Lagos bound

Lagos bound

PROLOGUE

December Spark

December in Lagos didn’t just arrive—it exploded. The city wore its Detty December crown like it had been waiting all year to flex: neon lights bleeding into the night, speakers rattling car frames on Ozumba Mbadiwe, laughter spilling from every rooftop and waterside lounge. The air tasted of roasted plantain, Black Is King perfume, and the faint promise of something unforgettable.

The event was one of those coveted Victoria Island affairs—an Afro-fusion concert staged under massive palm trees and floating lanterns at a sprawling outdoor venue overlooking the lagoon. Mid-December, the crowd was electric: diaspora returnees in fresh braids and custom agbada, locals in glittering aso-ebi, influencers posing against the stage backdrop while the opening act dropped heavy percussion that made chests vibrate.

She stood a little apart from the thickest press of bodies, near a high table where empty champagne flutes caught the strobe lights. Leila moved to the rhythm without trying too hard—small shoulder rolls, a gentle sway of hips, the kind of dancing that said she felt the music in her bones but didn’t need to prove it to anyone. Her black slip dress caught the glow just right, simple yet devastating, gold hoops glinting whenever she laughed at something her friend whispered. Her locs were swept to one side, a few strands escaping to frame her face.

Kunle saw her the moment he stepped onto the lawn after grabbing a drink from the bar. Something about the way she watched the stage—not scrolling her phone, not posing for stories, just present—pulled his attention like a magnet. He wasn’t usually the guy who crossed crowded rooms on impulse, but tonight the city felt reckless, and so did he.

He walked over, weaving past clusters of dancing bodies, the bassline guiding his steps.

“Excuse me,” he said when he was close enough for her to hear him over the music. His voice carried that easy Lagos confidence, warm but not overbearing. “I’ve been standing over there trying to figure out if you’re actually enjoying this set or if you’re just being polite to the DJ.”

Leila turned, one brow arching as she sized him up—tall, clean fade, white linen shirt rolled at the sleeves, the kind of effortless sharp that said he knew exactly how good he looked without trying too hard. A slow smile tugged at her lips.

“Bold assumption,” she replied, voice smooth, playful. “What if I told you I’m rating every transition and I’ve already decided the drummer is carrying the whole show?”

Kunle laughed, genuine and low. “Then I’d say you have excellent taste. And I’d also say the drummer owes you a drink for the support.” He gestured lightly toward the bar. “I’m Kunle, by the way. And if you let me buy you whatever you’re drinking, I promise not to ask you to dance… unless the next song is worth it.”

She studied him for a beat, the lights painting gold across her cheekbones. Then she tilted her head, deciding.

“Leila,” she said, offering her name like a small, deliberate gift. “And I’ll take a mojito. But only because you admitted you might not survive a dance floor with me.”

He grinned, already turning toward the bar but keeping his eyes on her. “Challenge accepted.”

The music dropped into something slower, sultrier—strings layered over a deep Afrobeat pulse. The crowd around them swayed closer, but neither of them moved away. The lagoon glittered behind them, the city roared, and in that small pocket of space between strangers who suddenly weren’t, something clicked into place.

Lagos had done what it does best: thrown two people into the same wild, humid night and let chemistry decide the rest.

And so it began.

Lagos bound.

Chapter 1

Stories over the Lagoon

The concert had spilled into the after-party without anyone really noticing the transition. The same venue, just rearranged—tables dragged closer to the water’s edge, low couches arranged under string lights, a live band now playing softer highlife covers while waiters circulated trays of chilled palm wine cocktails and tiny plates of puff-puff drizzled with honey. The lagoon lapped quietly against the retaining wall, a calm counterpoint to the earlier frenzy.

Leila and Kunle had found a spot at the far end of the deck, away from the main cluster of dancers and photographers. They sat on a wide cushioned bench facing the water, knees almost touching, the night air finally cooling enough to feel like relief. Her mojito had been replaced with something sweeter—hibiscus-infused gin—and his beer sat half-empty on the low table between them.

They’d been talking for almost an hour now, the kind of conversation that skipped the small talk because neither of them seemed interested in playing games. It started with music, veered into food (she swore by jollof from a particular Bukka in Surulere; he insisted his mother’s party version was unbeatable), then drifted naturally into the why of Lagos in December.

