Hi, fam! Introducing this new series, Barrett & Barrett, is my pleasure. I hope you love it!

Chapter 1: Deze

I’m about to be so professionally powerful, my coffee is going to start stirring itself out of respect. Or maybe it’s just the tremor in my hand from the glasses of wine I had last night to silence the voice in my head that whispers I’m one misstep away from being exposed as a total fraud.

My eyes snap open. The light is too bright. A familiar, dull throb has taken up residence behind my eyes. Wine. Always wine. I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“Wake up, Deze.”

“Hmm?”

“Wake up. You’re muttering about invoices again.” Zulu’s voice is gentle, but it’s the specific gentleness he reserves for moments like this. The ‘I’m worried about you’ gentleness.

I blink and stare into my big brother’s face. He’s smiling and dressed. I’m on the couch. Again.

“Zulu?” I croak, my mouth tasting of regret and cheap Chardonnay. “What time is it? The gala—”

“Is in…” he checks his watch, a sleek, expensive thing, “…seven hours. Plenty of time for the great Adaeze Nnadi to work her magic.” He says it like a compliment, but it feels like a weight. “I couldn’t get you to make it to your room.”

I try to recall last night. He and I hung out at some lounge with friends to celebrate the biggest gig of my life. I’m still reeling over how little me clinched a deal with the Ministry of Interior of the FCT.

Rubbing my eyes, I sit up and look at him fully. Why is he all dressed and smelling fresh? Wait…

“Are you ready to leave?”

I jump to my feet—

“Don’t do that.” He grabs my hand as a dizzy wave hits me. I’m forced to slump back into the couch.

My gaze lands on a half-eaten bowl of spicy noodles on the coffee table. My other great escape. It’s a weird mix: either alcohol to numb the fear or food to comfort it. Zulu only worries about the first one. “That brain of yours burns calories like a furnace,” he always jokes. “Eat the whole damn pot if it makes you happy.”

“Chizulukeme,” I groan, calling his full name. “Don’t go.” He doesn’t say anything. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out hundred-dollar bills and hands them to me. I count them slowly.

“A thousand dollars?”

“For the ‘oh-shit’ fund. Because no matter how perfectly you plan, something always goes wrong.”

“You’re not helping!” I whine, smacking his leg.

“Consider it your official contingency budget for the day. Or… just use it to book yourself a full spa day because you deserve to be pampered.” He sits beside me, eyes looking into mine. “So, how prepared are you for this big day of yours?”

“Zulu, you saw how I was running around like a mad person and hardly had time for you. It’s not just a big day. It’s the biggest,” I correct him, and the words feel like a prayer and a threat all at once. “Do you know what it means to be a client of the Minister of Interior? Most of Abuja’s elite will be attending. This is it, Zulu. This is the one that puts me on the map. Abuja Metropolis Beautification & Youth Empowerment Gala.”

“You sound like your own press release,” he teases, but his eyes are proud. “Hey, you were already on the map, Deze. You’re just colonizing new territory now, and you’re going to kill it.”

“I know!”

The warmth from his belief is a tangible thing. Family, to me, is an unshakable foundation, and Zulu is the cornerstone. 

“Just make sure that sexy personal assistant of yours posts enough videos on Instagram.”

“Zulu?” I scold him.

“Doesn’t it bother you that she looks like she’s your madam?”

I shake my head. It’s not my fault that my assistant is older, thick-bodiedand is often mistaken to be my boss. What am I supposed to do? Fire her? She’s not only efficient at her job; she knows my secrets too. 

“Chizulukeme, leave Abebi alone.”

Zulu rolls his eyes. “And that name, sef!”

“Beautiful name, but not as beautiful as Fanasiba.”

His light skin face comes to a frown.

“Just say you still have a crush.”

“I so do not.”

“Admit it.”

“Admit what?” My brother will always deny the fact that he’s in love with my best friend. “Um… Daze?” He looks at his phone apologetically “My Uber is here.”

