6 am in Lagos.

"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine." ~ Casablanca, 1942.

EXT. LAGOS CITY - INNER STREETS - SUNSET

Somewhere on a bridge in CMS, Lagos, the golden hues of a dying sun glistens over the shimmering lagoon.

In the chaotic streets, the scene before us is a warm, ethereal glow of sunset.

The CAMERA gracefully glides through the lively chaos, capturing fragments of everyday life. The never-ending clusters of yellow danfo buses, agberos, and their throaty chatter beckoning on passersby.

Street vendors hawking their wares, the melodic chatter of bargaining. The symphony of car horns blending into a vibrant urban soundtrack.

Amidst faint echoes of all these chaos, the delicate notes of Ludwig Van Beethoven's "Für Elise" fill the air, infusing the scene with a touch of classical elegance.

CUT TO:

EXT. IKOYI REGISTRY - DAY

The CAMERA zooms in on IKOYI REGISTRY. A stately building radiating an aura of significance and anticipation. The scene is framed with a sense of ceremony, as a couple stands before an officiant. Their eyes locked in a shared promise of forever. The CLAPPERBOARD SLAMS, marking the beginning of their union. All the while, the familiar strains of "Für Elise" provide a timeless backdrop, serenading their journey into matrimony.

CUT TO:

EXT. ITALIAN RESTAURANT - DUSK

The CAMERA elegantly pans across the shimmering façade of an ITALIAN RESTAURANT. A warm glow spills onto the sidewalk. The clinking of glasses, the laughter of diners, and the tantalizing aroma of culinary delights envelop the air. Inviting passersby into a world of indulgence and intimacy. As the scene unfolds, the enchanting melody of "Für Elise" weaves its way through the atmosphere. Adding a touch of artistry to the ambiance, harmonizing with the gentle murmur of conversations and infusing the moment with a layer of timeless beauty.

The street, now transformed by the setting sun, becomes a backdrop for newfound connections and shared experiences. Couples strolling arm in arm. Friends engrossed in animated conversation, and the occasional passerby. Their faces illuminated by the soft radiance of the restaurant, paint a picture of vibrant urban life. All the while, Beethoven's masterpiece continues to grace the evening air. Lending a touch of musical poetry to the scenes unfolding before us.

The camera lingers for a moment. It captures the vivacity and charm that radiate from the Italian restaurant.

With the timeless strains of "Für Elise" resonating in the background, the scene is set, hinting at the stories waiting to unfold within these walls.

NARRATOR (V.O.):

I have bad news for you; you can’t find love in Lagos. 

But not me, though. I knew I had found the love of my life the moment I stepped into this restaurant called “La Veranda” somewhere on Victoria Island here in Lagos. From outside, the warm glow from the sleepy ambiance inside would draw you in like a yellow light bulb attracts a moth. Maybe we are all moths even. The way we saunter, run or even crawl toward any source of light. Either metaphorically or even literally. 

Victoria Island breathes differently on a Saturday evening. That’s where you find a lot of these Italian cuisines or those pretending to be to rip you off your hard-earned 9-5 earnings. 

But, hey, I digress. 

It was where she suggested, and I remember I swiped from Tinder to Safari too quickly to Google where La Veranda was. The bold-font time on my phone read “6 pm.”

That was over two hours ago. 

And as I made my way into the restaurant to find her waiting in the middle of the room. There were a handful of bourgeois-looking diners in the room and immediately she stood out wearing a beige silk, sleeveless dress. I recognized her immediately even though I had never seen her until now. She held the stem of a Pinot Noir red wine glass and lifted the bowl to kiss her chestnut lips. My God, she made sipping wine look so godly like a Sade Adu song slowly wafting away from a vintage record player. 

We had a reservation for 8 pm, but I arrived 20 minutes past 8. I was a perpetual latecomer, and I had come to accept it. Not because I wanted to be, but because things just happened, you know. Some days I just lost track of time doing the most mundane things, then I spent the next few minutes racing against time in a city as clogged as Lagos where everyone is either running away from something or running after something. 

