Chapter 2: Champagne on Credit
591 Words
Sasha strutted into the rooftop lounge like she owned the place.
The city stretched beneath her Lagos at night, alive with blinking lights and the sound of a thousand lives being lived at once. The breeze was cool, but her skin was warm with excitement. Her dress was tight, glittering with rhinestones, the slit high enough to raise eyebrows but not enough to stop the cameras. She had borrowed it from her cousin, pairing it with heels she couldn’t walk in properly and a bag she’d bought with her last ₦25,000.
Music thumped beneath the surface of the air 'Afrobeats' to be precised, loud and lush. People were dancing, laughing, clinking glasses. Waiters in black uniforms slid between tables like shadows, carrying bottles of champagne wrapped in sparklers.
This was the world Sasha craved.
Her clique had already taken over the VIP corner: Chika with her dyed-blonde wig and gold lashes; Tara wearing one of those see-through bodysuits with just enough covering; and Ife, always glued to her phone like a gossip blogger in training.
Sasha slid into the booth, air-kissed everyone, then motioned for the waiter. “Moët. Two bottles.”
Tara raised a brow. “Big spender tonight?”
Sasha laughed. “Life’s for enjoyment. If I die tomorrow, at least let me die a legend.”
“You don't have sense,” Chika said, laughing. “But I love it.”
The waiter returned moments later with the bottles and a tray of glasses. Sasha swiped her card with a flair Mastercard, of course. Her account was already down to its last drops, but she didn’t care. She would figure it out later. She always did.
As the cork popped and the foam bubbled over, they all screamed, giggling like little girls. Sasha lifted her glass high. “To the good life!”
They drank.
And danced.
And laughed.
Time blurred into a whirl of selfies and strobe lights, of strangers with expensive colognes whispering sweet nonsense into her ear. A man in a dark green kaftan offered her a ride in his G-Wagon. Another sent a bottle to her table with a note: “Your smile is loud enough to start a war.”
By 3 a.m., her phone was blowing up. Fifteen missed calls from Mama Grace. Eight from her younger brother, David. She turned the screen over and slid it beneath her bag.
Her heart thudded, but not with guilt. With defiance.
She wasn’t ready to go back. Not yet.
Outside, the driver she’d hired on Bolt was waiting. She slipped into the backseat, heels off, eyes bleary from champagne and flashlights. The ride was quiet. Even Lagos had started to sleep, except for the distant horns and the occasional generator hum.
When she reached the gate, it was locked.
She banged twice, then whispered to the driver, “Wait. Just wait a few minutes.”
Mama Grace opened the door eventually, face hard like concrete. Her wrapper was tied tightly around her chest. She said nothing. Just turned and walked inside.
Sasha followed silently, tiptoeing like a child, her heels dangling from one finger. The guilt was there now—lingering behind her eyes like unshed tears—but she wouldn’t let it grow roots. Not tonight.
She collapsed on the bed fully dressed, phone buzzing beside her. A DM from a popular promoter:
“Saw you at the rooftop. You’ve got presence. Want to host next Saturday?”
Sasha grinned in the dark.
She was getting closer.
Whatever “closer” meant.
- Writer