“Do you have to go, though?” I ask.

“Daze, we talked about this already. I need those surgeries on my résumé. It puts me on the map.”

I nod in understanding, as I did the other times he explained why he had to be absent for the biggest event of my career. As a plastic surgeon in the United States, the series of surgeries he’s about to embark on with his colleagues on burn victims that were affected by a homeless shelter fire are career-defining for him. The hospital he’s affiliated with is partnering with the world-renowned Grossman Burn Center to treat the victims. It’s the kind of thing that gets him noticed and makes the new hospital he’s building here in Abuja a future reality.

“I know,” I whisper, the fight going out of me. “I’m just… I’m going to miss you.” I try to steer the conversation to happier ground. “Fana was asking about you yesterday. She’s so proud of you, you know. We all are.”

He gives a noncommittal grunt, his attention already shifting. My assistant, Abebi, chooses the moment to walk in, her arms full of plastic bags and her tablet. She’s a whirlwind of efficiency, even this early.

“Good morning, Ms. Deze. Good morning, Uncle Zulu.”

“Morning!” he responds brightly. Too brightly.

Abebi’s eyes do a quick, practiced scan of the room. In one fluid motion, she picks up the abandoned noodle bowl, straightens a stack of magazines I’d knocked over, and retrieves my phone from where it had slipped between the couch cushions, all without dropping the tablet she’s holding. She is the living, breathing embodiment of my executive dysfunction, the keeper of my chaos.

“The florist is on hold for when you’re ready,” she reports.

“Tell her to go ahead.”

“Yes, ma.” 

Placing her phone to her ear, Abebi walks past us. Zulu’s eyes follow her as she moves across the living room to my office nook. He doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. A slow, charming grin spreads across his face. “She’s… efficient. You should give me her number. For professional networking, of course.”

“And what about Fana? You didn’t even—”

“Deze,” he cuts me off, his tone losing its playful edge, “I don’t want to talk about Fana. Not now.” The finality in his voice makes me wince. There’s history there, old and complicated, that he has never let me fully see. He stands, checking his watch, which has just beeped.

The moment is over. The good mood evaporates, replaced by the cold dread of his departure. One week of his brotherly love gone, and I’ll be left with just memories until when next he comes around. And I don’t even have the luxury of pausing to miss him, thanks to adulting. 

 I walk him to the gate, annoyed at the sun for shining too cheerfully. A black Uber is idling at the curb. Zulu pulls me into a tight hug.

“Bye, Deze,” he murmurs into my hair. 

I just nod, afraid that if I speak, the dam will break. He gets into the car, giving me a final wave through the window. The car pulls away from the curb.

And I break.

The tears of stress I’ve been holding back all month erupt in a silent, heaving sob. I wrap my arms around myself, standing alone on the sidewalk, watching the car disappear. It’s not just that he’s leaving. It’s that he’s leaving now. That he’s missing this moment, and I have to face this colossal, terrifying day without my big brother here to have my back. The ambition feels heavy suddenly, a suffocating weight.

The Uber’s brake lights flash red, two houses down. It stops. The reverse lights come on, and it slowly backs up. Did he forget his phone? 

The passenger door opens and Zulu gets out. He doesn’t say a word. He just walks back to me, pulls me into his chest, and holds me while I cry.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out, my voice muffled by his shirt.

“Shhh,” he soothes, rubbing my back in slow, steady circles. “I know. I know it’s not just me you’re missing. You’re scared to be this great. It’s a big thing you’re about to do. But listen to me.” He pulls back slightly, cupping my face in his hands, his thumbs wiping my tears. “You can do this, Adaeze. You were built for this. Remember that you can do all things through Christ who strengthens you. All things. Even this. I might be across an ocean, but I’m always, always with you. Okay?”

I nod, sniffling, drawing strength from his certainty. “Okay.”

“One more thing. Tonight. At the event.”

I already know what he’s going to say.

