Seams: The Next Decade
When I wrote the first season of Seams in 2012, it was because there was no good fiction that explored what it means to be a young, middle-class person in your teens - early 20’s in Lagos.
My biggest goal for Seams has always been to create characters whose life experiences ring true, no matter what era you encounter them in, and I felt the only way to do that was to revisit the characters 8 years later.
Seams: The Next Decade is written as a stand-alone series, so you can enjoy their stories without reading the first two instalments (though I’d honestly recommend it). If you’re looking to catch up you’ll find the first two seasons on my website here.
With ❤, Edwin Okolo
The rain woke her. Not the buzzing of the phone, buried under a sea of blankets. Kike stirred, feeling reluctantly for the phone. She fished it out, squinting against the glare from the massive screen of her new iPhone X Max as she read the name
Saanyol Terwase
She ignored it and burrowed deeper into her blankets, unwilling to start her day. The phone rang again, harder to ignore this time. Reluctantly, she swiped to answer the call, put the phone on speaker and willed her naked body out of bed.
“You never call me this early. Is something wrong with Adeola?”
The voice on the other end chuckled.
“Good morning to you too sunshine.”
In all the years she had known Saanyol, including the ones in which she was married to him, she’d never gotten over how easily he could defuse a hostile situation. Even now, aged by wine and a little youthful exuberance, his voice was still svelte, his words measured. If only he wasn’t such an asshole.
“You haven’t answered my question.” Kike volleyed, crossing the room to pick one of the silk robes hanging from her standing closet, neatly arranged into silks, suits and day wear.
For a house she’d spent nearly a year house hunting for, she rarely spent any time in her legacy Ikoyi apartment. She’d chosen it for its high ceilings and disproportionately large master bedroom, large enough that she was able to move her home office there. Sparse furniture kept the room large and airy and was her way of reminding herself, she wasn’t a Terwase. She’d spent 3 years married to a man whose family papered over the very walls of their homes with gold leaf and bought things they didn’t need solely because they could have it. A lot of the things they’d done, she didn’t believe in, but she was definitely a convert to mindful architecture and high ceilings.
The room’s inbuilt speakers echoed Saanyol’s voice around the room, reaching her from inside the closet, so she could still hear his crisp huff as he contemplated his next sentence.
“Adeola’s fine.” he replied, “he’s somewhere around making himself breakfast.”
Kike rolled her eyes. “So what was so urgent that you couldn’t send a text,” she stole a glance at the rabbit on her bedside vanity and smirked, “I was in the middle of something.”
A pause came from the other end, then a clearing of the throat. Kike slowed, those actions in sequence usually meant she wouldn’t like what Saanyol would say next.
“Hmmm, how do I say this?”
“Saan?”
“Yeah sorry. Something’s happened, online. Something not about you, but related to you. I just saw it as I was doing my morning scroll and knew it couldn’t wait.”
Kike retrieved the phone and put it to her ear. She needed something firm and fragile to temper the rage that was bubbling inside her. That was the other reason she’d agreed to swap her reliable Samsung for a flagship iPhone; Chibuzor swore the only way to break her habit of smashing phones when she was furious was to make it fiscally unreasonable pastime.
“This better be fucking Armageddon.” She joked, trying to temper her anxiety.
Saanyol sighed. “Babe, it's worse.”
Worse?
What could be worse than the non-stop rain that had forced her to hole up in her house for the last 72 hours, alternating between Netflix and rabbit and long conference calls with the logistics team that was helping her execute her Serracuse deal and bring the imported furniture she’d bought for the project through the Apapa ports? And of course, the MTV deal that had been postponed because the flash floods made it impossible to go anywhere. She normally hated Lagos in August, but this year had especially outdid itself.
“Saan, I’m a fixer,” she said, more to herself than to her ex-husband. “I fix shit, but only the shit that I get told about, so tell me what the problem is so I can fix it.”
There was a small silence, then a ding on her phone. Saanyol’s mild breathing resumed in her ear.
“Check your Twitter.” He said.
She groaned. “Are we back to this? This isn’t uni, and I literally left Twitter and hired a social media assistant to be rid of all this petty nonsense. Just fucking tell me what is going on.”
More chuckling came from the other end.
“The link is on your new burner. Don’t bother with this just yet. Have a shower and some coffee in your system. Then check.”
Just then, a tinier squeak intruded on their conversation and she felt her chest freeze up with guilt.
“Is that mommy? I want to talk to Mommy.”
Plates clanging to the floor carried through the speaker to her. She listened in as Saanyol tried to pacify their child with little success.
“Babes, give me a second.” Saanyol pleaded as he switched to speaker phone.
“Young man, what did we say about interrupting when Daddy's on the phone?”
She heard Adeola mumble an apology and Saanyol shoo him off to finish his breakfast. It made her heart hurt, to hear how well they got along with each other, how much better a father their split had made him. It almost made her wonder what would have happened if she’d stayed.
“I miss him.” she moped, “all the time.”
“I know, he misses you too.” Saanyol replied, his voice growing clearer as he picked up the phone. “Are you taking him for the weekend? This whole stay at home dad thing is great but we're going crazy without you.”
Kike looked at the pile of documents by her bed, and the Twitter DM notification blinking at the bottom right of her Mac. She worried a crick her neck and prepared to hedge.
“I was sure I was last night, but now that you're being all ominous with me and sending me cryptic tweets to look at…
She wove her way to the laptop and powered up her twitter app.
“Can I rain check if this turns out to be a shit storm I can't handle before Friday?”
Saanyol sighed. “Do I have a choice?”