But tonight, I was sorry I was late. Not like it was my fault, but I was late because I couldn’t decide whether or not I should bring her a present. 

I didn’t. 

I thought that was too corny. 

That, and the fact that I ran into a traffic jam on Third Mainland Bridge on my way from my house somewhere in Yaba. Then I got into a little argument with my Bolt driver. 

So, I waded my way through the clusters of tables, chairs, and people. She raised her head while I was about less than two yards away from her and smiled. What a relief, I thought. I had imagined her to be livid like I would have been, but there she was; smiling, even warmer than the ambiance of the restaurant. 

If I hadn’t mentioned that earlier–I met her on Tinder just two hours ago and I knew I was already in love with her as I pulled a chair from her table. She kept eye contact as I allowed myself to sink into the blue velvet chair just opposite hers.

Her name was Magajiya. 

I Googled it when we matched on Tinder–fuck it, I Google everything. It meant Heiress. I wondered; heiress to which throne? She had her Instagram handle somewhere on her Tinder profile, so I copied it to snoop around a bit. 

Her profile smelt like old money. She had three pictures pinned to her page, and one of them was a picture of her and her family. Her father looked like one of those men who came to Lagos from Northern Nigeria in the 70s, and after 5 decades, he had made a fortune, tripled it, started a family, and never looked back.

“You are late,” she said while locking her eyes with mine, a small smile stopping halfway through her lips. 

“Yea,” I grunted as I signaled at the waiter, “I am sorry, I am not usually like this,” I lied. 

She kept her smile, almost as if she knew I was lying. “It’s fine,” She folded her napkin elegantly while keeping her eyes on me. “I know how Lagos can be,” she said with the smile still stuck halfway on her face. “The traffic gets us all fucked up. But I’m lucky I stay close by so it was easy getting here.”

“Oh really?” I raised my brows as I watched her pour me a drink. “I guess I am not so lucky. I got stuck in traffic on Third Mainland.” 

By the time the waiter arrived with the menu, we were both lost in a discussion about Lagos and traffic. That’s the Lagos way; one good way to break the ice is to talk about the traffic or the weather, and the series of unfortunate events you ran into on your way, or this or that. 

I wanted to compensate for being a latecomer, you know, to make up for it. So I reached into the deepest parts of my coffers and told jokes I had never told any girl before. Ok, maybe some that I had used once. Only once. It worked like crazy, 10 more minutes into the date, she was stifling her laughter, threatening to burst into a thunderous round. 

I simply sat back and let her laugh like a master watching his creation manifest. It was one thing that I loved doing; just doing things for and to people because I could. 

You see when I am attracted to a girl, I start by anchoring the date, taking the lead. I talk and talk and feed her with my new obsession. Then when I find out that I like her–that I truly like her–I subconsciously slip into passenger mode and let her take the steering wheel. I let her steer me in whatever direction she wanted. Forward, backward, like the lyrics of Sunny Ade’s “Esubiribiri Ebomi.” 

In this case, I simply let Magajiya talk while I listened. She had an accent I couldn’t place. 

I loved the way the lights touched her face, the contours that her high cheekbones made. The lines and hollow dips on her cheeks were where the shadows hid. She looked better than a motion picture. The kind of image a photographer would see before he even took the picture. It also didn’t help that I am a filmmaker, and my forte is seeing frames, scenes, and cinema before they even fit into the lens of a camera. In this case, my ears filtered out the simultaneous chatter from other diners, and my eyes zoomed out and zoomed in till she was all I could see. 

I knew I was in love with this woman I met some three hours ago, and I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, too. But I am a man of methods, so I sat back and watched her talk through her wine glass, or sometimes with her mouth full of chicken. 

