Chapter 4: Danella's Balancing Act (Lagos Unravels)
I sat behind the counter of my POS store in the heart of Lagos, fingers dancing on the transaction screen as people queued like determined ants on a busy Ikorodu Road afternoon. The smell of suya wafted in from outside, mingling with the hum of generators like a persistent heartbeat in this city that never sleeps. My mind drifted to Danella – she was walking a tightrope between Ella, Lily, and the leftover mess Zubi had left like yesterday's cold eba on a plate.
Lagos streets have a way of swallowing secrets; they're like the murky waters of the Lagoon where Bar Beach meets the Atlantic gusts. Danella had this art of smoothing things over like she was adding just the right amount of palm oil to a tough stew being cooked on a brazier in Ajegunle. You see, Ella and Lily had fought – wild, with brush sticks – after Ella got sick one day; they'd removed their drips to brawl like market women over rotten tomatoes on Alaba market floor. They patched up afterwards but the air still crackled like fufu being pounded energetically in a Surulere kitchen.
I'd told Danella, _"Bessy, proceed sharp sharp,"_ sipping my sachet water like it was champagne on a sweltering Ikoyi afternoon, but she knew feelings lingered like the taste of morning okro soup that clings to your tongue. Lily was proper mad about Danella – I saw it in her eyes like the stark blackboard chalk wiped too hard by a frustrated teacher in a crowded Lagos Island classroom. Ella was rebuilding post-Zubi; he'd funded her school fees like a benevolent godfather, paid rent like he owned the buildings on Victoria Island… everything. Now he was out like last week's garri swept under a Lekki market stall.
One night, we found ourselves drinking Star Lager at Bar Beach, overlooking the dark Lagoon waters where wealthy folks' speedboats sometimes cut arrogant wakes like they owned the Atlantic. Conversation flowed like the burukutu palm wine some Maroko vendors still peddle discreetly off Herbert Macaulay. Danella joined us – Ella, Lily – like she was the glue meant to keep fractured things intact in this mad Lagos centrifuge.
Lily leaned in suddenly, voice husky like Apapa nightclubs where men gamble with borrowed courage: _"Danella, I never stopped."_
Ella caught it like someone snatched her pewter plate mid-jollof-rice lunch at Tastee Fried Chicken on Agege Road; tension pooled like rainwater on bad Ikoyi roads after contractors left potholes like gaping mouths.
Danella played mediator cool like adding ice to pepper soup you fear'll burn your Esan tongue: _"Girls, let's vibe. No mess."_
Afterwards, Danella messaged me like someone whispering secrets past Agege - _"Confidence, I'm in trouble."_ I knew Lagos games; they don't end sweet like fufu with light soup.
Complications started unfurling like wrappers on a swindled bale of Ankara prints at Balogun market
I watched Danella navigate it all – like balancing on the narrow ledges of Ikoyi skyscrapers where expats drink imported gin. Meanwhile, Lagos traffic crawled like stubborn goats on Agege motor road; people shouted, horns blared… the city pulsed like it had malaria.
One evening, Danella confided in me deeper like we were sharing forbidden kolanut secrets in a quiet Ogudu shrine.
_"Confidence, what if Lily doesn't stop?"_ she whispered.
I said, _"Bessy, Lagos deceptions got teeth like the rusty gates of Yaba old prison."_ We laughed nervous like girls sipping tea with suspected poison at an Ikeja high-society bash.
End of Chapter 4