Story: I’m in a penthouse party, My dad thinks I’m at a business dinner

Five nights ago, I thought I was just stepping into another evening of champagne glasses and rooftop sunsets, the kind of Luxury Lifestyle moments Lagos nightlife promises.

I was dressed sharp—tailored blazer, gold wristwatch glinting under the city lights, and sneakers so clean they could blind anyone staring too long.

The energy was loud, the cars on Ozumba Mbadiwe roared, and Victoria Island was buzzing with people chasing their own slice of “soft life.”

But that night turned out to be nothing like I expected.

I had just stepped out of a high-rise lounge where the scent of oud perfumes mixed with cigar smoke. Neon lights bounced off polished marble floors, and Afrobeats thumped in the background.

I was scrolling through my phone, checking an invite-only yacht party for the weekend, when my phone buzzed with a request.

It wasn’t a business call. It wasn’t a party text.

It was a DM.

“Drive fast, please. I’ll explain inside.”

Suspicious, right?

A few minutes later, a young guy in a crisp white shirt, designer belt, and shoes that probably cost more than my monthly rent hopped into the back seat of my car.

He looked like he came straight out of a GQ magazine cover, but his hands were trembling. His Rolex ticked louder than his voice when he said:

Him: “Just drive. Fast. Ikoyi.”

Me: “Alright… what’s going on, bro?”

Him: “I need to get home before my dad does.”

That was when I realized this wasn’t about Lagos traffic—it was about Lagos secrets.

As we sped past the neon glow of VI, he started talking. His voice cracked like the Lagos Third Mainland bridge at midnight.

Him: “I was at a penthouse party. My dad thinks I’m at a business dinner. If he gets home before me, it’s over. He’ll cut me off.”

Me: “Cut you off from what?”

Him: “From everything. The cars, the trips, the cards. The whole lifestyle.”

I glanced at him through the rearview mirror. His eyes told me this wasn’t about money alone. It was about survival in the luxury world he was born into.

Halfway through the drive, his phone started ringing. The caller ID flashed “Dad.” He ignored it.

Then he sighed and whispered, almost to himself:

Him: “You ever feel like you’re living a Luxury Lifestyle that isn’t yours?”

That question hit me harder than I expected. I looked at him again—this guy had the watches, the tailored suits, the exclusive parties, but here he was, terrified of losing it all.

We got to his mansion in Ikoyi—an estate so polished it looked like a scene from Crazy Rich Asians. Marble gates, black SUVs, palm trees lit with warm yellow lights. Before stepping out, he turned to me.

Him: “Bro, if my dad asks, just say you dropped me from the office.”

Me: “And if I don’t?”

Him: (half-smiling) “Then I guess I lose it all tonight.”

I laughed but nodded. Lagos wahala.

But then, as he stepped out of the car, the twist came.

A tall, older man in a flowing white agbada and diamond cufflinks walked straight up to me. His aura screamed old money. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t even look surprised. He just leaned down to my window and said calmly:

Father: “Thank you for bringing my son home. Don’t worry—I know where he was. I was once him too.”

He slipped a crisp bundle of dollars into my cup holder, smiled knowingly, and walked into the mansion. His son froze at the gate, staring after him, confused and pale.

I drove off, the city lights bouncing against the windshield, heart still racing. I realized then that in Lagos, Luxury Lifestyle isn’t always luxury. Sometimes it’s a performance. Sometimes it’s a prison.

And me? I was just the guy who witnessed the mask slip for one night.