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Chapter 3: King

The feisty old woman who knocks on my gate every evening to beg for money is dead. She died right outside the gate after knocking for a long time.

The gatemen who guard my neighbors’ houses said she slipped to the ground and sat there, facing the street, like she was waiting for me to step out. It was strange to see her seated like that, because I would usually respond to her. So, they assumed I wasn’t home.

But I was. I was in my home office, buried deep in work. I had heard the old woman knocking, but I was tired of her begging, tired of the unsolicited pieces of advice she always threw at me about my relationship status.

“You no go marry?” she asked every time she visited, trailing me into the house. “How fine boy like you go stay for dis kind big house, no wife?”

I would laugh and say nothing, rummaging for change to give her. Then she would launch into one of her cautionary tales—always the same story about some young man who refused to get married and ended up poor, roaming the streets like a madman. But two evenings ago, she switched it up. She told me about her friend’s daughter, just seventeen, and apparently ripe for marriage.

“If you see her bress ehn! My pikin, e big o!” she said, shaking her time-worn breasts, making me look away in discomfort. “Nyash sef, she get. You go like am. Na virgin. She never know man at all!”

That was the final straw. I handed her ten thousand naira—the most I’d ever given her—and told her never to come back. So, when I heard her knocking again yesterday, I wasn’t surprised. She was that greedy, and I was resolute on not helping her.

This morning, I was awoken by people banging on my gate. It wasn’t even yet 7AM when I stepped outside and met her corpse. A small crowd had gathered around her. I felt a wave of irritation. Not grief, not guilt, just a cold annoyance at the unnecessary stress this was about to cause me. 

“Oga, do you have bedsheet?” someone asked. “Bring it, let’s cover her body.”

And just like that, her chapter in this life was over.

The ordinariness of death in this country is something you never get used to. One minute a person is a persistent, irritating fixture in your life, the next they are a logistical problem to be solved. I called my police inspector friend, Tega. He had a plug for everything, from the best shawarma in Abuja to someone who could get you a direct connect to the president. He came, and the old woman’s body was quietly deposited at a government morgue. No fuss. No police reports. Just another day.

By afternoon, the hollow feeling is a dull thrum. Life moves on. It has to. As I prepare lunch, I get an Instagram notification. Deze. I have followed her on all her socials, it seems, stalking her quietly. However, my brief fascination of her has rescinded to the back of my mind. It’s been seven months, and anytime she crosses my mind, I simply smile.

I’m a grown man, past the days of pining over a woman I don’t know, or any woman at all. I’ve had my own share of women, in general, and I’m done doing that whole chasing thing. Truth is I’d learned a bitter lesson the hard way after spending two years as a dedicated dildo, financier, and emotional support animal for a woman who eventually sent me her wedding invitation on WhatsApp. She was getting married to another man. When I confronted her, she had looked genuinely puzzled. 

“King, I thought we were just friends with benefits?” 

A year later, I was foolish in love again, almost hitched to another time-waster who wanted me to uproot my life and move to Canada with her just because she earned more than I did. It took the intervention of friends to bring me back to my senses, and since then, I have built a fortress around my commonsense.

But sitting at home, enjoying the lunch I’d just made, the image of the old woman’s body wouldn’t leave me. The sheer finality of it. The stupid, pointless waste of her last moments spent knocking on the gate of a man who couldn’t be bothered. Life is indeed fleeting. Ridiculously so. And what do I have? A successful business. A quiet, empty house. A list of past lovers who saw me as a convenience. What is the point of all this if there is no one to share it with? 

My phone buzzes with a reminder. The Onovo-Williams Wedding. Oasis Gardens. 4PM.

A Barrett Brothers wedding. I push the image of the old woman from my mind and check our company’s online platform to track progress of the wedding in real time. What I see is not good. My team is already there, but I have to step in before we have a disaster on our hands.

I dress up for the wedding and drive to Oasis Gardens, an events center at Jahi. It is my sanctuary, a reward to myself after I made enough money from business; it’s also an investment into Barrett Brothers. It had cost me almost everything, but the turnover in one year alone makes me smile to the bank. 

The air in Oasis Gardens smells of flowers and the rich, damp earth after the sprinklers have run. The sound of soft afrobeats mixes with the gentle hum of my team in my earpiece. This is my world, and it’s perfect.