She scrunched her nose as the page populated its columns. “I love you, Saanyol Terwase, especially in moments of crises like these.”
Saanyol clucked. “Breaking out the government name. Are you sure you haven't snuck a peek at the Twitter thread?”
She switched to her burner account and clicked on the unread DM. She hated that he could always find her burner accounts and hated even more that he never called her out on the mutually acknowledged deception that she’d weaned herself off Twitter.
“It’s a thread?” She asked with faux surprise. She scrolled, skimming for important phrases on the feed.
“Forget I said anything,” Saanyol said, “I have to go tend to Adeola. Promise me you'll take your time, have some coffee first before you go into damage control.”
Kike’s chest was already constricting as the words ‘plaigarism’, ‘film industry’, ‘misogyny’ and ‘Panlam’ registered in her brain. The thread seemed like ground zero for a catastrophe she could already predict would spread off the interwebs and right into her carefully ordered life.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” she muttered as she scanned the text.
“Kike, please! Promise me you’ll leave your laptop alone, get a shower and some coffee before you flip into your Wonder Woman costume; please?”
Kike hesitated, tempted to end the call and start one of at least a hundred calls she’d have to make to get this under control. Instead, she took a deep breath and shut the laptop screen.
“I promise.”
She ended the call, put her phone on silent and grabbed one of her special occasion silk towels. If the day was going to hell, then she’d much rather enter it moisturized.
‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ Kike muttered as the Uber turned into Ologun Agbaje Street. She rubbed her temples and hit redial on the first number on her phone log book, ignoring the mocking ‘(22)’ pegged beside Panlam’s name. The phone rang and went unanswered, again. She locked the phone and threw it into her bag.
“I’m going to kill her!” she swore under her breath.
The Uber slowed in front of the Food Shack’s latticed gate and she took a second to straighten her jacket and daub on a coat of lipstain before exiting the car. Chibuzor sat waiting at one of the tables in sweatpants, a tank and gym sneakers, cradling a clear plastic sippy cup topped with green foam. He rose when he spotted her and enveloped her in a sweaty hug.
“Urgh. What did we say about post gym greetings?”
Chibuzor squeezed her tighter. “I knew you when you were still a pinging babe, keep all this high flying shit for other people.”
She rolled her eyes, but let him hug her and lead her back to his perch. She didn’t get why he loved the place so much; sure there was some allure to dining al-fresco and she thought their burgers were fantastic, but the whole place was encased in aluminum and concrete and squatting in the compound of an interior’s business. Plus he knew he got mobbed almost everywhere he went by social media fans who wanted a selfie or a quickie, sometimes both. Why couldn’t he just order takeout?
A server came to their table and laid out two burger platters. Chibuzor pushed one of the platters to Kike.
“Here, you’re welcome.”
Kike took it reluctantly and bit into the bun. It tasted sinful after the morning she’d had. She allowed herself indulge, wolfing down the rest of the burger and fries while Chibuzor waited, sipping on his ugly drink. She wiped her mouth and unbuttoned her dress pants, sighing in satisfaction.
“See, even you need someone to take care of you.” Chibuzor said.
Kike reached over and took his platter. “Now let me take care of you, you are on a diet and I know cheese burgers are not part of your meal plan.”
Chibuzor raised his plastic cup and shook it. “It was either a matcha latte, or this. And I went with the one with alcohol in it. Plus the people here swear this sludge is fat-free. And I went to the gym today…”
“... to watch the straights do homoerotic shit in the name of gains.” Kike finished for him.
He shrugged. “We’re all paying customers.”
“Na so.”
He downed the rest of his drink and leaned in so his voice wouldn’t carry.
“Oya, I know you didn’t wear your fancy suit to come and trade fat jokes with me. Spill.”
Kike sighed, pulled out her phone and opened the Twitter app, turning the screen to Chibuzor.
“I’m sure you’ve seen the tweets by now.”
Chibuzor nodded. “I have. Dominion over the deep dark interwebs means I hear everything first, and why I get a discount on your retainer fees.”
Kike bit into her burger, this time without enthusiasm and hard swallowed. She knew she’d need the fuel later in the day.
“It’s a veritable shit storm.” she complained. “Too much is riding on Panlam’s good behaviour for her to pull something like this. The MTV people haven’t indicated losing any interest in her directing the first season of their new show. They already love the pilot we shot for them.”
She switched to her email app and opened a conversation thread. Chibuzor skimmed as she scrolled, performing interest to assuage her. She stopped him at a particular email and zoomed in on a sentence.
“See here, they warned us that they didn’t want any scandals, at least not until the show was well underway. They warned that they’ll scrap her pilot and announce someone else as director if we brought even a hint of bad press their way.”
Chibuzor chose his next words carefully.
“Well, she is your client and you know she is hard to control. I did warn you not to take her on full time, create some distance between your brand and her antics. But you said she was one of your oldest friends…”
Kike gave him a look. “Our, she is one of our oldest friends.”
Chibuzor shook his head. “Clearly, we are in disagreement on that. Have you reached her to find out how she wants this to play out?”
Kike swiped to her call log and showed him the dozens of missed calls she’d left. He bit his lip.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, my point exactly. She is supposed to be a residency in Ghana, workshopping a script. The interview they are all quoting is the one she did there, even though I told her not to do any press in my absence.”
“Butttt… you have a plan.” Chibuzor replied. “You always have a plan.”
Kike’s face smoothed into an unreadable patina.
“I do.”
Chibuzor folded his arms over his chest. “I won’t like it, will I?”
Kike nodded in assent. “No, you won’t. That’s why I’m invoking all the favours you already owe me.”