We ordered a plate of Chicken Milanese, Beef Carpaccio Di Manzo, and some others I can’t pronounce or even forgot how to spell. 

I signaled to the waiter–a young man who looked just about the same age range as I was, a napkin over his arm, looking all curt and tidied. I wanted to try more drinks, so I ask, “Could you recommend a bottle of white wine for this dish?”

Magajiya locked her brows and smiled over her meal. Her mahogany skin eclipsed the best furniture that was polished to the finest in the room. She had men shifting their focus away from their dates to steal glances at her. 

Even the waiter, I saw the way he looked at her when he leaned closer to the table. “Sir, I know something you’d love.” He smiled, snapped his fingers, and gave a curt bow to Magajiya who smiled back before he melted out of sight. 

I loved it, though. I loved the attention she commanded. I could picture what our kids would look like. They’d look like demigods, I thought. I let myself get immersed in delusion every day, It’s how I make the most unimaginable things happen. It’s how I meet the finest women in Lagos. It’s how I got a column in the New Yorker. It’s how I’m getting Netflix to produce a film I wrote. It was how I would get this woman to marry me and have my kids. 

“So, tell me” Magajiya started, took a pause to chew on something she impaled with her fork, then continued, “What do you do?” 

“I thought you’d never ask,” I said, looking over the top of her head to scan the room for the waiter. 

“I couldn’t find any clue on what you do on your Tinder profile,” she smiled. “So tell me, you seem quite interesting, I bet you don’t have a boring job.”

I nodded. “I quit my 9-5 in finance two years ago to pursue my filmmaking career.”

“Ouuuuu…’

“So, yea, you won that bet. I don’t have a regular, ‘boring’ job as you would call it. But I am currently unemployed.”

“I’ve never seen an employed filmmaker,” Mahajiya said. 

“Ohhhh!” I was smiling hard; almost laughing. 

“Not what you are thinking,” she held up her hand, dropped her head, and shook it while laughing. “That came out wrongly, that’s not what I meant to say.”

“I know,” I assured her. 

“I meant to say, filmmakers are mostly, you know…” she gestured vaguely with her hands as she grimaced at something she was trying to swallow. “Are you okay?” I asked. “Yea,” she answered. “You know filmmakers make films, and they are not exactly hired by a company, correct me if I’m wrong.”

I smiled in silence. I was deeply enthralled by the weight of her aura. 

“You see,” she said and raised her brows in a rhythmic fashion. 

The waiter arrived at the table with a chilled bottle of San Giovanni and placed it on the table with such finesse and fashion you only see from performers and showboaters. 

“Thank you,” I said as I watched him clear out the plates and cutleries from the table. As soon as the waiter left the table, I poured some white wine into Magajiya’s glass. As much as she was enchanting, I knew I had her where I wanted. I had quite the reputation to charm anyone I wanted in Lagos. I had a shot accuracy percentage of 90%, and that’s a lot more clinical than the greatest strikers in history. 

Except that I wasn’t a striker, I wasn’t playing to play. Here, at La Veranda, was where I fell in love. And it’s quite ironic that people say you won't find love in Lagos. 

We’ve said this so much that it had either become the truth by the force of repetition or just another urban myth when you factor how many folks tie the knot at the Ikoyi registry every fucking Saturday. But, you know, as they say, marriage isn’t a testament to love. Or even romance. I wondered how many of those marriages were stories of survival, security, necessity, and tolerance. Not pure, unadulterated romance that smelt like scented candles and sounds like a Mavin Gaye song. 

“So, what about you?” I asked. “What do you do?”

“I’m a tailor. A bespoke tailor,” she answered with so much pride.