“Champagne is for toasting, not for drowning,” he says, his voice low and earnest. “One glass. For the camera. Smile, sip, put it down. Understood?”

I nod. “One glass. Understood.”

He holds my gaze for a beat longer, ensuring the message has landed, before he gets back in the car, and this time, it doesn’t stop.

I watch until it turns the corner and is truly gone. I walk inside, shut the door behind me, and lean against it.

I wipe my face, square my shoulders, and remind myself: I’m about to be so professionally powerful, my coffee should stir itself out of respect.

“Here, ma.” Abebi hands me a cup of coffee, already made and perfectly stirred. See? The universe is already speaking to me.

Today is the big day. Not just an event, but a declaration. The “Abuja Metropolis Beautification & Youth Empowerment Gala.” My gala. Well, Chief Yele’s gala, but Daze Events built it from the ground up.

I take a slow sip from my mug, the one Zulu gave me that says ‘BOSS’ in obnoxiously glittery letters, and survey my kingdom. It’s a small kingdom, replete with a living room and a cozy bedroom. My dreams see me in a mansion, but for now, I’ll manage this space that is meticulously and ruthlessly mine. Every piece of furniture is a statement. A deep emerald green velvet sofa I fell in love with when I visited my sister. A reclaimed-wood coffee table stacked with three books from my dad’s library that I’ve not read. And every other thing my money could buy created me this anchor. 

I walk to the kitchen to make myself some breakfast. I don’t play with food, no matter how busy I get.

I toast three slices of bread and make peppery scrambled eggs to help with my mini-hangover, then sit for breakfast. 

₦100 million.

The number should feel like a victory. Instead, it feels like a threat. The Minister’s office had agreed to my insane fee without a single negotiation because I’d done due diligence to the pitch I presented to them. I’m sure even God was impressed. Their only condition was that I use their “pre-approved” list of vendors. “Protocol,” the aide had said, his voice slick with annoying authority.

My gut, the one I’d inherited from my father, had screamed that this was wrong. But my ambition, a much louder voice, had shouted it down. This is how the big leagues operate, I told myself. Stop looking a gift horse in the mouth.

₦100 million.

A life-changing sum. The number can’t stop echoing in my head. A sum that can evaporate my debt and build a real future for Daze Events. A sum that can also vanish in a single misstep.

What if the Minister of Interior hates the decor in the hall? What if the hall is too small… or too big, and the place looks empty? What if the sound system fails during his speech? What if I’ve overestimated myself? What if everyone sees what I’m sometimes terrified of being: a fraud, a girl playing dress-up in a world of serious adults?

My phone rings again, shattering the spiral. 

Daddy. 

I take a steadying breath.

“Good morning, Daddy,” I answer, switching to Igbo.

“Nne,” he says, his voice like a firm hug. “You’re awake. Good.”

“Yes o. How are you, Daddy? Sleep well?”

“Yeah, but the dogs kept barking all night. I don’t know why.”

“Daddy, sell those things. I hear one is as much as 15k these days.”

I imagine the horror on his face and laugh. Everyone knows I hate pets.

“Daddy, on a serious note, have you been to your doctor yet?”

He’s silent.

“Daddy?”

“Nne, I’m fine. It’s not the first time I’m suffering this insomnia thing.”

“But Mommy said—”

“Your mother is just paranoid. She’s telling you people all these exaggerated stories because she doesn’t want me to move back to Abuja.”

“She’s right. What do you want to come and do in Abuja? You’re retired, for heaven’s sake.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t check on business.”

Business is Bani Hospital, owned by the family, run by our firstborn, Chika, who is doing a great job presently. But my father is a micromanager. Ever since he handed the reins of the hospital to Chika, he hasn’t let him breathe. We all agree that he should be in Lagos, enjoying his retirement with his wife in their quiet Lekki home, especially now that his health is not what it used to be. He suffers from sleep apnea and hypertension, and my brothers worry that they could lead to more serious health issues.

“Daddy, just stay in Lagos. By the way, are you using your CPAP machine?”