“Madre De Dios!” Chibuzor swore. “Cover me from the foolishness of hetero women.”
Kike chose not to address his barb, she already had him where she needed him, vulnerable.
“An interview with her; a proper, no holds barred, get to the bottom of who she is as a person and why she is stirring up this mess now. You know, King Women from 2017 but not as self-congratulatory.”
Chibuzor pushed out of his chair and left her to finish the second platter while he sorted the bill at the Food Shack counter. When he returned, he was sporting a poker face of his own. He urged her to her feet and gestured that they walk. To her surprise, another Uber was already waiting outside the gate.
They slipped into the back of the car and Chibuzor asked the driver to start the trip.
“I’m going home, you want me to drop you off somewhere?”
Kike shook her head, she’d hoped he wasn’t going to make her drag this out.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
Chibuzor flushed with frustration. This was getting him more worked up than his session at i-Fitness.
“Baby girl, I love you more than life itself. When I was flailing, completely clueless as to what to do when that confessional video I did went viral and put a bullseye on my back, you swooped in and took over. You helped monetize my blog and socials and helped turn me into this money minting machine I’ve become. You’ve proven yourself repeatedly. With Farhad, with Saanyol, especially with Panlam. I am grateful, and I pay you handsomely to prove my gratitude.
“But nothing on God’s green earth will make me share a room with that self-centred, spoilt bitch. Nothing.”
Kike took his hand and squeezed, hoping the gesture would telegraph her feelings in the moment. He eyed her hand, utterly unconvinced.
“I’m asking you, as my oldest friend. You are the only person I can trust to be objective while handling this. Everyone knows you hate each other, you both have been very vocal about that over the last three years. If you do the expose, people will have no choice but to at least consider what she says. Plus it is in line with our plan to help you pivot into hard hitting journalism. That has to count for something, no?”
Chibuzor slid his hand gently out of hers.
“Nope, it doesn’t.”
The driver made eye contact through the rearview and pointed at his mounted phone. The trip had already started.
“Good luck with solving this mess Panlam is dragging you into,” Chibuzor said, “but I want none of it. Still need me to drop you off somewhere?”
Kike shrugged and exited the car.
“Don’t worry, I’ll just chill here for a bit. Forestall the inevitable.”
She held the door open and made eye contact.
“Just think about it,” she urged, holding Chibuzor’s shifty gaze. “I won’t script the interview or tell you what to ask her if you do it. It will be in your power to salvage this or destroy her. But it would be cowardly to not engage her at all. ”
Chibuzor let himself sink into his corner of the backseat. He grimaced as Kike waited for an answer.
“You know you’d make a great Claire Underwood.”
Kike made an exaggerated gesture of kneeling on the gravelly pavement.
“Oya, I’m actually on my knees begging your majesty.”
Chibuzor huffed in defeat. “I have heard, I’ll think about it. “
Kike rose and shut the passenger door. She tapped the boot of the car, alerting the driver to move. The Uber manoeuvred into the street and joined the express, speeding out of view.
She found her phone and redialled Panlam’s number. The call went unanswered.
“Fuck.” She cursed under her breath. “Make this easy for me.”
MMIA always brought mixed memories for Farhad. The last major altercation between his parents had happened in this very arrival hall, with other travellers watching in horror as his mother tore off her hijab, screaming as she gave his father a third and final Saki. Their marriage had been on a slow decline long before his father moved them to Lagos so he could be closer to the oil rig he had invested in and the Saudi partners into whose lifestyle of parties and petty infidelities he’d been absorbed. Their final fight was merely an eruption of resentment that had been bubbling for nearly a decade.
His mother had asked him to come back to Kaduna with her and find a way to resolve all the bad blood that had made him move cross country and change universities, but by then he’d grown to love Lagos too much to pick a side. He ended up losing with both. He deliberately ensured since then, that he only came to the airport to make good memories.
The other passengers grumbled around him as the minutes ticked well beyond the scheduled arrival time for the flight. That wasn’t new to him either, flights from this particular airline were always late and he’d grown to enjoy the wait. He rubbed his closely shaved scalp, reminiscing when he let his hair grow past his shoulders in chestnut ringlets, so he could properly milk the very Lagosian obsession with multi-racial people. He’d outgrown that phase, along with other things. She was still mad that he stopped letting his hair grow out, but it was one of the few things they’d just have to disagree on.
The airport intercom crackled to life, heralding the disembodied voice of the announcer in the tower.
“We are glad to announce that flight B-2114 from Accra, Ghana has arrived. We apologize again for the delay and thank you for your patience. Passengers are already disembarking and will join you shortly.”
He looked at his watch, the plane was just short of an hour behind schedule.
“About time.” He said.
The arrival lounge began to flood with tired passengers lugging suitcases behind them. Families melded with tired passengers, enveloping them with warm hugs and doting small talk. Farhad waited apart from the small pools of bodies and spied over their heads for her shock of fiery red hair. He spotted it, before he saw the rest of her, cocooned in a knee-length olive green kimono dress. Her face was bare, her notched ears free of jewellery. She noticed him and quickened her walk, almost running by the time she dropped her suitcase and wrapped her arms around his neck. He drew her in, pressing their bodies against each other.
They kissed full on the lips, her tongue nudging his mouth open so she could taste him. She giggled, marvelling at how hot and bothered this made him.
“No woman her age has any right to look as beautiful as you are, Panlam.” He whispered into her mouth.
They disengaged after a sinfully long time, and he gestured towards the exit, taking her travel case from her. Together they left the airport for the multi-tiered parking lot where a chauffeured car sat waiting for Farhad.