“Mr. King!” an exhausted and familiar voice calls me. I turn. It’s Marian, our Head of Production and Logistics, her face like a thundercloud. She’s a woman with the patience of a saint and the organizational skills of a military general, which is why I paired her with Don. She hurries toward me with that frown that says my brother is stressing her. 

“Hello, Marian. What has he done this time?” 

“King, we have a problem,” she answers, her voice low and tight. “The floral arch. The one Don insisted on sourcing himself to ‘save cost’.” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “The base is unstable. It’s not weighted properly. A strong breeze or a guest leaning on it, and the whole thing could come down.”

I feel a familiar spike of irritation. Don’s corner-cutting is a constant battle. He tries hard to compensate for his wife’s excesses; this in turn, costs us dearly sometimes.

“Okay, I’ll handle it. Get me two of our guys to carry those decorative concrete planters. We’ll flank the base and disguise them. Don’t let anyone near it.”

“Thank you,” Marian says, hurrying off.

I take two steps towards the arch when my earpiece crackles. “King, we have a code yellow at the main entrance.” It’s Halima, my head planner. Code yellow: a major guest issue.

I pivot. A renowned, elderly judge, a friend of the groom’s family, is standing by the steps, his face pale. His wife is fanning him. He’s forgotten his heart medication, his driver is out of town and his children are all in Lagos for another family wedding. I assure him that my team is already on it, but the family is demanding I personally assure them a car is being sent to his house in Maitama immediately. I spend some minutes soothing them, coordinating with one of our drivers on my phone, and promising updates.

No sooner have I calmed the judge’s family than Mrs. Onovo, the mother of the bride, descends on me like a hawk.

“Mr. Barrett! The champagne flutes! They’re all wrong! They’re too tall, they will block the view of the centerpieces! I specifically said low-ball glasses! This is a catastrophe!”

I paste on my most soothing smile. “Mrs. Onovo, I assure you, we have both. The tall flutes are for the toast. The low-ball glasses are already at the bar for the cocktail hour. It’s all under control. Let me show you.”

I guide her to the bar, my mind still half on the unstable arch. As I point out the glasses, my earpiece crackles again. “King, the caterer is threatening to walk. There’s a dispute over the final payment invoice. Don signed off on a different number than the one we agreed to.”

I close my eyes for a second. Another one of Don’s “savings.” I swear, Don’s excesses are affecting our business. 

“Tell the chef I will handle it personally in ten minutes. Do not let him leave. Offer him and his team a drink on the house.”

By the time I’m done with dealing with the little foxes that try to ruin the couple’s first day of forever, my focus is completely shattered from the arch. It is now a critical, physical danger, buried under an avalanche of logistical fires. 

And then I see her.

She’s standing near the bridal party’s table, a vision in purple aso-ebi that makes her skin glow. It’s Deze.

Initially moving toward the arch, I get distracted and freeze, staring despite myself, irritation flickering at the fact that she caught my focus so easily. But my moment is shattered when I see her eyes land on the arch, assessing it like she is builder of floral arches. She tilts her head, her brow furrowing slightly. She sees it. The slight, almost imperceptible lean.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she walks over without panic. She circles it once, then kneels, ignoring the expensive fabric of her dress on the damp grass. She tests the base with her hand, pushing gently. It wobbles. My heart lurches into my throat.

I watch, frozen, as she stands and looks around. Her eyes land on the heavy concrete planters I had instructed Marian to get. With a determined set to her jaw, she gestures to a passing waiter and points at the planters, then at the base of the arch. She’s not asking; she’s directing. The waiter, perhaps mistaking her for a member of my team, calls another waiter and together, they slide two massive planters into place, flanking the unstable bases perfectly. She then quickly gathers trailing ivy from a nearby arrangement and artfully drapes it over the concrete, camouflaging the fix.

The potential disaster is neutralized. She takes a step back with a satisfied smile on her face. That’s when my legs remember to move, and I walk up to her.

“You fixed it,” I say with genuine admiration.

She turns, and those warm honey-brown eyes find mine. There’s no alarm, just a quiet confidence. “It was leaning,” she responds. “Thank God, I caught it on time.”

“I know. My team told me. I was on my way, but…” I gesture vaguely at the chaos around us, a silent admission of my failure. I shake my head in amazement. “You have a goddamn incredible eye. Thank you.”