“Yes,” he lies. Two nights ago, my mom told me that he hardly uses the machine, which is supposed to treat his sleep apnea.

“Daddy, you need that machine to keep your airways open, so you can receive the oxygen you need while you sleep.”

“Yes, Doctor,” he teases, laughter in his tone. I give up – for now.

“Ada, today, you will make us proud,” he says. Then, there’s a pause. “I just want you to remember to enjoy the fruit of your labor…”

I know what’s coming next.

“A woman’s success is a beautiful garden. But a garden needs a keeper. A good husband is a good keeper.”

I sigh silently. This man and his obsession to push all his children into the best version of themselves–by his own standards. The script is always the same. Make you study what he wants in school, guide you into your career, and finally, choose the best partner for you. He did it with my siblings, and it worked, although Zulu is divorced now. I’m the only one who hasn’t tasted marriage yet. As proud of me as he is, he believes my life is incomplete without a husband. They say the only reason I’ve gotten away with not being married by now is because I’m his favorite. What they don’t know is that I’m scared shit of being a failure, and that’s why success is foremost on my mind. If marriage were my goal, I’d have gotten a husband a long time ago. Right now, I need a man whose financial and career goals match mine. I won’t work hard and have someone destroy my dreams in the name of marriage. I have no plans to marry for love. Not when everyone in my family is successful and living their best lives. I want what they want too, the accomplishments and all. I cannot fail the Nnadi name.

Very soon, Daddy. Very soon. 

But I say, “Daddy, please. I’m trying to build a botanical empire here. I don’t need a gardener. I need a bigger watering can.”

“Ada, do not joke. This is important. A woman needs a man. To come home to. To build a family with. Money is not everything.”

That’s not true, Daddy. You don’t know the pain of looking into the lives of the filthy rich from outside a window. You’re there, but you’re never invited in. Always an observer from the outside. No matter how much you package yourself, they smell your lack from afar.

“Maybe I’m not into men, Daddy.” I love to tease him.

“Kedu ihe i na-ekwu? What nonsense!”

I laugh. “Don’t worry about me, ancient man. I’m into millions of naira. It’s a very serious, committed relationship. I have to go, love you!”

I hang up. His love is a constant, but his expectations are tides I’m always swimming against. 

I dump the dishes in the sink, noting that the cold knot in my tummy hasn’t gone away. But now it’s joined by a flicker of defiance. This is my garden. And today, I’m going to show everyone just how well I can make it grow.

I head to my bedroom. 

I remember how the gig fell into my lap. My best friend, Fana, had invited me to a party, and quite casually, introduced me to the Minister of Interior.

“Oh, this is Yele,” she said, forgetting to add ‘Chief’ to his name. “His dad and mine did business together when we were younger. Know who he is, right?”

Who didn’t know who Chief Yele was? Fondly called the youngest Minister of Interior, the man was only thirty-six and carried himself with the kind of presence that made everyone else straighten in their chairs. His height, or lack of it, didn’t matter that evening. What struck me wasn’t his looks but the fact that he already radiated the easy entitlement of someone born to win. That, more than anything, caught my attention because entitlement is a language I know how to translate into opportunity.

“Yele, this is my bestie, Fana.”

He smiled, showing impeccable dentition, then offered his hand for a handshake. When I shook him, he held on a little longer. Fana noticed.

“Yele?” She looked at him, shaking her head. “She’s off limits.”

I laughed in my head. Yele was not my type, despite his looks. His money and connection, though. I could totally have a threesome with them. If it were about sleeping my way to the top, I would have been up there a long time ago. I’d already concluded that it was useless for any woman to use sex as a ladder to her dreams. My former boss, Imani, would claim that her vagina—which she fondly called ‘bagina’, to explain ‘securing the bag’—paved the way for her. But the truth is that she’s a Nepo Baby from an extremely wealthy family with old and new money. Working for her was bittersweet, as I enjoyed the brunt work of the job itself but hated the ethics than ran the business. As much as I was blessed to be her favorite, a bonus that came with travel perks and hotel stays, Imani put a limit to how much I could achieve. Our relationship was such that I could not grow beyond her shadow. To desire more, I had to bend to the rules. 