We spent the next 20 minutes talking about her business. She owned a shop here on Victoria Island. That’s mad,  I thought. Then she swiped her phone open, googled her business, and showed me some of her clients and I could see how packed her résumé was. She made clothes for people of timber and caliber. I saw why she referred to herself as a ‘tailor’ instead of the pretentious ‘fashion designer’ people use these days. Even when she was both a fashion designer and a tailor. She held a fashion show in Italy a month ago, and another one is coming up in France, then another in Japan, then another in Cape Town. She told me was working on collaborating with some big names in world fashion and I was so proud of her even though I had just met her. 

“So tell me more about your filmmaking,” she said right before she held the stem of her wine glass, preparing to throw the content into her mouth. 

I leaned back into the warmth of my chair and started. I told her about the series I was working on. I told her I don’t usually tell people about the plot until I was done, but I told her anyway. 

She smiled and said: thank youuuuu.

I told her about the filmmaking column I got in the New Yorker, then I told her about the short movie I made when I was in Kenya that bagged about 6 awards from two continents. 

She said: wow, and clapped. 

I didn’t tell her about my Netflix film that I knew was about to change my life for good. Neither did I tell her about my upcoming project with Martin Scorcese. Neither did I tell her I had written a film about the two of us in my head where we got married and lived happily ever after. I didn’t tell her about these because even when I wasn't superstitious, I somehow believed in jinxes. So I didn't tell people what I wanted to do until I had succeeded with it. 

Then she said this.

And I said that.

She said this.

And I said that.

Then she said this. 

And she said that.

She said this. 

And she said that. 

She was a happy woman, and she always had a smile creasing the corners of her lips. She was mischievous, too and she would tell me to look at someone behind who was wearing something funny. She’d ask me to glance gently so I didn’t make it obvious we were talking about them, then she would stifle her laughter. 

A woman passed our table and she nudged my feet to look at her dress, and in 5 minutes, she broke down everything that was wrong and right and wrong about her outfit. 

Magajiya was insufferable, but I loved every bit of it. 

I went to the restroom to wash the alcohol away from my eyes because reality was getting alluringly blurry. But the sparkling water from the bathroom sink did little to make any difference. The bathroom was quiet, except for the noise of someone throwing up in the sink far down my left while the hissing sound of the tap punctuated the air. 

I brushed my suit and straightened my jacket before I headed back to Magajiya. Her eyes had the same subtle glimmer I saw in mine when I stared into the mirror. Like fractured fragments of light bouncing within a kaleidoscope. Her pupils, slightly dilated, held a mysterious depth, inviting you to explore the secrets hidden within their inebriated state.

I checked my analog watch; it was 10 minutes past 10. La  Veranda closes at 10:30 pm. 

“It’s getting late,” I said as I signaled to the waiter. “We should leave before they kick us out,” I let out a small awkward laugh. 

Magajiya sat still, staring straight into my eyes. She didn’t say a word. The distant chatter of diners and the faint melody of Southern Italian music contributed to the sensory tapestry that enveloped us at that moment. The restaurant seemed to hush in reverence as if it recognized the significance of this moment. Or maybe the wine was blocking out the noise in my head. 

When the waiter came, the atmosphere crackled with a blend of romance and the air was beginning to smell sensual. The evening was drawing to a close.

The enchanting ambiance of the restaurant amplified whatever the connection between the two of us. Or whatever connection I thought there was. It was as if the air hummed with an unspoken understanding that this was a moment worth cherishing.

Like I was living in the best of times.

Magajiya said something that we both laughed about and just as our laughter subsided, the waiter approached with the bill. 

With a swift motion, she reached for the bill, attempting to hijack the moment, almost as if she wanted me to know how independent and generous she was.

I’ve met women like her before—the ones who fight tooth and nail to prove in subtle manners that they are not looking for your money.

It doesn’t matter anyway.

She let this wave of affection and admiration wash over me, as I marvel at her spirited resolve.

But I just couldn’t help it, perhaps it’s just ingrained chivalry, something deep within me stirred an innate desire to protect and cherish her, to make sure that this evening remained unblemished by the complexities of subtle politics.

