I Hate Parties.
Okay, you caught me.
Let me rework that properly.
I don’t hate all parties.
Just the Owambes - where you have to wear those traditional outfits with incongruous styles and tie heavy geles.
They exhaust everything in me.
Strangely enough, when I do attend, I’m the life of the party because I like to dance and have fun, but I don’t linger too long. I’m convinced I find parties such heavy work because of the complicated process it involves.
First, I have to run around looking for a tailor.
I find that I hardly use the same tailor more than twice, it's always one shenanigan after another.
The first time you use them, they make the outfit so nicely that you give them the second one with a less shaky heart.
They make that outfit well too, with just a few adjustments here and there.
By the third time, you are confident they now fully understand your body type and fit.
Bam!
They shatter your heart into tiny pieces and destroy your fabric with it.
How expensive the fabric is, has nothing to do with them.
Worse is how nonchalant they behave, like they did you a favor by agreeing to make your dress.
And if you are lucky by some magic, and the outfit is not ruined, you’ll probably get it at the venue of the party with your blood boiling.
Do you think it’s for nothing that parties now have emergency repair stations where you can fix a failed zipper or whatever else decides to go wrong at the last minute?
When I finally manage to conquer this stage, then comes the search for bag, shoes and accessories that match the outfit.
This part takes a huge chunk of your budget because in most cases the jewelry is gold - specifically Italian 18K gold, that is how Nigerian women roll, and they usually come in a matching set.
Once that is settled, the Makeup artist flies in on her broom.
This is the part that terrifies me the most.
While doing your make up, they lean so close to you, and I have such a heightened sense of smell. So sometimes I can smell their breath, their hair and even their face.
Everything!
I didn't even know a face had a smell until I started getting my makeup done.
It also baffles me as to why many of them don’t consider it a part of their routine to wash their hands before they start on a customer’s face.
Truthfully, all this effort is unnecessary for an effect that makes me look Chinese.
Ever noticed how every woman in Lagos looks the same after a face beat?
Same contour.
Same expression.
Same Lashes.
I won’t even get into the story of when my top and bottom lashes gummed together after a lash technician used some type of glue, probably gorilla glue to fix on the fake lashes. It almost took divine intervention to pry them apart. I genuinely thought I was going to become blind.
Or when I almost scalded myself with hot creamy soup at a dinner party because I thought an insect had somehow crawled into it, not realizing it was one of my fake lashes that had fallen in. Never again.
Then there’s the gele.
After it’s tied, I feel like I’m gradually going deaf.
Oh dear me.
By the time I finally get to the venue of the party, I’m physically and mentally tired.
The beautiful ushers sit you at the special table which is almost near the band stand and their speakers.
That noise eh.
Let me just leave that particular matter.
I have to admit though, the food more than makes up for all the hassle.
The rich flavors and aromas. Lagos party caterers can cook.
Mehn!
Especially at parties where they serve delicacies that you don’t readily eat every day, like peppered kpomo - my favorite.
They serve them in these small plates, with the tomato stew glistening on them, with little wooden toothpicks that somehow allow you eat them in style.
Not forgetting my one true love.
Small chops.
Small chops is so goated that I really believe it can mend a broken heart.
Once I’m done with the small chops, the party is officially over for me.
I give my present to the celebrant and I’m on my way home.
Did you just ask why I don’t spray money and dance?
Not me oo.
Unlike some people, I'm very wise to their ways. Once they start hailing my name from the bandstand, I immediately rebuke the spirit of hype, pick up my belongings and, instead of dancing towards them, I dance in the opposite direction - towards my car.
Those musicians and hype masters are so skilled that if you aren’t careful, you’ll spray them with your staff’s salary and then it’s finally over for you.
So I learn to leave while it’s still safe.
Back home, another nightmare is waiting to happen.
Trying to remove the makeup.
It takes almost three business days to wash the war paint off my face.
Then there's the expensive outfit, which I now have to decide what to do with after wearing it just once.
It's easy to say you don't care and you'll rewear it, but we all know no one really wants to do that in a society as fashion-conscious as ours.
For me, it's even worse.
Everyone knows I sell fabrics.
People are always curious to see what I'll wear next, and my wardrobe is filled with expensive outfits, most of them worn only once. I especially love my fabrics embellished with pearls and rhinestones, so giving them away always feels wasteful.
So imagine me rerocking.
That's practically blasphemy.
As if all this isn't complicated enough, people now go to parties with their own content creators, personal photographers armed with their favorite filters.
It's a whole production.
I'd rather just stay home quietly and tinker around with my Legos.
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