
I glance through his Instagram post for a moment, reminiscing about old times and broke days. We used to be close friends until he relocated and we lost touch. Obviously, he is rich now and living large too. I can tell. I send a DM, which he replies. We get to talking and he soon tells me to come visit him. At his peaceful and serene neighborhood in some Lagos Island.
The day I get to the doorstep, I am stunned at the beauty. Really nice crib he lives in. Three knocks I thump on the door. He shows up and smiles at me. Walks me inside the sitting room.
Naira Marley’s music is playing loudly. The atmosphere is hot. Shirtless boys litter the house, seated on a sofa. Each one of the many rolling up weed. A bottle of vodka sits atop a table closeby, beside a laptop screen. Which these boys stare into, its light a gleamer upon their foreheads.
My friend and I talk about old times. All the memories we shared in the past. We laugh over a lot of things. He proceeds to pour me some vodka. And we talk some more. I ask him about his sudden wealth. He chuckles. As if it is some form of mystery that cannot be unveiled. I go on to express my desire to become like him. To have a nice crib of my own. Have money and live large too. He laughs calmly and advises me to stay longer in order to learn the ropes. Of course, I’m definitely not leaving soon. So he rolls up weed and stretches it out to me. I take it hesitantly, raise it to my mouth, and repeatedly huff and puff repeatedly. Guzzle some more vodka and soon I start to feel light and dizzy. I remain motionless savoring the cruise.
A loud bang. The front door flings open violently. Armed men in EFCC costumes raid the house, rounding up everyone. Some guys are in handcuffs already. I jolt from where I’m seated and attempt to skitter away through any visible exit, but I get unlucky. The butt of a gun lands ferociously at the back of my head and knocks me out temporarily.
Handcuffed and swooned, everything seems to start replaying in my head. Slowly. And in reverse. Like a tape being rolled back. Handcuffs begin to uncuff. And I rise and skitter back to my seat. The EFCC officers exit through the front door backwardly and in the same manner they had barged in and the door closes. Liquor escape from my mouth and return into the vodka bottle.
And smoke back to the blunt. Then the chitchats rollback. I backwardly walkout. Get to the doorstep. Out of Lagos Island, and back to the moment–glancing at his Instagram post. I drop a perfunctory love reaction on the post and resist the urge to ṣàlàyé or DM him.