[STORY] You look like the reason they invented luxury

When people think of a luxury lifestyle in Lagos, they imagine private jets, designer shoes, and late-night rooftop parties overlooking the ocean.

For a while, that was my life—or at least what Instagram made it look like.

Last Friday, I was invited to an exclusive afterparty in Banana Island. The kind where champagne flows like water and everyone pretends they’re too rich to check prices.

I was wearing a crisp white linen shirt, my new Louis Vuitton sneakers, and the smell of borrowed confidence. The Uber driver even asked, “Oga, you be celebrity?”

I smiled. “Not yet.”

The house itself was ridiculous—marble floors, an infinity pool glowing blue, and soft Afrobeats playing in the background.

The kind of place that makes you believe wealth is an emotion. People were taking selfies under chandeliers worth more than my yearly rent.

Then I saw her.

Tall. Elegant. Wrapped in a silk emerald dress that shimmered under the lights. She looked like money had a favorite child.

I grabbed a drink (Moët, of course—because appearances), walked up to her, and said, “You look like the reason they invented luxury.”

She laughed. “And you look like someone who practices that line in the mirror.”

Touché.

Her name was Tara, an interior designer who claimed to work with “high-end property developers” across Lagos. She told me about her recent project in Eko Atlantic—imported marble, Italian furniture, even a glass ceiling designed to “catch dreams.” Every sentence was a Pinterest board.

I told her I ran a SaaS startup that “helps small businesses automate tasks.” (Technically true… if by ‘helps’ I meant ‘still in beta and crashing every hour’.) She looked impressed, sipping her champagne.

“You tech guys,” she said, “you make money out of invisible things.”

“You designers,” I replied, “make visible things that cost invisible money.”

We both laughed. It felt easy—until her phone rang. She frowned, excused herself, and walked to the balcony. I watched her silhouette under the moonlight, phone pressed to her ear, voice soft but tense. Something felt… off.

Ten minutes later, a tall man in a black suit walked in. You could tell instantly—this was the money. Rolex. Calm energy. The kind that doesn’t chase attention; it rents it. He looked around and said loudly, “Where’s Tara?”

Everyone turned. My stomach sank. She froze when she saw him. He walked over, jaw tight.

“I thought you were in Abuja?” he said.

“I finished early,” she replied, voice trembling slightly.

He glanced at her champagne glass, then at me. “And who’s this?”

I swallowed hard. “Uh… friend from work.”

Tara smiled nervously, “Yes, babe, he’s just—”

“Babe?”

The silence after that could’ve frozen the pool.

He handed her a small envelope, dropped his keys on the counter, and said quietly, “The Range Rover’s yours. The apartment lease ends next month. Good luck.”

Then he walked out—calmly. Too calmly.

Tara stood there, holding the envelope like it might explode. I didn’t know what to say. She laughed—shaky, painful laughter.

“So much for luxury,” she whispered. “Turns out I was the subscription that expired.”

She walked out, barefoot, leaving her designer heels by the poolside. Everyone stared. I just sat there, staring at the champagne bubbles rising and bursting—like every illusion that night.

When I got home, I opened my laptop and stared at my unfinished startup dashboard.

All those software reviews I’d been reading about ‘scaling your SaaS business fast’ suddenly felt meaningless. Maybe real luxury wasn’t cars or condos. Maybe it was peace.

I sighed, typed a line of code, and whispered, “Time to build something real.”

And that night, for the first time in months, I didn’t post anything on Instagram.