So I reach out in a gentle yet firm motion, and placed my hand over the small tenderness of hers. Our touches interlaced like a perfect fit. My eyes met hers and for a brief moment, a silent conversation passed between us.

Magajiya wouldn’t back down, I’ve only spent about two hours with her, and I already knew she was strong-willed. I think it was what stirred me even harder in her direction, if you asked me this on a regular day, I wouldn’t divulge that information. But it was what made my heart yearned to sweep her off her feet, to demonstrate that chivalry had not faded entirely into the annals of history.

After our little tango of Toco y Me Voy, my voice broke the silence.

"Allow me, Magajiya. This evening has been extraordinary, you showed up already, so let me take care of this small gesture.” 

Her resistance flickered momentarily. She hesitated, her lips parting as if to object, but my hand over hers silenced her, urging her to relinquish control for just a moment. I wanted to tell her it was okay for her to let go and free fall, and I would be the safety net, waiting just below to catch and cushion her.

It was not about money nor power, but rather about creating a memory. Or maybe it was the masculine urge to always put a foot forward. Or it was the inherent masculine ego to demonstrate security. 

As the waiter patiently waited for our decision, I snatched the bill off his hands. With a graceful nod and a genuine smile, I handed over my UBA MasterCard, watching as the waiter melted out of sight.

When the waiter returned with my card, I asked her, “Did you drive here?” I extended a hand to help her off her seat. 

“No, I booked a ride,” she answered. “What about you?”

“Same,” I answered as I pushed the chair back in place. 

I held Magajiya’s hand while I led the way out of the restaurant. First, I fell in love with the ambiance, then I fell in love with the woman I saw in the middle of the room. With each blink, my eyelids moved with languid grace, as if the weight of the evening was resting on them. The usual sharpness and focus had begun to waver. The wine had smudged the corners and edges of my eyes, leaving me with an ethereal vision that I was absolutely loving.

I offered to take Magajiya home first then head back to my house in Yaba. 

Her eyes shot up with concern as she tightened her grip on my wrist, “isn’t that too far?” She asked. 

“It’s not something I haven’t done over and over and over,” I let out a small laugh. 

“No,” Magajiya shifted her weight from foot to foot then moved in front of me, till I could feel the heat of her breath on my face. I stared straight into her eyes for a couple of seconds before I looked away. I thought I could, but I couldn’t handle that much intensity. “Let’s book a hotel close by then because I don’t think it’s practical to head to Yaba this night,”

My eyebrows locked momentarily, I fought the urge to ask, “Let’s?” I was surprised. But I acted like I had been there before. 

I didn’t object. I said, “Sounds like a better plan then.” I held her hands and looked into her eyes.“Why don’t you want to go home, though?”

“My father doesn’t know I’m twenty-six, he’ll berate me for coming home late like a child. Besides, spending the night with you isn’t the worst of ideas,” she cackled with laughter. A little more than necessary. I suspected it was the alcohol, but she looked fine like a sober woman. Perhaps the laughter was to mask the awkwardness of the moment. 

We spent the next few minutes booking a ride to a hotel she suggested close by. When the ride came, I opened the door so she could climb in before me. She paused and smiled at me for a couple of seconds before she climbed into the gray 2019 Honda Accord. 

We kissed in the backseat of the car while the driver stole glances at us from the rearview mirror. Her lips sunk into mine and then my hands reached to cup her breasts before she stopped me and laughed into my mouth.  I didn’t laugh. I was too enthralled. She leaned into me and melted right by my side till I could feel her body pressing into my body. 

The rest of the night happened in a blur, from checking into the hotel, hitting the shower together, and laughing out loud that I worried they would soon knock on our door to complain. Then she told me the doors and walls were soundproof and even if you were shooting an orgy scene here, no one would hear from outside. 

For a brief moment, I wondered if she had shot an orgy scene here before. The thought left a sour taste at the back of my throat.