“Some of the people waiting were afraid the airline would freak out and take you guys back to Accra. The rains in Lagos have been apocalyptic.” He said, ushering her into the car.
Panlam nodded. “I wouldn’t blame them if they had. The turbulence was something else entirely. I was afraid for a bit there that God was about to blast me out of the sky for all my sins.”
Farhad gestured for the driver to exit the lot.
“If he was that kind of guy, you'd be dead already.”
Panlam rolled her eyes. “God is already punishing me if these are the quality of jokes you’re working with.”
Farhad nudged her playfully. “We have a few hours to kill, you want to go straight to the Legend or are you up for some food and some wooing.”
She looked out the window. She could see the silhouette of the Legend Hotel from where they were but she’d missed Lagos and its chaos. Just being inside it was stirring her chaotic evil energy and didn’t want to delay the inevitable.
“Food. Definitely food. And you know, nobody talks like that in real life, right?”
Farhad contorted his face in mock horror. “A director who doesn't appreciate good dialogue. What other ironies is the world going to send my way?”
“Let's go oh.” She replied, “I don't intend to starve to death because you think you're Clark Gable.”
#
They drove around Lagos for almost an hour looking for a decent restaurant that was still open past 9pm. It had taken three godawful hours to get out of the perpetual Ikeja - Maryland gridlock and by the time the driver started flooring down the Ikorodu expressway, they’d lost daylight and precious time. The usual suspects in Ikoyi were already closed or closing and he didn’t want to deal with the traffic at the Lekkoyi Bridge. A quick survey of Eat Drink Lagos reviews nudged them towards Victoria Island and the colossal entertainment complex that had grown around now modest conference buildings that originally populated the Landmark event centre.
“The crazy thing is, they are still building.” Farhad said, as they exited the car and let the driver find parking.
Hard Rock Cafe felt too American for Panlam’s tastes. ‘A dive bar’ was how she described the plaque filled interior and insisted they checked out the Asian restaurant next door.
“Gaudy, I love it.” She said, taking in the giant twin statues bowing slightly to patrons. “Maybe we should have branched the hotel after all. There’s a silk slip somewhere in my travel case that could have done this place justice.”
Farhad swirled a response in his cheek, sometimes it was hard to tell when Panlam was being sarcastic or serious.
“No, seriously this Shiro place is fancy as fuck.” she continued, picking up the menu and scanning its contents. “They fucking have Wagyu beef. Good Wagyu is nearly impossible to find outside of Japan. Like I wouldn’t be surprised if you brought me here so you could drop to one knee and spirit a tiffany box out of your ass.”
When he didn’t respond, she peeked at him over the menu.
“Waaiittttt… Did you have to reserve a table at this place?”
Farhad felt his mood souring. He’d forgotten about how much it triggered him when she indulged this side of herself.
“You've been in Lagos maybe three weeks to a month this entire year, and I've maybe seen you only once since February.” He said, “Can you please put the snark on pause for 24 hours and let yourself enjoy this?”
Panlam resisted the urge to volley a snappy retort, realising Farhad was using his serious voice.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, “you know I get edgy before a new project.”
“I know,” Farhad agreed, “that's why we're doing something nice, just the two of us. We don't get to do that very often and I want you to enjoy this.”
Instead of a response, she closed her eyes and zig-zagged a finger down the menu she’d set before herself. She stopped at random and opened her eyes to see what choice the universe had made for her. Her finger was smack on the Wagyu steak.
The waiter who took their order returned with the house chef, a portly Asian man with a black apron cinched neatly around his waist. He retook their orders himself, suggesting the best apertif to prep their palates for the evening’s food.
When the steaks came, they were better than anything she’d tasted at those fancy restaurants from her residency in New York with haughty guest lists and a voracious appetite for feteing ‘emerging’ talent with deep pockets and little sense. When they finished and the bill came, Farhad didn’t let Kike see it, even though she already knew how much their food cost. After all, she’d ordered. She joke lunged for the rice paper receipt, prompting Farhad to back out of her reach and nearly topple his chair.
“You know I have my own money abi?” She teased.
“I know.” Farhad replied, swiping his black Mastercard.
Their driver was waiting at the entrance of the restaurant when they came out.
“Four points or Eko Hotel?” He asked, putting his hand on her exposed thigh.
Panlam felt her insides flush. “Which one is closer?”
#
They were all over each other the minute the elevators opened, giggling as they gave the security team watching on the CCTVs installed in the hallway a show. By sheer force of will, they detached from each other long enough to open the door to their hotel room. Panlam slid past Farhad and dragged him in with her. She kicked the door shut, pushed Farhad against it. Her hands travelled in the darkness, deftly undoing the buckle of his belt.
“Panlam?” Farhad’s breath was so garbled, it came out as a growl.
Panlam flicked his trouser button open, and let the fabric pool at his ankles.
“Shhhhhh!” She hissed, slithering to her knees and taking all of him in her mouth. She urged him deeper, stopping only when her lipstick smudged against his hairless groin. He held still, knees locked as her head pistoned. Overwhelmed, he buckled slightly as trigger waves of pleasure radiated out into his limbs, feathering his brain.
“Oh God! Oh God!” He muttered, locked in the grip of the primal urge to fight or flee. There was only one choice.
He hooked his arms under Panlam’s armpits and hefted her above his waist. Familiar with this position, Panlam locked her ankles behind his glutes, anchoring herself to him. Their bodies slid up and down the glossy hotel door as they became a single multi limbed creature. As they fucked, the sound of their mutual satisfaction drowned out the electric hum of the room appliances, and echoed faintly in the hallway beyond, crowning with a tortured groan from Farhad.
