The shift from the air-conditioned quiet of Ada's car to the site was like stepping into a furnace of pure energy. The party wasn't just an event; it was a live, breathing creature.
Stepping onto the red carpet of the event center, Ada was immediately enveloped by the heat, a thick, humid mix of expensive designer perfumes, the charcoal smell of party-fire Jollof, and the sheer atmospheric pressure of five hundred people determined to enjoy themselves. The buzz from outside effortlessly merged into the pulsing energy inside.
The Sound of Status. The live band was already in full swing. The talking drum was the heartbeat of the room, a rhythmic gan-gan that didn't just hit the ears; it vibrated in the marrow of Ada's bones. "The Golden Girl has come! Emerald Queen! Ada, the one who walks and the ground bows!" The lead singer had spotted her. It was his job to know every face, every name, and every social rank. As the praise-singing washed over her, Ada felt a thrill that no business "Employee of the Month" award could ever provide. She opened her clutch, pulled out a crisp pile of notes, and moved toward the stage. Each note she pressed onto the singer's forehead was a middle finger to the charts she had left behind.
With the music echoing in her ears, Ada made her way to her table. The hall was a sea of emerald lace, the Aso-ebi creating a shimmering green wave that moved as people rocked in their places.
She saw them before they saw her: her "friends" from the corporate world, the ones who had whispered that she was "brave" (which was code for "reckless") to skip the strategy session. They were huddled at a table near the back, their Gele ties slightly uneven, their faces still holding the gray pallor of the office.
Ada didn't just walk past them; she glided. "Ada?" Titi, a senior analyst known for her constant scowl, gasped as Ada neared. "You actually came? But the director asked, "The director asked for a plan," Ada interrupted, her voice smooth as chilled palm wine. She leaned in, the gold of her earrings catching the disco lights. "And my strategy was simple, Joy."
She didn't wait for an answer. She took her seat at the "High Table" reserved for family and close friends, feeling the eyes of her colleagues burning into her back. For the first time in years, she no longer cared about office politics. She was now in a different jurisdiction—the jurisdiction of the Owambe.
The Feast of Senses
Then came the food. A waiter in a crisp white shirt appeared, bringing a pottery plate that was a work of art.
The Jollof rice was a deep, bold orange, stained by woodsmoke and habaneros. Beside it sat a massive piece of fried croaker fish, covered in a sauce of onions and red bell peppers. As Ada took the first bite, the spice exploded on her tongue—a sharp, stinging heat that made her reach for her cold glass of Chapman.
The taste was "real life." It was the opposite of the soggy sandwiches and cold coffee she usually drank at her desk. Every bite felt like she was recovering a piece of her history that the 9 to 5 grind had tried to bleach out of her.
The Midnight Shift
As the sun began to set outside, the lighting in the hall changed to a deep, dark purple. The "official" part of the party was over; now started the "after party."
Ada stood up, her green lace heavy and beautiful. She moved to the center of the dance floor. Around her, the aunties were swinging their hips with an ease that defied their age, and the younger guys were showing off footwork that looked like a high-speed chat with the floor.
In the middle of the crowd, under the spinning crystal lights, Ada closed her eyes. She danced not for the cameras, not for the praise-singers, and certainly not for her boss. She danced because her chest was still roomy. She danced because the "knot" hadn't returned.
She was no longer Ada the Analyst. She was Ada, the woman in the green lace, the woman who had traded a Saturday of stress for a lifetime of memory.