I took her word for it and we spent the next couple of hours making a movie rated 18 but without the cameras; tossing in the sheets. The sounds of our bodies colliding punctuated the air. Throaty moans and desperate groans, I felt her in a way I hadn’t felt a woman before. And when I pulled off, I left her contorting into irregular shapes, quivering like a faulty refrigerator when there’s a sudden power outage. 

I sank into the bed right beside her. 

Right there; the two of us, naked and side by side, nestled into each other's warmth, our bodies entwined in a dance of intimacy and familiarity even when it was our first time. Her soft breaths created a gentle rhythm, syncing with the beating of my heart. The warmth of her skin against mine whispered promises of love and lust simultaneously and almost in tandem. 

I was twenty-six, too, delusional and stupidly in love with this woman I met a few hours ago. 

6am, Victoria Island, Lagos.

iPhone alarms are rude as fuck. But you have to be rude as fuck to wake me up sometimes. The alarm jerked me straight out of sleep, interrupting whatever dream I thought I was having. With a grumpy groan, I reluctantly stirred out of sleep, rubbing my eyes in protest against the intrusion. The room remained in a semi-darkness, the dim light casting elongated shadows that danced on the walls. Groggily, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, my bare feet grazing the cool tiles of the floor; it sent shivers up my spine. I wasn’t prepared for that. 

The room lay steeped in the dim, gray haze of the early morning as if the sun itself was still finding it hard to roll out of bed. The darkness reluctantly gave way to the faintest hints of daybreak. I could barely make anything out of the space, except Magajiya who was sleeping peacefully.

With a grumpy determination, I sauntered over the cool tiles and made my way toward the bathroom to relieve myself of the weight that had gathered in my bowels overnight. Pissing from an early morning erection was hard enough, trying to keep the noise of your stream down so I didn’t wake the woman who was deep in her sleep was even harder. 

I made my way out of the bathroom and traced my steps back to the room. Before I could get into bed beside Magajiya who was sound asleep, I turned on the light from the bed lamp, and in a millisecond, the light beamed over the bedside and the bed. 

I stood over the bed and watched as the light illuminated what was hiding in the dark, and I could not believe what I was seeing. Perhaps it was a dream, and I was sleepwalking. So I leaned closer to the bed to examine what I was seeing. 

Magajiya lay there, the sheet crimson red, soaked with her blood. Her eyes were wide open, and they were staring into nothing in particular. A razor on the sheet. Her blood had clotted over the gaping gash on her wrist. 

My head was jamming with too much information all fighting for first place. I could hear the blood course through me. 

“Fucckkkkkkkk!” My voice bounced off the soundproof walls. 

Magajiya had taken her life.

FADE IN:

INT. DIMLY LIT ROOM - DAWN

The CAMERA hovers over the horrified face of the MAN, beads of cold sweat glistening on his forehead. It lingers for a moment, capturing the sheer terror etched in his expression. The room feels suffocating, the air heavy with the weight of the audience's collective knowledge. The CAMERA zooms in as if daring to capture the horror that the audience already knows. 

CUT ABRUPTLY.

SWISHING GRAINING SCREEN.

INT. BLACK SCREEN

The screen remains black for a beat. The haunting notes of Beethoven's "Für Elise" slowly emerge, filling the void with its melancholic beauty. The music acts as a mournful backdrop, accentuating the unsettling silence.

The blackness recedes, giving way to the simple that materialize on the screen:

"Written and Directed by Abimbola Michael Bismarck."

Each word carries weight, reflecting the vision and artistry behind this cinematic journey. The words dissolve into the black screen. Then in the fashion of a typewriter punching letters till they come alive, the following words slowly roll out letter by letter:

"Based on a True Story."

FADE OUT.

As the haunting melody of "Für Elise" continues to play, the screen gradually transitions into darkness, leaving us with the echoes of the tale that unfolded. The final notes hang in the air.

THE END.