Lagos Will Embarrass You and Bless You in the Same Breath

Two nights ago, I found myself in one of those unpredictable Lagos evenings that feel like a Nollywood script gone rogue.

I was at a fashion event in Victoria Island—neon lights, cameras flashing, DJs spinning amapiano tracks.

The room was filled with people dressed like they had Instagram filters stitched into their outfits. My plan was simple: network, take pictures, and maybe catch the eye of a fashion editor who could give me that one chance.

But Lagos had another storyline.

I wore a silky emerald-green dress that hugged me like it was made for my skin.

My makeup was bold—red lips, sharp eyeliner, and a subtle shimmer across my cheekbones that glowed under the lights. My heels, though, were silently plotting against me.

As I was adjusting my clutch bag, a girl in a sequined gold jumpsuit stumbled out of the restroom, mascara smudged, hair frizzing like she had fought a storm.

She looked at me and whispered, “Babe, can you zip me up? I think my ex is here, and I need to look unbothered.”

I laughed, zipped her, and we bonded instantly. That’s the thing about fashion & beauty—it’s not just about clothes and makeup, it’s about survival.

Halfway through the event, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice said. I turned, and there he was—Tobi, the same guy who ghosted me six months ago after three dates filled with late-night shawarma runs and endless fashion convos.

He looked annoyingly perfect in a tailored black suit, smelling like Dior Sauvage and heartbreak.

I swallowed hard, adjusted my posture, and let my emerald dress do the talking.

“Tobi,” I said, keeping my voice calm, “I see you still like crashing fashion shows.”

He smirked. “And I see you still know how to steal a room.”

Before I could roll my eyes, the girl in the gold jumpsuit whispered, “Is that him?” I nodded. She smiled mischievously, grabbed my arm, and dragged me to the center of the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced playfully, “can we appreciate this goddess in green?!”

Everyone clapped, phones flashing. I froze for a second, but then something inside me unlocked. Instead of shrinking, I posed, flipped my hair, and owned the spotlight.

Tobi’s smirk disappeared. His eyes softened, almost like regret was dancing behind them. He took a step forward and whispered, “You look… different. Stronger.”

I leaned closer, my perfume brushing his suit. “No, Tobi. I just stopped dressing for you. Now I dress for me.”

The DJ switched songs, and suddenly the whole room felt like my runway. For the first time, I wasn’t performing beauty for attention—I was radiating it for myself.

When I left later that night, heels in hand, city lights reflecting on the lagoon, I smiled. Fashion had once been my armor to hide pain, but that night it became my freedom.

And the unexpected twist? The girl in gold—turns out she was a stylist for a popular Nigerian magazine. She handed me her card and said, “Babe, we need your kind of confidence in our next fashion spread. Call me.”

I laughed to myself, whispering, Lagos will embarrass you and bless you in the same breath.