“So,” Kunle said, leaning back against the cushion, one arm draped casually along the backrest, fingers close enough to brush her shoulder if he wanted to. He didn’t—yet. “You don’t strike me as someone who just ‘came for Detty December.’ You’ve got that look—like you’re here with purpose, but the city keeps distracting you.”

Leila laughed softly, tucking a loose loc behind her ear. “Guilty. I’m actually visiting my aunt. She’s lived here forever—moved back from the UK when I was still in high school. Every year she guilt-trips me into coming for the holidays, says I’m forgetting my roots.” She paused, swirling the ice in her glass. “I grew up in Canada. Toronto, mostly. Moved there with my mom when I was nine.”

Kunle’s brows lifted slightly. “Canada? That explains the accent I couldn’t quite place. Soft edges.”

“Yeah, well, Lagos keeps trying to sand them off every time I visit.” She smiled, but there was something thoughtful in it. “I finished law school there last year. Graduated, passed the bar. Now I’m… figuring out what’s next.”

He tilted his head. “Figuring out what’s next usually means you already know what you want.”

She met his eyes—direct, unguarded. “I want to be a judge. Eventually. There’s this opening I’ve been eyeing in Monaco. International tribunal post. It’s competitive as hell, but I’ve been building toward it—internships at The Hague, research assistantships, the whole thing. My aunt thinks I’m crazy for even considering it. Says Monaco is for yacht people, not Naija girls who still know how to pound yam.”

Kunle chuckled. “She’s not wrong about the yacht people. But you don’t look like someone who scares easy.”

“I’m not.” She shrugged one shoulder. “I just… I like the idea of sitting on that bench someday. Seeing justice actually happen, not just arguing about it. Sounds idealistic, I know.”

“Not idealistic. Rare.” He studied her for a moment, the sincerity in her voice settling somewhere in his chest. “Most people talk about dreams like they’re hypothetical. You talk like it’s already in motion.”

Leila gave a small, almost shy smile. “What about you? You’ve been asking all the questions. Your turn.”

Kunle exhaled through his nose, glancing out at the dark water before answering. “I’m the opposite. No grand international ambitions. I’m just… here. Born and raised Lagos. Grew up in Ikoyi, went to school abroad for undergrad—London School of Economics—then came straight back. My dad needed me.”

He paused, the words coming slower now. “He’s a single dad. Been that way since I was fourteen. Mom passed, and it’s just been us since. He built the family business from scratch—import-export, logistics, real estate on the side. Big enough now that people call him an empire builder, but he still answers his own phone at seven in the morning.” Kunle’s mouth curved, fond but tired. “I’m the heir, apparently. Manager at the head office. I run the day-to-day so he can pretend he’s semi-retired.”

Leila tilted her head. “You say ‘apparently’ like you’re not sure you want the crown.”

He laughed quietly. “Caught that, huh? It’s not that I don’t want it. I do. I’m proud of what he’s built, proud to be part of it. But sometimes it feels like the script was written before I was born. Graduate, join the company, marry well, produce grandchildren, keep the name strong. No detours.”

“And you want detours?”

“I want… options.” He looked at her then, really looked. “I want nights like this one where I’m not thinking about quarterly reports or board meetings. Where I can sit across from someone who’s chasing something entirely different and just… listen.”

The music shifted behind them—something slower, almost tender. A saxophone wove through the rhythm, lazy and warm.

Leila set her glass down. “So we’re both here running from scripts, in a way. Me trying to write one that doesn’t exist yet. You trying to find space inside the one that’s already written.”

Kunle nodded slowly. “Something like that.”

A breeze came off the lagoon, carrying the faint scent of salt and night-blooming flowers. For a moment neither spoke. The city kept moving around them—laughter, clinking glasses, distant bass—but right here it felt quieter. Like the beginning of something neither had planned for.

Leila broke the silence first, voice soft. “You know, for someone who says he’s just following the family playbook, you’re awfully good at making space for other people’s stories.”

Kunle smiled, small and real. “Only when the story’s worth hearing.”

She held his gaze a second longer than necessary.

Somewhere behind them, the band slid into a familiar highlife classic, the kind that made even strangers want to dance. Neither of them moved to join the floor.

They stayed right where they were—two people from different maps, sitting on the same bench in Lagos, telling each other who they really were before the city could rewrite it.