He set her down gently and staggered on to the bed, kicking off his shoes. Panlam shed the crumpled mess that was her kimono as she followed and straddled him.
“You always come first.” she grinned, “and you always cry when we fuck like that.”
Farhad struggled to raise his head to meet her eyes. “I did, and I do.”
She smirked, “You’re welcome.”
He pressed himself against her groin so she could feel the party wasn’t quite over yet. “One more?”
Panlam laughed, raising herself enough to allow for manoeuvrability and guided herself onto him.
“How can I resist?”
She rocked him very slowly, hands on his muscled abdomen, fucking this time for intimacy. They kept the rhythm, bringing her insides to a convulsive peak. She whimpered, cursing quietly as her body gave in to tiny shudders. She collapsed on top of him, and fell asleep with his arms around her sweaty body.
#
He was awake and undressed by the time she woke up. A steaming cup was sitting on room’s work desk, steaming his face as he scrolled through his phone. Panlam purred in satisfaction.
“Thank you for coming to get me yesterday.”
He dropped the cup and got under the covers with her. She liked that he was warm and taut and naked and she briefly entertained the thought of straddling him again.
“I was texting with Kike.” He said.
She cringed. “Fuck! Does she know I’m back?”
He shook his head. “I thought you could do with a night to yourself before she starts hounding you. It still surprises me sometimes how she's become the most driven of all of us. The one always covering our asses.”
Panlam kicked off the covers and fished around the floor for her underwear.
“Yeah, it’d be amazing if she didn’t get so sanctimonious about it.”
Farhad chuckled at the sight of his on-again-off-again girlfriend rattled by the mere mention of their adolescent friendships.
“I think she's more than earned that right.”
Panlam glared at him as she pulled on sensible cotton briefs. Fancy lace shit didn’t wick sweat and she’d given up on synthetics years ago. It made her seem butch to new lovers, but she learned not to care. She took her toiletries bag and dipped into the bathroom to perform her ablutions.
Farhad pushed to the edge of the bed and pulled on his briefs. It was twilight, max 30 minutes before he had to leave himself.
“I did consider it.” He said.
“Consider what?” She replied, through a mouth of toothpaste.
Farhad mulled on his words, before releasing them piecemeal. “You know… springing a ring on you at Shiro... a new one with a white gold band. I have no idea why I never got rid of the one I got you two years ago. It’s always in my glove compartment.”
Panlam stuck her head out of the bathroom. The flouride foam coating her mouth made her look like she’d just come out of a seizure.
“That’s good to know.”
“You sound very enthusiastic.” He said, a little hurt by her dismissal.
She took a face towel and wiped her mouth.
“I think I have been consistently clear where I stand on marriage.”
“I’m not asking you to marry me.”
“Not anymore.”
He joined her in the bathroom and watched her through the lit mirror as she cycled wordlessly through an oil cleansing routine.
“I want to say I'm happy with this arrangement, but I'm not. I love you. You're the last person I thought I'd fall in love with, yet here we are.”
Panlam refused to meet his gaze. She didn’t need this, not today, not here.
“I don't want anything from you that you won't willingly give me, I just need to know if this will ever go anywhere.”
“Farhad, stop.” she warned.
“I know what you're going to say and I don't believe it. We work. It's been four years and I still get hard at the sight of you. And when we're not fucking, I still want to be around you. Why won't you even consider this?”
“Because I don’t want to. This is not about you.” She replied, raising her voice to match his earnestness.
He took the cotton pad she was wiping with out of her hand and turned her to him. She was furious, but he didn’t care.
“I'm not asking you to give up anything for me, Panlam. I just don't want to fuck in hotel rooms like I'm ashamed of you or something. Why are you so afraid of being associated with me?”
Panlam wrested herself free of him and slipped back into the bedroom. She put her travel case on the bed and sorted through it, busying herself so she didn’t have to acknowledge her fury head on. Her chest was so raw it felt like she would spontaneously combust.
“Four years ago, when you first asked me to get serious with you. I did something I never thought in a million years I'd do. I begged Saanyol to choose me. I needed to know once and for all where I stood with him. So I asked him, and he didn't choose me.”
Farhad followed, but gave her distance. He knew he’d pushed her too much already.
“That was four years ago, I don't care.” he said.
“But I do. I can't not care. I’m trying not to be the kind of person who does something like that and doesn't 'care' afterwards.
“I knew Kike always knew we used to fuck, but she didn't know we were still fucking back then. I told her and it broke her. I ended their marriage, maybe ruined Adeola's life. I can’t get past that.”
“Kike’s forgiven you. So has Saanyol. You need to let this go.”
She ignored him, pulling on a shirt and jeans she’d set out. She stuffed the Kimono into the travel case, put it in the wardrobe and headed for the door. Farhad didn’t follow, he knew he couldn’t stop her from leaving.
“I wish it worked like that. I really do.” She said, more to herself than him.
She paused at the threshold, looking back at him. He took her uncertainty as an invitation and crossed the room to her. She let him hug her and kissed him gently on the cheek before pushing him back into the belly of the room.
“What now?” He asked.
“l’ll call you.” she lied.
Tariebi hated shoot days. She’d hated them as a model, but she hated them even more as a creative director. All they meant were long hours babying models, makeup artists and confused but entitled designers who came to her with lean budgets and ridiculous expectations. Sure, she’d worked her ass off to get to a place where she was no longer at the mercy of photographers or casting directors, but independence came with its own bullshit. She’d take 10 hours of post-production edits than three hours wrangling people for a shoot.