“There’s no way I’d be breaking my back with these men, and you think you’d be riding on my success. When you’re ready to play with the big girls, let me know, Deze.”

I was never ready, and I knew, long before she relocated out of Nigeria and I left her company, that I’d one day have my own thing and play by my rules. Chief Yele would not make me break my principles.

An entire month after I met him, my phone lit up with Imani’s name. She didn’t waste time on greetings.

“Where do you know Yele from?”

“A friend introduced us.”

“He’s my client.”

I almost laughed. He’d never been hers, at least not publicly. But Imani thrived on control. I believed the Barrett Brothers handled his events.

“Well, he wants to hire you,” she went on. “He called me to ask if you were competent. I told him you were. Not for your sake, but for mine. Don’t disgrace me.”

Typical Imani. But even her shade couldn’t dim the fact that Yele was choosing me. “He needs a fresh perspective for his gala. If you know you can’t handle it, pass it on to Atirola.”

I rolled my eyes. Atirola was my former colleague, now turned frenemy. She still worked with Imani’s company, Mani Fest Events. She was her little lapdog who did everything Imani wanted. Unfortunately, not even her back touching the ground has been enough to take her to the top. I see the frustration in her eyes whenever we come across each other. 

“Thank you, Imani. I won’t disappoint.”

“You’d better not.”

 The condescension was typical Imani. But it didn’t discourage me from walking into Chief Yele’s office and pitching the event to him, quoting a staggering ₦100 million fee without blinking. He had said nothing to me; just stared blankly. Leaving his office that day, I was certain that I wouldn’t get the job, but to my shock, they agreed without a single negotiation. Well, here we are, and I haven’t disappointed myself, my family and Imani–so far.

Entering my bedroom, I open the wardrobe. For the client-facing morning meeting, I choose my armor: a tailored fuchsia pantsuit that nips in at my waist and accentuates my hips, paired with gold-hoop earrings and stilettos that add three inches to my height and a thousand units to my confidence. Fana once told me that pink is a powerful color, and I never looked back since. I have closed enough deals by simply looking pink and expensive. Today, I look like I belong.

By the time I sweep into the vast event hall at the Transcorp Hilton, the air is already thick with the smell of fresh flowers and raw panic. Abebi—whip-smart, unflappable Yoruba girl with a tablet permanently fused to her hand (because she wants to look cliché)—falls into step beside me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my eyes already doing a perimeter scan.

“Florals are now ninety percent complete. Stage is set. Band sound check is in thirty.” She hesitates for a fraction of a second. “The… the ushering crew from the Minister’s office isn’t here yet. Neither is the secondary audio technician. Also from the Minister’s list.”

I stop walking. “What do you mean, not here?”

“And again, the souvenirs have not arrived.”

“Let me guess. The Minister’s vendors.”

“Yes, ma. And they’re not answering their phones, ma.”

A flash of pure irritation heats my blood. Of course. Three out of the four vendors from the Minister’s aide, that smug little man, had insisted on. “It’s them or no one, Ms. Nnadi. Protocol.” Protocol, my perfectly toned backside. They were probably his cousins, lazy and entitled. My own trusted team members were all here, setting up with military precision. 

I take a deep, controlled breath. “Okay. Get Femi from our audio team on standby. And call Chidi. I already asked him to get his ushers ready, just in case. He’s going to charge us double sha, but move. Now.”

I don’t wait for her response. I head straight to the hotel suite I’ve commandeered as my war room. Abebi follows, reciting a list of a dozen other minor crises. I kick off my killer heels, shimmy out of the expensive outfit, and pull on my actual battle armor: a branded Daze Events t-shirt and a pair of jeans that have seen more disasters than an ER doctor. This is where the real work happens.

