guys dey nod, but you fit see say dem dey try measure their own pocket for mind.

All the girls cheered and shouted, “Brother, you too much!” One babe even shout, “God go bless you, Tunde!” Another clap back, “Na husband material be this!” Dem shout reach, some even run tap him back. "Na correct guy!" one girl yarn, her voice sharp like market woman wey just sell pepper. Girls dey raise red plastic cup, high-five dey fly up and down. That kin happiness wey dey come from free food, you go see am for their face.

The guy just dey form more.

E lean for wall like say na him dey run this Lagos. Him dey shine teeth, eye dey scan the room like person wey dey find applause. If you see am, you go think say e be chief for him village.

“I never let woman pay before for my life. To be honest, I wan treat everybody, but I gats respect the guys’ pride too, abi?”

The chest wey he puff dey almost tear shirt. He drop this yarn like say na proverb, voice dey carry one kain false humility. You know that kin moment when guy dey try form alpha, but the rest dey side-eye am?

All the men just quiet.

You fit hear pin drop. Some dey tap phone, pretend say dem dey check notification, but na lie—na calculation dey run for their mind. For Naija, pride and pocket dey always drag fight.

I reason am small, then tap am for shoulder.

"Oga, you sure say na only beer you dey drink? Abi na ogogoro join?"

My voice soft, but the sarcasm no hide. Na my gentle way to hint say make e slow down. Party don dey loud, but my tap still reach am.

He brush my hand commot, eye dey shine with one kain mocking look:

“Abeg, no dey do like say you no get. Na you get the biggest end-of-year bonus—no come dey form say you no fit pay this one.”

He talk am loud so everybody go hear. Some guys look my side, one guy sef throw small laugh. For Lagos, once dem sabi say you get money, e go hard to dodge these kind wahala.

“Too local.”

As he talk that one, e pain me small. For Naija, to call person 'local' na serious shade, e dey carry heavy subtext. My hand grip my bottle tighter, eyes narrow—sting land for body as I just swallow spit, reason say wahala dey come.