A slow smile spreads across her face. “King Barrett. I should have known you’d have a team that spots these things. Or, in this case, a guest.”

“Tonight,” I say, “it was the guest who saved the king. Thank you.”

She nods. We stand there for a moment, just looking at each other.

I’m still frozen. For the first time in years, words stall. Not because of attraction, but because I’m weighing whether this woman just out-Barretted me at my own wedding.

“You’re staring,” she says.

“Oh. Um…”

Shit! This is embarrassing. 

“Yeah, I was thinking… How did you know my name?” I ask.

“King Barrett, we’re in the same industry, and it’s hard to not know the man who handles the First Son’s Wild and Wet parties.”

“Oh.”

“I had to look you and your brother up when the gist got to me.”

“Oh,” I repeat, feeling foolish. How casually she mentions that I have existed on her radar, while to me, she’s a discovery that has just appeared from the blue.

“I feel flattered.”

“You should. Having the president’s son on your clientele list is something.”

“You could say so.”  

Her gaze sweeps over the gardens, taking in the fairy lights in the trees, the flowers, the way the setting sun paints everything in gold. “This is your work? It’s… incredible. It’s like a dream.”

“My team’s work,” I correct gently, my eyes never leaving hers. “I just… set the stage.”

“Don’t be modest. I know your reputation. Barrett Brothers don’t just set the stage. They create entire worlds.” She looks genuinely impressed, and it does something dangerous to my insides.

“Well, I hope we’ve created a good one today.” The music in the background swells, signaling the couple’s first dance. “I should check if everything else is in place. I can’t keep counting on you to save me from disasters.”

“Of course, go do your magic” she replies. But she doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

“Save a drink for me later?” The words are out, a reckless, hopeful leap.

I take her smile as a promise. “Okay.”

She melts back into the crowd as I walk off. For the next two hours, I do what I’m supposed to do, supporting an exhausted Halima and handling Marian’s duties, as she’s having a meltdown in one of the staff rooms. Don and I need to have a serious talk over the way he treats her. I sense a sexual attraction, which he cannot pursue. He had once casually commented about her voice and how it reminds him of blue skies, which he no longer sees. I can understand how people can get seduced by a person’s voice, as I used to have women swoon all over me when I was a baritone. Over the years, I worked on my tone, making it lighter. This also came with me giving up my dream to be on radio. Everyone had thought I’d end up an OAP, but I realized painfully that my vocal cords couldn’t handle talking for a long time. Now, what I have is calm and soothing, often slightly lower than average but luxurious to the ear, or so I’m told.

Back to Deze. My eyes are constantly searching for a woman who sees the world the same way I do. And I find her in a sociable state, quite the life of the party. 

The band is now in full swing as the MC has just called the friends of the bride to come up and give everyone a show. MCs are my constant bane at weddings because of the way they get carried away and go off script. So far, this particular one has called all manner of people to the dance floor, and we’re far behind time.

But Deze…

I find her away from the crowd, by a man-made lily pond, speaking to someone on her phone. I walk to her and catch her last words.

“Tonight?” She looks at me and away. “But tonight, I… Okay, then.”

She hangs up and smiles at me. I am holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

“Oooooh! You speak my language,” she says.

I pour us both some champagne, and we sit on an abandoned but sturdy table that holds folded napkins.

“Have you eaten, though?” I ask.

“Yes, I have. Great buffet! Thanks.”

“Good to hear.”

We’re silent at first, watching the dance going on. But I soon break the silence when I ask her to tell me what she does when she isn’t working.

“Playing,” she answers, kicking off her shoes to reveal delicate feet with pink-painted toenails. “I play a lot. Like, think of all the spots in Abuja where you can go and unwind, I’ve been to every one of them.”

“Cool.”

“Except…” She gives me an embarrassed look. 

“Except where?”

“Magic Land.”

“No way!”

She giggles. “I kid you not. I’ve not been there. And to think that both my brothers have kids. I mean, that’s like Abuja Aunty starter park nau. Take your siblings’ kids to Magic Land.”

“Tell me about it!”

“Shame on Aunty Deze.”

I laugh. “Why, though? Why haven’t you been there?”

“I don’t know. Something always came up whenever I planned to go. But this year, it’s a must!”

