The party had reached that fever pitch where the air itself felt expensive. The spray of money had become a storm; the floor was literally covered in crisp notes, and the smell of expensive cognac began to overtake the scent of the jollof. Ada was in the thick of it, her green gele tilted at a daring, elegant angle, her laughter ringing louder than the talking drums.
Then, the mood at the entrance changed.
It wasn't the coming of a star or a usual ruler. It was a cold pocket of air entering a warm room. The heavy double doors swung open, and standing there, looking like a smudge of charcoal on a colorful painting, was Mr. Williams.
The Collision
Mr. Williams was the Director of Operations—a man who wore clothes as stiff as his personality and viewed "work-life balance" as a myth told by the lazy. He wasn't dressed for an Owambe. He was still in his charcoal-gray office pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking like he had just crawled out of the "strategy session" Ada had ghosted.
The music didn't stop, but for Ada, the world went briefly quiet.
He scanned the room with a scowl that looked out of place amidst the glitz, and then his eyes locked onto hers. He didn't see a "Golden Girl" or an "Emerald Queen." He saw an insubordinate employee who had ignored three of his "Urgent" Slack messages.
He began to move through the dancers, his stiff gait clashing with the fluid beat of the room. He reached her table just as the band started a new, faster pace.
The Confrontation, "Ada, he said, his voice trying to be heard over the drums. He didn't look at the food or the fashion; he looked at his watch. "I've been trying to reach you since 2:00 PM. We have a problem with the Portfolio account. I expected you to be on the call."
The "knot" in Ada's chest tried to tighten. It gave a small, familiar tug, a ghost of the old worry. But the weight of the green lace and the warmth of the palm wine worked as a shield.
Ada didn't run for her phone. She didn't offer a shaky excuse. Instead, she took a slow, deliberate sip of her drink, set it down on the lace-covered table, and looked him in the eye. "Mr. Williams," she said, her voice holding a fresh authority. "You are standing in the middle of a 60th birthday party. This is a space of joy. There are no portfolios here."
"This is about your career, Ada," he hissed, leaning in. "The team is at the office. We are working. You are... dancing."
The Turning Point
A few of Ada's friends from the "back table" had drifted over, watching the conversation with wide, terrified eyes. They expected Ada to fall. They expected her to apologize and follow him out like a scolded kid.
But Ada felt the beat of the drum beneath her feet. She realized that Mr. Williams looked small. In this hall of giants, of elders who had lived through wars and weddings, of women who had built empires from market stalls, this man with his "urgent emails" looked utterly insignificant. "I am not just dancing, sir," Ada said, standing up to her full height, the gold embroidery on her shoulder gleaming under the purple lights. "I am living. And if my career cannot survive one Saturday of life, then perhaps I am in the wrong job."
She turned to the lead singer, who was watching the drama with keen interest. Ada signaled him. "Oga Director! Welcome!" the singer shouted into the microphone, the speakers howling. "Special welcome for the man who works too hard! Let him dance! Let him spray!"
The crowd began to cheer, pushing Mr. Williams toward the center of the floor. A group of aunties, shimmering in their own lace, circled him, clapping their hands and singing about the vanity of wealth without rest. Mr. Williams, stuck in a sea of green and gold, looked paralyzed—a man who had forgotten how to move to a beat.
Ada didn't stay to watch him suffer. She turned her back on him, walked to the far end of the hall where the air was cooler, and stepped out onto the balcony.
The night air was sweet. Behind her, she could hear her boss being swallowed by the music. She realized she wasn't afraid of Monday anymore. Whether she went back to that building or never put foot in it again, the victory was complete.
The "knot" was gone for good.