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CHAPTER TWO.

Kemfon was in a foul mood.

One of her junior workers stood nervously before her, wringing her hands and stammering an apology. She had damaged the top of Kemfon’s expensive sewing machine with a hot iron—an unforgivable sin in the fashion house.

“I’m really sorry, ma. It was a mistake. I didn’t know the iron was still plugged in—”

“Are you hearing yourself?” Kemfon cut in sharply. “Do you realize how much that machine costs?”

The poor girl bowed her head, mumbling more apologies, her voice barely above a whisper.

The day had been filled with cutting, stitching, fittings, client calls, and rushing multiple orders before their deadlines. The studio buzzed with activity—snippets of fabric on the floor, the hum of machines, tailors bent over tables, and stylists measuring mannequins. It was everything Kemfon had dreamed of when she started out, yet today, everything grated on her nerves.

Having grown up admiring her mother’s flair for dressing, especially how the older woman styled her wrappers and bold accessories, Kemfon had developed a genuine passion for fashion design from an early age. But it had been a lonely, rebellious kind of passion, one she’d had to nurture quietly.

Despite earning degrees in accounting—first a BSc and then an MSc—to please her mother, she eventually took the leap to pursue fashion full-time. It wasn’t easy. She started small: sketching for hours, sourcing fabrics from Lagos markets, sewing until her fingers ached. But her gift couldn’t stay hidden for long. Word spread. Clients came from across the country and even abroad—brides, celebrities, diplomats’ wives, and socialites all wanted a piece of her style magic.

Even though her mother disapproved of her career choice and often mocked “tailoring” as a business for dropouts, she still subtly supported her. She supplied her with expensive fabrics from her numerous business connections—lace from Austria, silk from Dubai, aso-oke from Iseyin. It was the only way her mother knew how to love.

“Olama,” Kemfon called sharply, interrupting her own thoughts. “Why is this outfit so sparsely beaded? Did you borrow beads? I need this heavily beaded. The bride asked for luxury.”

“We’ll add more beads, ma,” her manager quickly assured her, coming forward to take a closer look.

Kemfon sighed. There was always something. Either the seam was crooked or the embellishments were off. She wasn’t a perfectionist by choice—it was a necessity. One mistake could cost her reputation.

“Shalewa,” she barked suddenly. “Where’s my lunch?”

“I left it on your desk, ma,” Shalewa responded timidly from the back.

Kemfon walked briskly to her small office within the studio and uncovered the plate of food. Her mood was already sour, and the hunger only made things worse. She sat heavily and emptied a spoonful of food into her mouth.

Her face contorted in a frown. “Why is it so hot?” she whined, looking around like the food had personally offended her.

Her staff snorted quietly. Hot meals were the norm, especially when ordered from the buka down the street. Kemfon shot the staff a cold look.

“What’s funny?” she asked, her voice low but dangerous.

“I’m sorry, ma,” the young woman said immediately, scurrying away like a rat avoiding a trap.

Just then, her office door burst open without warning.

“Oh God! I came at the right time,” Seima’s loud voice filled the room as she made her way straight to the food like a heat-seeking missile.

She didn’t wait to be invited—she rarely did. Pulling a chair, she scooped a spoonful into her mouth with a pleased groan. “Mm! Na here the party dey!”

Kemfon sighed and shook her head. “Ever heard of ‘knock knock’?” she asked, feigning irritation.

“What’s that?” Seima replied with a shrug, speaking through a mouthful of food.

“Simple good manners, ma’am,” Kemfon answered, rolling her eyes.

“Whatever!” Seima waved it off with her spoon. “Anyway, today is Friday, and we’ve got a party to attend tonight.”

“You and who?” Kemfon asked, clearly startled.

“You and me, obviously,” Seima declared like it was common knowledge. “Aunty, you must go out. I don’t care if you fall sick. This weekend, you’re going out to a social gathering. Even if I have to drag you there myself.”

Kemfon opened her mouth to protest but Seima didn’t give her a chance.

“You’ve been hiding in this shop since January. It’s now June, and I’ve only seen you in lipstick once. That’s unacceptable.”

“I have work to do,” Kemfon protested weakly, pointing toward the chaos unfolding in her workroom.

The thought of being in a crowd, making small talk, pretending to enjoy loud music, and sweating under club lights gave her goosebumps. Not the good kind.

“You have a capable manager,” Seima said, gesturing toward Olama, who was already correcting the beading issue. “From what I’ve seen, your supervision is done for today. You’ve got no excuse. You are going out tonight.”

She poked Kemfon in the chest for emphasis, her finger jabbing dramatically like she was sealing a sacred pact.

Kemfon groaned inwardly. Her stomach twisted—not from the spicy food but from the rising anxiety. She could already feel the tension building in her shoulders.

She could almost hear the blaring music, feel the strobe lights, smell the perfume-clouded air. Parties weren’t her scene. Never had been. But with Seima, protests rarely worked.

And somewhere—deep, deep down—maybe a small, hidden part of her wanted to step outside her comfort zone. Maybe.