From shadows to light

Chapter 3: THE CULTURAL GALA

The aso-oke itched.

Eman stood in front of the cracked attic mirror and barely recognized herself.

The gele was tied too tight. The iro hugged her waist. The buba glittered with beads that caught the light and threw it back at her.

It wasn’t her. It was Aunty Sikirat’s idea of "fitting in."

"Don’t you look presentable?" Aunty purred from the doorway, arms crossed.

She was in wine-red aso-oke, gele sitting like a crown. "Tonight, you’ll meet important people. The Alades will be there.

The Adeyemis. Donors. Try not to embarrass us."

Translation: Don’t speak. Don’t breathe. Be invisible. Be grateful we let you come.

"I don’t want to go," Eman whispered. Her voice was barely there. "I have work in the morning."

"But you are," Aunty said, adjusting Eman’s gele with fingers that pinched. "The world won’t wait for you to catch up, Eman.

And neither will I. Now smile. We’re representing the family."

The car ride was a blur of London lights. Rain on the windows. Aunty and Zainab talking about who was wearing what,

who got married, who "fell off."

Zainab leaned over. "Don’t stand near me, okay? You’ll ruin my pictures."

Eman nodded and stared at her hands. At the charcoal stains under her nails that no amount of scrubbing could get out.

The venue was worse.

The Yoruba Cultural Centre in Southwark had been transformed.

String lights draped from the ceiling like stars. Ankara drapes on the walls.

The smell of jollof, suya, and small chops filled the air.

Chandeliers. Gold plates. Laughter that sounded like knives.

People in agbada and iro. Men with walking sticks. Women with gele stacked high.

This was where money lived. Where names mattered.

Eman slipped in and immediately hid behind a giant potted palm and a display of adire fabric.

She counted the seconds until she could leave.

Across town, Ammar straightened his cufflinks in the back of his father's Bentley.

Another gala. Another round of "meet eligible daughters."

His mother’s voice echoed in his head: Prestige, Ammar. Remember the name.

He wore navy agbada. Simple. No embroidery. He hated the loud ones.

He’d rather be in his studio with paint under his nails.

"Breathe," he told himself as the driver opened the door. "One hour. Shake hands. Then you can leave."

He walked in.

The room was too loud. Too bright.

And then he saw her.

She was half-hidden behind the palm tree. Yellow aso-oke. Gele slipping a little like she’d done it herself.

She wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t networking.

She was watching the room like it might bite her.

She looked like she was plotting an escape.

Ammar felt something in his chest shift.

He broke away from the group of aunties trying to introduce him to Zainab Adeyemi and walked straight to her.

"Hey," he said, voice low so only she could hear. "You look like you’re plotting an escape."

Eman looked up. Startled.

Up close he was worse. Tall. Dark. Beard lined. Eyes that looked tired but kind.

She swallowed. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to another escape artist." He leaned against the palm beside her, hands in his pockets.

The aunties were staring. He didn’t care. "I’m Ammar. What’s a girl like you doing at a party like this?"

Eman’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "My aunty has a flair for drama."

Ammar grinned. It was real. It reached his eyes. "Ah. The strict aunty trope. Classic. I know it well."

For 5 minutes, the world disappeared.

He asked about the charcoal on her fingers. She lied and said "art class."

He told her he hated these events too. She almost believed him.

He smelled like sandalwood and paint.

Then Aunty Sikirat’s voice sliced through the music: "EMAN! NOW."

Eman flinched like she’d been hit.

When she looked back, Ammar was already being pulled away by his mother.

Mama Alade had her hand on his arm, smiling too wide at Zainab.

But Ammar looked back once.

Right at Eman.

And that one look changed everything.

Because for the first time in 3 years, someone in this room had actually seen her.