TIDES OF DESIRE

Lagos nights didn't tiptoe - they marched, loud, blaring with horns, laughter, and the steady rhythm of survival.

It was barely past seven, but Glover Road already pulsed with restless energy. The city had shed its daytime skin of sweat and commerce and slipped into something more seductive. Power suits gave way to sequins and statement heels, and every inch of air reeked of possibility, ambition, and unspoken deals.

Inside Galerie Noir, the newest art space tucked between a luxury spa and a discreet politician's mansion, Zainab Bakare stood still in the middle of it all.

Tall, striking, and wrapped in a wine-coloured jumpsuit that hugged her like a scandal, Zainab looked like a painting come alive - bold brush strokes and unspoken tension. Her hair was pulled into a high bun that screamed efficiency, but the glint in her eyes betrayed unrest.

She'd curated every piece on the wall tonight. Not just the art - the event, the atmosphere, the invite list, the lighting, even the scented candles in the bathrooms. Everything had her fingerprints.

And yet she couldn't breathe.

"Zee."

Zainab turned to see Ngozi Okafor, her best friend of twelve years, standing by the bar like a bored goddess. Clad in black-on-black Chanel with stilettos sharp enough to kill a man, Ngozi sipped her wine like it held secrets.

"You're stiff. Loosen up. It's your night."

Zainab gave a tight smile. "Tell that to my lungs. I swear they've conspired against me."

Ngozi smirked. "You're worried he won't show?"

Zainab's glass halted halfway to her lips. "Who?" she lied.

Ngozi raised an eyebrow. "You know who. The tech prince you keep refusing to admit you've outgrown."

"Tunde is-"

"Comfortable. Predictable. Rich. Safe. Boring. And extremely unavailable emotionally. Did I leave anything out?"

Zainab chuckled. "You left out the part where he built a billion-naira startup and sends me flowers for no reason."

Ngozi leaned in. "And you hate flowers."

Before Zainab could respond, the crowd at the entrance shifted. Flashbulbs. Laughter. Voices saying, "Ah! Tunde Daramola don land o."

Zainab froze.

He walked in like Lagos was his runway - navy blue agbada with no embroidery, leather sandals, a Rolex peeking through his sleeve like subtle power. Tunde had the kind of confidence that wasn't taught. It was inherited, perfected.

Women stared. Men nodded with quiet envy.

He scanned the room - and their eyes met. And Zainab's heart betrayed her. Again.

He moved to her side like they were still lovers. Like nothing had changed.

"Zainab," he said, voice dipped in honey and habit. "This is stunning. You look... dangerous."

She tilted her head, lips curling slightly. "So do you. But you always did like living on the edge."

He laughed, reaching for her waist before catching himself. "Can we talk?"

Zainab's mind flashed: the late-night arguments, the silences, the way he always made her feel like a version of herself designed to be tolerated, not known.

"I'm working," she said. "We'll talk later."

She walked off before he could respond, heart pounding.

That's when she saw her.

By the far wall, in front of a canvas of red chaos and black silhouettes, stood a woman with short curls, a camera around her neck, and a gaze like fire. She didn't blend in - she absorbed the space. Owned it.

Zainab slowed her steps.

The woman turned and caught her staring. Instead of looking away, she smiled.

"Nice work," she said. "Bold curation. Angry. Honest. Like Lagos itself."

Zainab blinked. "Thanks. That piece is called Revolution at Rest."

The woman nodded. "I'm Adaeze. Photographer. Occasional rebel."

Zainab extended a hand. "Zainab. Curator. Occasional conformist."

Adaeze took her hand, holding it a second longer than necessary.

"Conformity looks awful on you," she said.

Zainab laughed - a sound she hadn't made in weeks. It bubbled out of her, surprising and full.

For the rest of the evening, Adaeze stayed close. They talked about art, politics, feminism, and the hypocrisy of Lagos brunch culture. Tunde hovered now and then, frowning when he saw them, but Zainab didn't notice.

Something else was beginning.

A spark.

A shift.

And neither of them could stop it.