She thought of this as she detoured through Osbourne Road and past the Maison Kayser, her favourite restaurant. She wanted ice-cream but it wouldn’t be open for another two hours. Barely anywhere was open this early, but bitter experience had taught her, if she wasn’t out of the mainland before the morning rush hour, her entire day would be fucked.
She floored her Honda Crosstour down Kingsway Road, not letting up till she was past the Falomo Bridge. She only slowed as she got to the entrance gate at 1004 so the security guards stationed there could check her boot. She refused to make eye contact as they ingratiated themselves with her, hoping to score some change. It took her 20 minutes and two detours to find the right apartment block and by then her patience was all but shot.
She punched the car horn and stuck her head out of the driver’s window to yell as the complex’s janitorial staff stopped their work to stare at her.
“Saanyol! Get your ass down here!”
Saanyol poked his head out from the third floor balcony, shirtless and drowning under the weight of three large equipment bags.
“Jesus Christ Tari! This is a residential complex.”
“Then get your ass downstairs! My staff are already at the shoot venue waiting for us.”
“Can you chill? I need to get Adeola into his day clothes.”
Tariebi rapped her knuckles as a way to dispel tension. The boy was like 7 years old and could dress himself but of course, trust Saanyol to wave being a parent as a get-out-of-jail-free card. She put the car in reverse and backed onto the concrete landing of the ground floor of the complex till her car was mere inches away from the exposed staircase. He appeared a few seconds later Adeola in tow, raised an eye at Tariebi’s atrocious parking and began hauling his bags into the open boot. The boy climbed into the backseat while he made a second trip to bring the rest of the equipment. Tariebi made eye contact through the rearview and grinned.
“My small husband, I haven’t seen you in weeks. Is your father trying to scatter our marriage?”
Adeola leaned in and hugged her around the headrest of the driver’s seat.
“Hi Aunty T.” He said bashfully.
Saanyol sat shotgun and buckled himself in, catching the tail end of their exchange.
“Don’t let Kike catch you calling her child your husband. She’ll skin you alive.” He said, and snapped to get Adeola’s attention, “young man… seat belt.”
She laughed. “Don't you have to actually be present in your child's life to police what other people call them?”
He shushed her and fished in his backpack for a pair of headphones and his iPad, handing them over to the boy and gesturing for him to get busy.
“What did we say about saying things that we don’t repeated to Kike?” He said to Tariebi, enunciating each word as though she were Adeola’s age.
She raised her hands in mock surrender and accelerated, upsetting the carefully stacked equipment in the boot. Saanyol pulled the backpack with all his precious lenses closer to himself and tried to ignore her. She was clearly on some other shit today.
#
The conference room at the Renaissance in Ikeja was as big as Tariebi had described. What she failed to mention was that the space had impossibly high ceilings and no windows, completely derailing all Saanyol’s plans to shoot with natural lighting. He tried not to sulk as he assembled his fourth set of lights, adjusting them in concert with the interior decorator who was repositioning the wall of flowers she’d created for the shoot. Tariebi’s assistants hovered around him, waiting for instructions, but he’d learned long ago that he had to do the assembling and disassembling of his precious equipment himself if he didn’t want any stories later on.
Adeola sat with Tariebi at the other end of the room playing on his iPad while she watched. She ruffled his hair and excused herself as a call came in, crossing the room to join Saanyol as he instructed the assistants on how best to place the fourth installation to soften the harsh overhead lighting of his first two rigs. She gestured to the phone, putting the call on speaker. It took a few seconds before the person on the other end of the video call realised there were people waiting for her to speak.
“Talk to me.” Louise said, putting her phone up to her face long for them to see that it was really her, before she dropped it and returned to some other task.
“Shebi you know this is your own shoot,” Tariebi said, exasperated by their friend. “Not mine, not Saanyol’s. What possessed you to insist on a casting literally hours before we have to shoot, I’ll never know. But you have to get your ass here in max an hour or I’m cancelling the shoot and still billing you full price.”
“Me too.” Saanyol chimed.
Louise peeked back at her phone, showing only a small fraction of her face.
“I swear to God, this isn’t my fault at all. I promise, I’m on my way. The reason I got delayed is super embarrassing but it wasn’t something I could just ignore.”
A squeal from the other end of the room made them turn. Adeola was so engrossed in whatever he was doing that he didn’t realise how much of a racket he was making. Saanyol shook his head.
“Can you hear that Louise?” he said, pointing the phone in the direction of his son. “I couldn’t find anyone to babysit Adeola either so I brought my problems to work with me. If I can man cameras, scout for models for you and still look after my son, you can make it on time to your shoots.”
She let them see her properly. Lines of foundation baking on her brow and cheeks made the redness of her eyes more obvious and her voice hitched up an octave, the way it did when she was about to cry.
“Just start without me. I’m fine with whoever you choose model wise. See you in an hour or less.” she said.
“Are you sure?” Saanyol asked, realising that maybe they’d misinterpreted this mood as her usual tardiness.
“Sure.” she replied and ended the call before either person could get a word in.
Tariebi shrugged, “The queen has spoken.”
She opened the door to the conference room to address the nearly 50 girls who were standing outside, tense with what she recognised as nervous energy. She didn’t miss that either.
She raised her voice so everyone could hear.
“Hello everyone, castings are officially open, Felix will explain how the whole casting will work and Biola will help situate you for headshots. Good luck.”