I look at her and do something I haven’t done in years. “Let me take you.”

“You want to?”

“I’d love to.”

She gives me a smile and pushes strands of her weave that fall in her face. Her eyes flicker over me, measuring, as if she’s trying to decide whether I’m worth adding to her already full orbit.

“Okay.” She shrugs. “Let’s do it.”

“So, you’re wearing the aso-ebi from the bride’s side. Are you friends?”

“Uni course mates.”

“Then, you’re supposed to be dancing.”

“We’re not that close. It’s this whole WhatsApp group thing.”

“Well, you seemed quite friendly earlier.”

“Yeah, I’m an extrovert, but I’m tired, abeg. However…” She jumps to her feet suddenly. “I need to take pictures for the gram.”

This has nothing to do with Daze Events. She’s sort of a mini-influencer online because of her active social life. Her Instagram is dedicated to places she visits and her fun activities when she isn’t working.

“How good are you behind the camera?” she asks.

“Stanley Kubrick level.”

She hands me her phone. 

“Okay.” I stand. “Where do you want us to do this?” I swivel. “Or do I pick?”

“I know a place,” she answers, smiling mischievously. 

“Go ahead.”

She finds not just one perfect background but six! And she makes me follow her everywhere. But damn! She does look good in photos.

When we’re done, we return to our spot and back to our now bubble-free champagne. 

Deze confesses that she’s an admirer of my work. A silent follower. I thank her and ask how business has been since Imani left and she had to stand on her own.

“Draining. But thank God for Chief Yele, or else…” She shakes her head. I see something in her stare that I can’t read. It’s been seven months since that gala event, and she’s rapidly making a name for herself in the industry, taking on jobs from Abuja’s elite, as her company’s Instagram page and industry gossip reveal. I don’t know anything about this woman, but I’m proud of her.

I learn a few things about her as we keep conversing. She is from a family of six. Unlike me, she was born into financial stability. Her dad was a doctor, now retired, while her mom runs a business that supplies medical equipment to hospitals. Her elder brothers are doctors themselves; and her younger sister, a physicist. 

“I’m the only apple that fell far from the tree,” Deze tells me. “In short, I fell and rolled into an orchard of pineapples. Look at my skin.” She thrusts out her arm to me and I catch a small tattoo in the inside of her wrist. “I’m the dark one in the family. The only blacky.”

I wouldn’t call her dark-skinned. In fact, I’d say she’s light-skinned. But having seen photos and videos of her siblings and mom on Instagram, I understand what she means about being the dark one. She took after her dad in complexion. But what I love about her skin is the pampered tone it bears, as if she doesn’t feel this same Abuja sun we feel. She glows from clearly being pampered with an expensive skincare routine. 

She laughs, and her entire face transforms. Her eyes are warm honey-brown, and they turn feline at the corners. Her smile loosens something in me I thought was locked. Dangerous.

But all good things must come to an end.

“King?”

I already know what she wants to say, as she has just checked the time on her phone.

“I have to go. I didn’t expect to stay this long.” She yawns discreetly. “But before I go, I need to take your number. You’re a good cameraman, and I have more places to go. Plus, there’s the Magic Land visit. Maybe what I needed all along was an accountability partner.”

We both chuckle, exchange digits, and I walk her to her car.

“Call me,” she says. 

I smile. Hope is a physical thing, a bright, burning ember in my chest. For a man who just watched death camp at his gate, it feels reckless to entertain this ember. Yet, it’s there.

But as she drives away, the old, familiar doubts descend like a fog. 

You’re a fool, King. A fool who builds castles in the air for other people. Maybe she has a boyfriend. Maybe she is Chief Yele’s sidechick—it wouldn’t be the first time a powerful man ‘used’ a vendor for more than their professional skills. Maybe she is a lesbian and not into men at all. Maybe she just doesn’t find me attractive. The logical part of my brain knows this is the fortress walls slamming back into place, a pre-emptive strike against potential hurt. 

As I walk back to the wedding, I think to myself that the old woman at my gate probably died for nothing, and pursuing Deze would be a waste of energy I no longer have. 

I know I’m psyching myself out. It is my pattern. But it is a pattern that keeps me safe because hope is a door I don’t trust myself to open. I’ve seen too many people walk through and leave me standing. And right now, safe feels a hell of a lot easier than hopeful.