CHAPTER 7: THE RIVAL GALA
800 Words
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We had 5 days. 200 million naira. And zero vendors.
By day 2, Mrs. Cole had called every event planner, caterer, and DJ in Port Harcourt.
“Don’t work with her, or you’re blacklisted from Cole events forever.”
My phone was full of “Sorry, Tasha” texts.
Damien threw his pen across the office. Well, _my_ office.
We’d turned the back room of Nice’s Haven into HQ.
Whiteboards. Timelines. Coffee cups everywhere.
“They can’t do this,” he said. “It’s illegal.”
“It’s Nigeria,” I said, tired. “They can do anything.”
The doorbell rang.
Amaka. With 3 big bags of suya and pure water.
And behind her... 10 people.
Interior designers. Dancers. A DJ. A baker.
All from Mile 1. All from GRA. All small businesses.
“We saw the livestream,” Amaka said, dropping the suya.
“You stood up for us. Now we stand up for you.”
One woman stepped forward. Mama Ngozi. She owned the biggest catering company in Rumuola.
“Mrs. Cole called me too. Told me not to feed ‘the gold digger.’”
She smiled. “So I told her my jollof is not for sale to wicked people.”
I cried. Right there.
Damien put his arm around me.
In 48 hours, we had a venue.
Not a 5-star hotel. A rooftop in GRA. String lights. Pallet furniture.
Real. Honest. Ours.
“We’re calling it,” I said, writing on the whiteboard.
*“THE HAVEN GALA: For Those Who Were Told No”*
Damien nodded. “Theme?”
“New Beginnings,” I said. “White and gold. Like the ring.”
He looked at me. “Like us.”
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Day 4. 24 hours to go.
Invitations went out. Not to senators. Not to CEOs.
To teachers. To nurses. To tailors. To the people Mrs. Cole forgot.
RSVPs started coming in. 100. 300. 800.
#TheHavenGala was trending.
Then Chloe showed up.
At 9pm. With a camera crew.
“This is a private event,” Damien said, blocking the door.
Chloe smiled. “It’s a public rooftop. And I’m here as press.”
She looked past him. At me. “Cute. Very... Mile 1 chic.”
“What do you want, Chloe?” I asked.
“To give you a warning.” She held up her phone.
Played a video.
Mrs. Cole. In a boardroom.
“By tomorrow night, that girl will be begging to leave Port Harcourt.
I own the Mayor. I own the police. I own the story.”
The video ended.
Chloe put her phone away. “My dad is friends with the Mayor.
If Mrs. Cole says shut it down... they will.”
She turned to leave. Then stopped.
“For what it’s worth. I didn’t leak the elevator video.
That was her.”
She walked out.
Damien and I looked at each other.
“Can she do that?” I whispered.
“She can try,” Damien said. Then he pulled out his phone.
Made one call.
“Dad’s lawyer. File an injunction. Now.
And call the Commissioner. Tell him I’m about to make a very large donation to the police welfare fund.”
He hung up. Looked at me.
“They won’t shut us down, Tasha. Not tonight.”
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Gala Day.
5pm. The rooftop was glowing.
800 people. White and gold everywhere.
Mama Ngozi’s jollof. Amaka’s playlist. Kids running around.
No press. No Cole family. Just us.
I was in a white dress I’d made myself.
Damien in a black agbada.
We stood at the entrance, greeting everyone.
At 7pm, my phone buzzed.
Mayor’s office: _“Event approved. Police on standby for security.”_
We did it.
At 8pm, Damien took the mic.
“Welcome to The Haven Gala,” he said.
“This is for everyone who was told they weren’t good enough.
Like Tasha. Like me. Like all of you.”
Cheers.
He looked at me. “And this is for the woman who taught a billionaire
that 50 million can’t buy what we have.”
He got on one knee. Again.
But this time there were no cameras. No contract.
Just 800 people watching.
“Tasha Okoro. Will you marry me? For real this time?”
I laughed through tears. “You already asked.”
“Asking again,” he said. “In front of everyone who matters.”
“Yes,” I said. “A thousand times yes.”
The crowd erupted.
And that’s when the lights went out.
Black.
Screams.
Then a voice over a loudspeaker.
“THIS EVENT IS CANCELLED.
BY ORDER OF THE COLE FOUNDATION.
EVERYONE LEAVE NOW.”
Mrs. Cole.
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END OF CHAPTER 7
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Next: _The Power Cut + Damien’s Final Play_
- Writer