#
By the time Saanyol and Tariebi had gotten through the first fifty-ish girls at the beginning of the casting, another hundred seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, throwing their schedule out of whack. But they worked well together, and they’d done enough shoots for Jardin De Mamie to have a fairly accurate idea of the kind of girls Louise preferred for her label. A quick nod indicated models they considered strong, a second walk meant they were undecided about the walk but sold on the face, follow up questions were to confirm the girls were not from the agency with the asshole scout.
Biola and Felix, Tariebi’s assistants were old hands and quickly whittled down the girls to the sixty who got headshots and tested for the final castings.
“It’s been two and a half hours and she still isn’t here.” Saanyol whispered to Tariebi as a coltish model clopped to their table. “This girl is honest to goodness not going to show up for this shoot.”
Tariebi crossed the girl’s name off her list as she asked for a second walk through, nodding appropriately as the model gave them her stats. Saanyol glared at the model who was trying to eavesdrop, and sent her skittering away.
“It hasn’t hit her yet that the jump from fast fashion to premium will literally obliterate her business if she doesn’t start taking this seriously. Does she understand this shit is bigger than her daddy’s money?”
“A few years ago, we were saying the same thing about you.” Tariebi said quietly.
“And I grew up and got over it.” Saanyol whispered back, a little more forceful than he’d intended.
“Then give her the same kind of grace that was extended to you.”
Saanyol bit his response and diverted his focus back to the models, sufficiently chastened. They were in the home stretch and would serve them to get into an argument now, but he made a mental note to revisit the conversation when they started shooting proper.
Once the polaroids were done, choosing the models to work on the day’s campaign with was relatively easy. Louise wanted ‘every day girls’ who worked well with the test make up and had a strong walk for the wall of models idea she had to close her debut couturier show in the coming weeks. They picked the strongest three and congratulated the remaining thirty-four girls before allowing Biola and Felix deal with the administrative drudgery of taking their numbers and measurements.
Adeola woke just in time to see the campaign models, transformed by makeup, multi-tiered gowns and the patina of industrial sized lighting into sea nymphs in an artificial glade. He watched as Tariebi directed and Saanyol shot, working out the best poses for each outfit, the strain showing on the models as they bared plastic smiles like masks to hide their fatigue.
“What did you mean by what you said earlier?” Saanyol asked as they shot a particularly complex ensemble, aiming for disinterest and failing terribly.
“I said, with how good you are a photographer, I could same the very same shit about you.” Tariebi replied, indulging him. “With your talent, you should be shooting magazine covers across Africa, and maybe even Europe.”
She paused the shooting to dip in and fix a drooping cap sleeve, “You have the buzz and the privilege to enter spaces other photographers only dream of. Do you know much easier it is for me to find a girl international placement after they pose for you?”
“That's the difference between me and Louise, Tariebi. Between me and Chibuzor, me and you, me and Panlam.” Saanyol replied before informing the crew he had a few frames left to go change before they could change into the next campaign look. “I have nothing to prove to anyone, not even myself. Photography is a great hobby that has served me well. But when it's all cut and dried, it's just that, a hobby.
Tariebi laughed, distracting the models who she was contorting into a tangle of limbs in an attempt to replicate ‘The Birth of Venus’.
“We've known each other for way too long for me to believe that Saanyol. You probably only come for the prime real estate at these model castings.”
Saanyol nudged the model who’d goofed back into the right pose for the shot.
“Stick thin, and slightly desperate doesn’t appeal to me anymore.”
“It used to.”
“And again people are allowed to outgrow things. You love the thrill of finding a new girl with a sick walk, but at the end of the day, this is a job for you, one Louise pays handsomely for. I'm not here for the money, I wouldn't take it if you didn't insist.”
Tariebi backed off, unwilling to set Saan off. He was her preferred photographer because he basically charged her peanuts for the quality of work he put out for her. The home stretch was often the hardest for the models, but Saanyol was gentle with them, allowing them take stretch breaks and gently guiding them into more comfortable poses. That kind of chemistry was hard to find.
Tariebi took numbers and social media for the final three herself before sending them off and helping Saanyol unpack. By the time they finished Adeola was well into his second nap of the day and Saanyol came for him last, after all the equipment were safely back in hers boot and her assistants dispatched.
A text came in as they laid Adeola out on the car’s back seat and strapped him in.
It was from Louise.
So sorry guys, I really couldn’t deal with the shoot today. Hiding out at Samantha’s Bistro, pass by if you can?
#
“Why are we doing this?” Tariebi asked as they drove down the Ikorodu expressway.
“Do you have anything more pressing to do?” Saanyol asked sarcastically.
“Yes actually, Louise’s couture show is in a month, and she’s flying down two international editors, I need to be making arrangements for them. If only you were my agency photographer, half of my work would already be done.”
Saanyol groaned, he knew she would find a way to circle back to their earlier conversation. She was like the older sister he never had, the one who indulged him but expected unquestioned loyalty in return. She already knew the story, but it was the only thing that could get her to drop her quest for him to go pro with his photography.
“When my mom was dying after the divorce was finalized, I'd sit by her bed and wonder who she was. I didn't ask my father, because it was obvious he had no idea either. Her mother was old money, but she spent her entire life working, terrified that the money would somehow disappear.”
He thumbed the vintage heirloom locket around his neck, surprised that talk of her still made him emotional.
“The conservatorship to her estate only transfers to me when I turn 40. She really thought she was going to live that long. If I’m going to do photography the way you want me to, then Adeola will have to grow up with two absent parents. That’s a generational curse I’m going to break.”
Tariebi made eye contact through the rear view mirror, and mimed zipping her lips. They drove in silence through 3MB and on to Osborne, and for the third time that day, Tariebi joined the rush hour traffic on Kingsway to reach Samatha’s Bistro.
