It’s 8pm on a Friday. Weekend vibes are calling, and I’m like… what do I do? I grabbed my phone, called my friends, invited them for a night drive, everyone said yes, and soon we hit the road.
Annabelle, in the passenger seat, is the DJ of the group, rocking to Tate McRae in the car. Sonia, sitting behind me, has her head out the car window, tongue out, probably in her own zone. Alex, our gay bestie, is updating us on the latest gossip while taking selfies with Tonia, the cutie of the group and an Instagram die-hard. And then me—the driver—speeding through the roads of Lagos, windows down, matching the car’s rhythm to the beat.
After 40 minutes of cruising Ikoyi, Lekki, and Ikate, causing a little nuisance, and daring each other to make guys wind down and say hi, Alex, the daredevil, says: “Let’s hit the clubs.” Everyone’s in.
First stop: a pub. Cocktails in front of us, we planned our night within our budget. Then a quick roadside “bend down select” for some heels and shoes for Alex.
Next stop: club time!
12am. At the club entrance, we each down a shot. Straight to the bar, another round of shots. Everyone drinks in their unique way. Seven shots later, we hit the dance floor, Alex on the pole, Annabelle searching for her phone that’s in her back pocket, Sonia… missing, and Tonia already perched at a high table with some guys. “How does she do that?” I ask.
2am. We finally gather around Tonia with the guys. Nine more shots each. Now we’re madder than before.
3:30am. Dragging ourselves outside, we start counting ourselves, and miscounting, because each person forgets to count themselves. Five people are missing. Totally drunk, we call a ride. Somehow, we end up in front of a hotel. Tonia opens her bag to a pool of dollars and pays, apparently the guys she hung out with at the high table gave her dollars to spray some strippers and she kept it. Luxury room, full account, hotel paid, artists who randomly show up… no clue who called them.
Inside, tattoo artists appear. They hand us gin, we numb the pain, and they start drawing our zodiac signs. Most of us forgot our birthdays, so the arguing begins. To be safe, the artist asks for IDs, thankfully, we got them right the first time but not the second or third.
Did we pay? I honestly don’t know. We wake up with headaches, sore bodies, but somehow, everything’s accounted for, hotel paid, artists handled with some dollars remaining and barely spent from our account. Well… I guess we just cute 😉
Maybe next time we hit the Balenciaga store 😏
