CHAPTER THREE: THE DINNER
Zainab had never seen so many lights in one place.
The restaurant was in Victoria Island — all glass walls and velvet chairs, the kind of place where waiters whispered and champagne flowed like water. Outside, sleek cars pulled up one after another; inside, laughter and perfume filled the air like smoke.
Tomiwa had spent the entire afternoon preparing her.
"Wear this," she'd said, tossing a silky red dress onto the bed. "You can't look like a village girl here. And let me do your makeup, abeg."
Zainab had protested — "Tomiwa, this one is too tight!" — but Tomiwa only laughed.
"That's the point. You want them to notice you, not pity you."
Now, standing beside her in the soft glow of chandeliers, Zainab felt the weight of every curious eye. Men in suits. Women with diamonds. Conversations that sounded like another language — one spoken only by those who'd never known hunger.
A waiter appeared with a tray of champagne. Zainab shook her head, but Tomiwa nudged her.
"Just take it. Sip small. You need to look relaxed."
Zainab obeyed, taking a cautious sip. The bubbles stung her tongue.
Moments later, Tomiwa whispered, "Our table is over there. Don't talk too much, just smile."
They walked toward a corner table where three men sat — all older, all radiating the kind of confidence that comes with power. One of them rose to greet them.
"Ah, Tomiwa the troublemaker!" he said, grinning. "Who is your beautiful friend?"
"Her name is Zainab," Tomiwa replied smoothly. "She's new in Lagos."
The man's eyes lingered on Zainab a moment too long. "Zainab," he repeated, rolling the name on his tongue. "You are most welcome. Please, sit."
Zainab murmured a polite thank you, lowering herself into the chair beside Tomiwa. She kept her eyes on her plate, pretending to read the menu she couldn't afford. The table talk rolled around her — business deals, politics, oil contracts. She didn't understand any of it.
Tomiwa laughed easily, tossing her hair, slipping into the rhythm of the evening as if she belonged there. Zainab, meanwhile, felt invisible and exposed at once.
Then the man beside her — the one called Chief Adewale — leaned closer. His voice was smooth, his cologne strong.
"So, Zainab," he said, "what do you do?"
"I—I just came to Lagos," she stammered. "Still looking for work."
"Work?" He smiled faintly. "A girl like you doesn't need work. You need the right company."
Tomiwa giggled and raised her glass. "Chief, don't start your wahala tonight."
Chief Adewale chuckled, but his gaze never left Zainab. "I only appreciate beauty when I see it. Lagos can be hard for newcomers. I could… help you find your way."
Zainab forced a smile. "Thank you, sir."
"Call me Chief," he corrected gently. "All my friends do."
The dinner went on — laughter, wine, and talk that blurred together. By the end of the night, Zainab's head was spinning. She wasn't sure if it was from the champagne or the weight of all the newness pressing in on her.
When they got back to Tomiwa's apartment, she collapsed onto the couch.
"Tomiwa," she said quietly, "what do these men really want?"
Tomiwa was removing her heels, her tone casual. "They want what all men want — power, attention, pleasure. You just decide how much of yourself you're willing to trade."
Zainab frowned. "Trade? That sounds wrong."
Tomiwa looked up sharply. "And what's right, Zee? Selling oranges under the sun? Begging landlords? Lagos doesn't care about your morals. You either play the game or the game plays you."
Zainab said nothing. Her stomach twisted. She remembered Mama's voice, the note she had folded carefully in her bag — Don't forget where you come from.
But that night, staring out at the city lights, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was already forgetting.