“You want to leave him in the car?” Tariebi asked as they found parking.
“He gets nightmares when he’s out for too long. Better if he is with me when he wakes up.”
They found Louise seated outside, in a silk pyjama set and a full face of makeup, smoking a pack of Malboros and nursing a cocktail. She was skinnier than either of them remembered, with sunken shoulder blades and gaunt model cheeks. She’d been talking about a keto diet the last time the two of them saw her to discuss the shoot. But she was also drinking, so maybe that wasn’t the cause of this new weight loss. Louise waved them into the other seats and pushed the menu away from herself.
“My treat,” she said, “How was the casting? Did we get any good girls?”
Saanyol fired up his Mac and inserted the memory stick. Dozens of thumbnails filled his screen and he turned it over to Louise and clicked a button to start a slide show.
“First three for the campaign, the remaining 57 for you to thin down to your final 33.”
Louise stared blankly as the first few images flitted past the screen as the server came to their table and deposited a round of cocktails. Then she reached over and shut the laptop.
“I trust your judgment Saan. Whoever you pick is who we’re going with. Has Kike told you anything about this mess with Panlam?”
“Other than the fact that Panlam has been back in Nigeria for five days and hasn't checked in? No, not really.”
Tariebi rolled her eyes. “She's probably somewhere with Farhad, spending his oil money, fucking his brains out and laughing about how much damage she's caused this time.”
Louise’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You know about that?”
Saanyol laughed. “Pretty much everyone who knows them knows at this point. They haven't been very discreet about it. And yes, they started dating after Kike and I’s separation. I also know you know about me and Chibuzor. I wasn’t exactly the most discreet person either.”
“That wasn’t a phase?” Louise asked, in spite of herself.
Saanyol was curt. “No, Chibuzor was this close to happening. But he didn't want a three year old. And he wanted commitment. Leave my parents, start a new life where being together was legal if we were going to do the couple thing.”
He drew in a deep sigh and drank deeply of his cocktail. “It didn't work out.”
They drank in silence for the next thirty minutes, unsure of how to proceed past the blunt coming out speech Saanyol had just subjected them to. Saanyol ordered a second round of beers for himself and Tariebi and another daiquiri for Louise; three friends fatigued for very different reasons.
“Oh okay,” Louise ventured, breaking the silence. “So... is the 'co-parenting' thing working out for you?”
Saan adjusted Adeola as though to shield him from Louise's scrutiny.
“We're figuring it out as we go along. Kike's career is taking off so she has less and less free time. And now this thing with Panlam has come out of nowhere and blindsided both of us and all our plans.”
“That sucks,” Louise shrugged, “Should I apologise first or just go straight to why I didn’t come.”
Tariebi called the waiter and ordered another round for everyone.
“Start talking.”
Louise took a moment to gather herself.
“So, I want to give you a full download of last night, but I don’t remember any of it, other than there was a lot of alcohol, and this souvenir.”
She ran a hand through her hair, pushing the expensive mop away from her forehead. Underneath it sat a huge welt, bad enough that the coat of foundation on top of it couldn’t disguise the discolouration of the bruised skin.
“My dad woke me up,” she continued, lifting her daiquiri to her lips. “He came with the official convoy first thing this morning furious as -”
“No offence, but your father is more than a little psycho.” Saanyol cut in. “He is still doing that till now?”
“Yes,” Louise said, defeated. “It was good though, they had to break the door, 10 minutes more and I might have drowned in my own vomit.”
Tariebi gave Louise a once over. Other than the welt and her eyes, there was no evidence of the morning she’d had.
“Please help me understand.”
Louise rubbed her temples. “Sorry I still have a small headache. His escorts had to break the door. Good thing it has that stained glass facade. I passed out, I had vomited at some point, and wasn’t coherent enough to move myself to a bathroom. But that wasn’t what made him mad.”
“Nah, please be joking.” Tariebi said.
“I wish I was. I wasn’t alone.”
“How do you mean?”
“I was naked, with the new gardener. I don’t remember it but we clearly fucked. He’s only 22, I feel like an idiot.”
“Is the boy okay?” Tariebi asked.
Louise shook her head. “His orderlies took turns slapping the daylights out of the poor boy while he made me watch, then fired him.”
She shook the straw out of her daiquiri and tried to down it, overestimating how much fluid was left and splashing ice and reddened syrup on to her chin. She wiped clumsily and tried again, slurping greedily for the alcohol floating underneath the ice. It was clear then that Louise had been drinking long before they arrived and was well past tipsy. That explained why they hadn’t seen her car when they arrived.
“He thinks I’m doing this to spite him, to make myself undesirable so he can’t force me into another loveless marriage.” she said, and gestured for the waiter.
Tariebi and Saanyol shared a look, glad that they had agreed to come check on her after all.
“Louise, I think we should get you a cab. Maybe take some time and sleep it off.” Tariebi said as Saanyol ordered an Uber.
Louise tried to stand but struggled to find her balance. She sat back down, laughing mirthlessly at her helplessness.
“You’re right, maybe I should head home.”
They dismissed the waiter and provided distraction till the cab came. Saanyol settled Adeola into his seat and helped Tariebi guide Louise safely inside into the car, taking the driver’s number to ensure she got home safe. She slurred at the waiter behind the counter to put their bill on her tab and mumbled an apology as the Uber drove off, taking her back to her Ikoyi apartment. Saanyol looked back at their table and the empty cocktail glasses Louise had left behind and sighed.
“How did things get so fucked up with her?”