Chapter Four: The Performance
1210 Words
Zara Okafor-Briggs
Victoria Island, Lagos
6:18 p.m.
There is a particular kind of exhaustion that sleep cannot fix.
I discover that today.
It isn't physical.
It is the exhaustion of being watched.
Three days.
Three days since I landed in Lagos.
Three days since I met Emeka Adeyemi.
Three days since my life stopped belonging entirely to me.
Now I stand inside one of Victoria Island's most exclusive private clubs, surrounded by crystal chandeliers, expensive perfume, and people pretending this is a celebration instead of a transaction.
Everything gleams.
Gold accents.
White roses.
Champagne glasses.
Perfectly dressed people.
Even the air smells expensive.
My mother adjusts the sleeve of my cream silk dress.
"Stand tall."
I suppress a sigh.
"I'm an architect, not a statue."
Her lips twitch slightly.
The closest she has come to smiling all day.
"Tonight, you're both."
Wonderful.
I look around.
Politicians.
Business executives.
Socialites.
Investors.
People who have built entire lives out of being invited into rooms exactly like this one.
At the far end of the room stands Emeka.
He's speaking to three older men.
One says something.
The others laugh.
Emeka smiles.
Not broadly.
Just enough.
Perfectly calibrated.
It's unsettling.
Because it's convincing.
Too convincing.
I watch him shake hands.
Listen.
Respond.
He gives everyone exactly the amount of attention required.
No more.
No less.
He moves through people the way water moves around stone.
Effortlessly.
One of the men notices me.
"Miss Okafor-Briggs."
Immediately.
Emeka turns.
And something happens.
His expression changes.
Not dramatically.
Subtly.
His face softens.
His eyes warm slightly.
The transformation is astonishing.
If I didn't know better, I would think he was happy to see me.
He walks over.
"Good evening."
"Good evening."
Then he offers his arm.
Every photographer in the room suddenly becomes interested.
I stare at his arm for half a second.
Then take it.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
The cameras begin.
He leans closer.
His voice low enough for only me to hear.
"Smile."
I do.
Because what else am I supposed to do?
"You've done this before," I murmur.
"Many times."
"I can tell."
He glances down at me briefly.
Then another smile for the cameras.
"So can I."
I almost laugh.
Almost.
Then another flash erupts.
The host approaches the stage.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen."
Applause.
"Tonight, we celebrate a historic union."
Historic.
That's one word for it.
"...a new chapter between two extraordinary families."
Another round of applause.
I remain still.
Smile.
Nod.
Pose.
It is amazing how much energy pretending requires.
People congratulate us.
People shake our hands.
People tell us we're beautiful together.
As if beauty is evidence of compatibility.
As if photographs prove happiness.
A woman I vaguely recognize says, "You're such a lovely couple."
I say thank you.
Emeka says thank you.
Then she leaves.
His face resets instantly.
Gone.
The warmth.
The charm.
The softness.
Everything.
Like someone switched off a light.
Then another guest approaches.
Immediately, it returns.
Effortless.
Perfect.
Again.
And again.
And again.
By the fourth time, I find it deeply unsettling.
I almost preferred the cold version.
At least that one felt honest.
The press portion begins.
Wonderful.
Reporters gather.
Microphones appear.
Cameras adjust.
Questions start flying.
"Mr. Adeyemi, how does this alliance symbolize a new era?"
Alliance.
Interesting choice of words.
Emeka answers smoothly.
"Our families are choosing progress over division."
Easy.
Elegant.
Believable.
Another question.
"Miss Okafor-Briggs, how has the transition from London been?"
"Unexpected."
A few people laugh.
Good.
Let them.
Another reporter smiles.
"And yet here you are."
"Here I am."
More laughter.
Then someone asks the question.
The inevitable one.
"Miss Okafor-Briggs..."
She smiles warmly.
"How did you know he was the one?"
The room quiets.
I look at her.
Then at him.
Then back at her.
A thousand possible answers exist.
I choose carefully.
"I knew because..." I begin.
"...he was impossible to ignore."
Technically true.
The room loves it.
Laughter.
Smiles.
Someone says, "How romantic."
I continue.
"And sometimes life places someone in front of you whether you're ready or not."
More smiles.
More applause.
Perfect.
Everyone hears romance.
I hear inevitability.
Very different things.
I turn my head.
Emeka is already looking at me.
No expression.
Just observation.
Interesting.
The interview continues.
More questions.
More performance.
Eventually, the cameras leave.
The room exhales collectively.
People disperse toward cocktails and conversations.
I head toward the terrace for air.
And, unsurprisingly, he appears a minute later.
He stands beside me.
Not too close.
Not too far.
The city glows around us.
Lagos at night.
Alive.
Beautiful.
Relentless.
Then he says quietly:
"Impossible to ignore."
I glance sideways.
There it is.
My answer.
Repeated exactly.
I wait.
He continues.
"And life places someone in front of you whether you're ready or not."
I stare at him.
His face reveals nothing.
Nothing.
I narrow my eyes.
"Are you mocking me?"
"No."
A beat.
"Should I be?"
I exhale through my nose.
Dark amusement flickers briefly.
"You're impossible."
He nods once.
"As established."
I almost smile.
Almost.
Then I stop myself.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
"You enjoyed this."
His gaze remains on the city.
"The event?"
"The performance."
He considers it.
Then answers.
"I understand its purpose."
Which isn't an answer.
I notice that immediately.
"You do that often."
"Do what?"
"Answer questions without answering them."
He finally looks at me.
Then says something that annoyingly resembles honesty.
"Usually because people aren't asking the real question."
I stare at him.
He stares back.
For a moment, the world quiets.
Then someone calls his name.
He leaves.
Just like that.
Back to the crowd.
Back to the role.
Back to perfection.
I remain outside for another minute.
Then head back inside.
Near one of the side corridors, I stop.
Voices.
Low voices.
Familiar voices.
I recognize one immediately.
My father's.
The second belongs to Chief Dominic Adeyemi.
I wasn't trying to eavesdrop.
I truly wasn't.
Then I hear her name.
Adaeze.
I freeze.
"...she left us no choice."
That's my father.
Then Dominic says, "...it could have been much worse."
My heartbeat slows.
Something cold crawls down my spine.
My father lowers his voice.
I move slightly closer.
"...if the press had discovered where she went..."
I stop breathing.
What?
"...or who she went with."
My stomach drops.
Then Dominic says quietly:
"At least Zara knows nothing."
Everything inside me stills.
Nothing.
About what?
My father's voice hardens.
"And she must continue knowing nothing."
Silence.
Then Dominic says something I almost don't hear.
"If Adaeze ever comes back..."
A server walks between us carrying champagne.
The sentence disappears.
The voices lower further.
I can't hear anything else.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
I stand perfectly still.
Every assumption I've carried for three days begins to fracture.
This wasn't a simple substitution.
This wasn't a scheduling change.
This wasn't some business inconvenience.
Something happened.
Something serious.
Something big enough to hide.
Big enough to involve my sister disappearing.
Big enough to involve secrecy.
Big enough for both families to agree never to tell me.
I take one slow step backward.
Then another.
My chest tightens.
Because for the first time since this arrangement began...
I realize something terrifying.
I may not actually know what I have been dragged into.
At all.
- Writer