I’m already pulling out my personal laptop, opening a separate folder. Imani’s first and only good lesson: Always have a Plan B that they don’t see coming. The Minister’s office had insisted on their vendors, but I’d quietly gotten quotes from my own trusted contacts anyway. I’d even penciled them into a backup schedule. It is an extra fifteen million naira of my own potential profit which I’ve had to earmark, a silent insurance policy against this exact kind of nonsense.

Hours blur into shouted commands, solved problems, and expertly deployed smiles. The missing vendors do not show up, and somehow, I understand that this is how business is done in this side of the world where corruption reigns supreme. Another lesson I learned from Imani. This is why she charged her clients exorbitantly.

But finally, it happens. The lights dip. The band plays and the guests began to troop in. One more hour breezes through and Chief Yele, Honorable Minister of Interior, walks on stage to a roar of applause, beaming like my hard work was all his doing. The room is perfect, and his speech is a hit. He catches my eye from across the room and gives me a slight, impressed nod. The feeling that shoots through me is better than champagne. It’s victory.

***

It’s over. The last of the guests have trickled out, leaving behind the quiet wreckage of a successful event, which my staff members are packing up. I’m sat before a table, just letting it all settle. The silence is a physical relief. I did it. I’m here. I’m a boss. But my heart won’t keep still. Was all I did today worth it?

POP!

The sound is like a gunshot in the hollowed-out hall. I jump, my heart leaping into my throat.

“Do you want to run?” a familiar voice asks. 

I spin around. Fana is standing behind me, holding a champagne bottle that is quietly fizzling out.

“Fanasiba, don’t scare me like that again, biko.”

She laughs. “You look like you need this.”

“Oh, I’ve had enough of that,” I tell her, referring to the seven or eight champagne glasses I snatched off passing servers earlier. I stare at her, at her little, white dress that brings out the richness of her dark skin. She looks like she just walked out of a fashion studio. “Wait… When did you get into town?”

“Five hours ago, and I came right here.”

“You were here the whole time, and you didn’t say hi?”

“And interrupt a master at work? Never. I just watched you run a small nation for five hours. I’m proud of you, mate.” She hands me the bottle. “Now drink. You’ve earned it.”

I take a mouthful, and the bubbles go straight to my head. “The gala was good, right? It was actually good.”

“It was legendary,” she corrects, sitting beside me. Her perfume wraps around us like silk, warm and floral, with a hint of spice that makes me close my eyes for a second, just to hold it in a little longer. Fanasiba is the reason I smell like a memory that people wish they could bottle. She taught me all about fragrances.

An idea hits me. A brilliant, tipsy idea.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the stage. I march up to the band, who are packing up. “Gentlemen! One more song. For me. For her.” I point at a now-protesting Fana.

The bandleader smiles, picks up his guitar. 

“Sing something that is going to make me dance.”

“What song?” she asks.

“You know the one!” I raise both hands in the air. “You know the one, babe!”

Fana smiles. There was a time she didn’t like to sing, when her failing marriage almost stole her voice. I’m so glad she’s crawling back to the things she loves to do.

I watch her whisper something to the bandleader, who, in turn, communicates with his team. Soon, he starts playing the intro strings to Olamide’s Eleda mi.

“Hayyyy!” I throw my hands into the air, making Fana laugh through the first line of the song as she begins to sing.

Yes, I’m the crazy friend, the life of the party, the one everyone wants in their corner. Fana is the quiet one but the one that gives me joy. Her voice is pure, clear magic, filling the empty space.

And I dance. Right there on the stage, under the ghost of the glittering lights of my own triumph, I dance. I sway, I spin, I throw my head back and laugh, tipsy on success and expensive champagne. But I feel that unsettling flutter in my heart that still won’t go away. I want to shout so loud that I have earned this, that I deserve to be here.

“Yes!” I yell and Fana laughs.

Yes, the world is my garden and it’s golden, and it is all mine.