Temi didn't ask. She never did when she decided Zara needed saving.
Friday evening, barely two days after the office party almost-kiss disaster, Temi burst into their shared flat waving two tickets like they were winning lottery numbers.
"Karaoke at Vibes Lounge. Tonight. You're coming."
Zara, sprawled on the couch in an oversized hoodie and mismatched socks, didn't even lift her head from her phone. "Pass. I'm busy mourning my dignity."
"You mourned all week. Time's up." Temi yanked the throw blanket off her. "Wear something cute. We're screaming our feelings into a microphone until the neighbors complain."
Zara groaned. "I don't have feelings left to scream."
"Lies. You still have rage, heartbreak, and at least three playlists of petty anthems. Bring them."
An hour later—after Temi's relentless guilt-tripping and one very persuasive promise of free drinks—Zara found herself in the back of an Uber, wearing the red top she usually saved for "feeling dangerous" nights. Temi sat beside her, scrolling through the song list on her phone like a general planning an ambush.
"'Irreplaceable' by Beyoncé for the opener," Temi declared. "Then we hit them with 'Before He Cheats' for maximum catharsis."
Zara stared out the window at the Lagos night lights blurring past. "I'm not singing about Chidi."
"You don't have to say his name. The mic knows."
Vibes Lounge was packed—dim lights, sticky tables, the kind of place where everyone pretended they could carry a tune. A group of uni students was butchering a Burna Boy track on stage. The MC, a man in a shiny shirt who called himself DJ Flame, hyped the crowd like it was a concert.
Temi dragged Zara straight to the sign-up sheet.
"Two songs," she said to the girl behind the counter. "First one's mine. Second is hers."
Zara opened her mouth to protest. Too late. Temi was already dragging her to a booth near the front.
They ordered drinks—mocktails for Zara (she wasn't risking tequila tonight), something neon for Temi. The first few performers came and went: a shy couple dueting Ed Sheeran, a guy rapping off-beat, an auntie who turned "Shallow" into highlife somehow.
Then Temi's name flashed on the screen.
She bounced up, mic in hand, and launched into "Irreplaceable" with zero shame. Arms waving, hips popping, pointing at Zara during the "to the left, to the left" part like it was directed at Chidi personally. The crowd cheered. Zara hid her face in her hands, laughing despite herself.
When Temi finished—bowing dramatically—she marched back and shoved the second mic at Zara.
"Your turn."
The screen lit up: "Survivor" by Destiny's Child.
Zara froze. "Temi—"
"Get up there before I drag you."
The opening beat dropped. Zara's legs moved on autopilot.
She stepped onto the small stage, lights hot on her face. The first line came out shaky.
"I'm a survivor…"
The crowd was kind—clapping on beat, a few phones up. Zara closed her eyes and let the song take over. By the chorus she was belting, voice cracking on the high notes but full of something raw and alive. For three minutes she wasn't the girl who got dumped by voice note or whose campaign got called average. She was just loud, unapologetic, surviving.
She finished breathless. The room erupted.
She stepped off the stage on shaky legs and collapsed back into the booth.
Temi hugged her so hard the air left her lungs. "That's my girl."
Zara laughed—real, belly-deep. "I sounded like a dying cat."
"You sounded like a queen."
Then the MC's voice boomed again.
"Next up—Kian Okoye and Zara Adebayo! Duet special request!"
Zara's head snapped up. "What?"
Temi looked suspiciously innocent.
Kian appeared from the side entrance, casual in a navy button-down, sleeves rolled, holding two mics. He grinned at Zara like this was completely normal.
"Thought you could use backup," he said, sliding into the booth beside her.
"You set this up?" Zara hissed at Temi.
Temi shrugged. "I may have mentioned to a certain photographer that you needed cheering up."
Kian leaned in. "She sent me the location. Said you were 'emotionally constipated.' Her words.
Zara shot Temi a death glare. Temi raised her glass in toast.
The screen loaded their song: "Shallow" by Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper.
Zara groaned. "Of course."
Kian stood and offered his hand. "Come on. We've got this."
She took it—warm, steady—and let him pull her back to the stage.
The music started. Slow piano. The room quieted a little.
Kian sang first, voice surprisingly smooth, a little rough around the edges.
"Tell me something, girl…"
Zara joined on her line, softer at first, then stronger.
"Are you happy in this modern world?"
They faced each other, mics close. The lights dimmed to a spotlight. No choreography, no posing—just two people singing like the words mattered.
By the chorus the crowd was swaying. Zara forgot the room. Forgot Chidi. Forgot the pitch flop. There was only Kian's eyes on hers, the way his voice wrapped around hers, the way he smiled when she hit the high note perfectly.
They finished on the final "I'm off the deep end…" harmony, voices blending until the last note faded.
Silence. Then applause—loud, real.
They stepped off stage. Zara's heart was hammering.
Kian handed her a bottle of water. "Not bad, boss."
She took a long sip to hide how flushed she felt. "You can sing."
"Surprise." He shrugged. "Church choir kid."
Temi appeared, grinning like she'd won the lottery. "Told you. Catharsis."
Kian glanced at his watch. "I should head out. Early shoot tomorrow."
Zara nodded, suddenly awkward. "Thanks. For… this."
"Anytime." He hesitated, then added quietly, "You okay? Really?"
She met his eyes. "Getting there."
He smiled—small, genuine. "Good.
He left through the side door. Zara watched him go, feeling something shift inside her chest. Not quite hope. Not yet. But close.
Temi slung an arm around her. "So… when's the wedding?"
Zara elbowed her. "Shut up."
But she was smiling.
Outside, the night air was cool. Lagos traffic hummed around them. Zara breathed deep.
Maybe surviving looked like this: bad singing, good friends, and one annoyingly kind photographer who showed up exactly when she needed someone to.
She pulled out her phone and opened their chat—the one that started after the office party.
She typed one word.
Me: Thanks.
His reply came almost instantly.
Kian: Anytime. Get home safe.
She locked her screen and let Temi drag her toward the next spot for suya.
For the first time in weeks, the weight on her chest felt a little lighter.