Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Nigeria, the African Giant, the home ofAfrobeats, and of course Lagos, its largest city, a vibrant megacity with a diverse population. Known for its vibrant nightlife, art, music, and festivals, making it afocal point for creativity and innovation in Africa.
The party didn't start inside the house. It started from the street.
Cars clogged the streets; Lagos traffic rules were basically nonexistent at this point. Engines idled, horns blared for no reason, and headlights cut through the cigarette smoke and dust. Someone had parked sideways. Someone else was arguing with some random stranger. The gate wide open drawing attention.
Music was spilling out; Afrobeats was on full blast. Not background music. Real music. The type of music whose beats made everyone crazy with dancing fever.
Inside, the house was packed beyond capacity. People everywhere—on the stairs, on the couches, on the balcony, on the floor. Red cups littered every flat surface. Bottles sweated in the heat and were passed around. Someone popped a drink foam, spilling it everywhere, but who cared? They were all having the time of their lives.
The air was hot. Lagos...hot. Not just temperature but also humanheat, the kind of heat common in Lagos, heat from people who were partying like never before.
Sweat mixed with perfume. Cologne fought with the smell of cigarettes. Laughter bursting out randomly. The DJ somewhere in the room was shouting through the microphone and hyping the party. The beat switched, the room exploded, and everybody was screaming lyrics, jumping, pushing, and spilling drinks, not caring.
Bodies moving like electricity.
Someone climbed onto a chair, removed clothes, and waved up into the air, screaming loudly. Phones were up, cameras flashing. Girls danced like tomorrow didn't exist, rocking boys and them in the heat of the moment, shouting nonsense, spraying money in the air, and having fun like tomorrow didn't exist.
Outside by the pool, it was worse.
Shoes abandoned. Shirts missing. People leaned over railings, laughed too hard, and nearly dropped their phones into the water. The pool lights glowed blue, reflecting the euphoria in the air. Music echoed off the walls, bouncing back louder and deeper.
In the crowd, drinks kept coming. Whiskey. Vodka. Beer. Cups were refilled, and people continued getting wasted.
This was Lagos. Unfiltered, wild, and excessive.
Time was nonexistent here.
The night felt endless, and even though the party visibly was a city violation itself, this was Lagos at its finest, and the night was alive.
Then the phone vibrated.
Once. Twice. Again.
At first, it was swallowed by the music. The bass was too heavy, and the noise was too loud. But the phone kept on vibrating; it was persistent and out of place. A quick look at the screen showed Pops...with one message tagged urgent: come homenow.
Stepping away from the speakers felt like leaving another world. The party was still raging behind him, music blasting, laughter spilling.
And the night, for the first time that day, came to an end.
He didn't bother saying goodbye.
Music still thumped behind him as he pushed through bodies and flashing lights out into the humid Lagos night. The air outside felt quiet and somewhat peaceful.
The car was already waiting.
Dark-tinted windows. Engine running. The driver was leaning casually against the door, smoking a cigarette like it was all normal. The door opened smoothly, the world shrank into the car leather seats, low music hummed softly from the speakers, the cigarette was put out, and the driver climbed in the car.
The door shut.
Just like that, the party was gone.
As the car pulled away, streetlights were streaking, night vendors were still shouting, and the city was refusing to sleep. He leaned back, unbothered, shirt unbuttoned, phone tossed aside on the leather seats.
He smiled to himself, relaxed and confident. Money, freedom, brains, and charm—he had it all. A proper Yoruba demon.
**Narrator's POV**
A proper Yoruba demon.
That's what they called him. His name was Oba, a natural-born king. Oba, like every other rich Nigerian wealthy second-generation heir, loved having fun, and being born in Lagos didn't make that any better—the central hub of fun—but unlike other Nigerian second-generation heirs, Oba didn't waste his family money to have fun. You see, Oba is what we call a prodigy, a financial one, I should say, a self-made multi-millionaire and the sole heir to the Adebiyi family fortune. The Adebiyi family, Africa's richest and most influential family, is deeply entrenched in the nation's politics and decision-making.
The car rolled to a stop.
Oba stepped out, phone in hand, jacket tossed over his shoulder. The house stood silent, lights still on.
Inside, voices carried from the living room.
"Look at the time."
He walked in.
Naomi Adebiyi, his mother's eyes moved first to his shirt, then to his face. His father, Akin Adebiyi, didn't look up immediately. He finished adjusting his cufflinks.
"The party went well?" his father asked.
Oba shrugged. "Of course it went well; it's Lagos after all."
A pause.
"This is the third party this month," his mother said.
"And the third time your name trended," his father added, finally meeting his eyes.
Oba dropped onto the couch. "People like watching."
"They like talking more," his father replied. "Especially when they're bored. Or jealous."
Silence settled again.
"Oba, you're visible," his mother said. "Too visible."
Oba exhaled through his nose. "I'm not hiding, Mum; I never was."
"We're not asking you to," his father said. "We're asking you to move."
That got his attention.
His father stood, walking toward the window. "Nigeria is… sensitive right now. Influence attracts curiosity. Curiosity attracts problems."
"And Lagos," his mother added softly, "is very small for a name like the Adebiyis'."
She slid a folder across the table.
Seoul National University.
Oba glanced at it, then back at them. "Korea?"
"Elite," his father said. "International. Quiet. Powerful."
"You'll meet people just like you, same class, important family names," his mother continued. "People who think like you."
"And you'll be safer," his father finished. "Far from all the local politics. Far from every unnecessary noise."
Oba leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
Seoul.
Different language. Different people. Different game.
A slow smile tugged at his lips.
"When do I leave?"
His mother met his eyes.
"Tomorrow morning."
That wiped the smile off his face.
"Already packed," she added, standing. "You'll sleep on the plane."
Oba chuckled under his breath. "Of course I will."
************************************************************************************************************************************************
The engines hummed softly.
Expensive leather seats. Dim lighting. A glass of some expensive liquid rested untouched beside him.
Lagos was already shrinking beneath the clouds.
Oba leaned back, fingers drumming lazily against the armrest as the private jet cut through the night sky.
A new city awaited him on the other side of the world.
He stared out the window, watching the lights disappear, expression unreadable.
He couldn't help but chuckle; after all, his entire situation, somehow, felt interesting.