PART I: Red Light

I had been running my whole life, chasing things that promised joy but delivered only questions. It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon, the kind where the heat pressed gently against my skin, not aggressive, just present, like a reminder that the city never truly rests. The sun reflected okadas weaving recklessly between danfos, their riders honking like impatient birds. 

The cool air from the AC brushed my face, reducing the heat the sun brought with it; my phone was clenched in one hand, half-scrolling through the novel I was reading while hawkers thrust Gala and cold minerals through car windows nearby, their voices a rhythmic chant amid the chaos. 

The city buzzed around me, indifferent to anyone’s pace. Conductors shouted "Owa! Owa!" as passengers piled into battered buses, their wrappers flapping like flags of surrender. A preacher’s megaphone blared warnings of end times over the roar of engines, his words clashing with the sizzle of roasted plantain from a roadside vendor. 

Street kids ran barefoot between cars, balancing the weight of chin-chin and soft drinks on their heads, their laughter sharp against the honks. The air smelled like dust, petrol, roasted plantain, and damp tar, a smell that defined home.

I was on my way to meet Beloved and Jadesola for lunch, I found myself at a traffic light. The traffic light blinked red. Red meant stop. It dawned on me how we were all forced to stand still and for the first time in what felt like forever, I realized maybe stopping wasn’t failure. 

Maybe it was the first step in living. In that frozen moment, engines idling and hawkers pausing their pitches, I felt the weight of my own momentum cracking open, revealing a quiet I hadn't known I craved.

By the time I arrived at the restaurant, the memory of the light lingered like a quiet pulse. The place was tucked into a side street off the main road, its open-air veranda shaded by faded umbrellas fluttering in the breeze. Waiters darted between tables balancing trays of jollof rice steaming with an everlasting aroma and egusi soup thick with stockfish, the peppery spice wafting like an invitation. 

Afrobeats pulsed softly, lyrics about hustle and love lost blending with the smell of grilled chicken, perfume, and the faint tang of barbecue from a corner grill. Beloved had chosen the restaurant because she said the lighting would "do justice to our faces," and Jadesola agreed because Jade agrees with everything when she's excited. 

Lunch and vibes, that was the plan. A small pause in the middle of adulthood. Nothing deep. Nothing heavy. Just three women trying to exist without apologizing for it. Beloved sat across from me, stirring her drink slowly, like she had all the time in the world, her nails tapping a gentle rhythm on the glass. 

Jadesola was beside her, halfway through her food, a mound of pounded yam disappearing under her eager fork, swallowed with practiced swallows and grins. The festive season was near. December always arrived with promises it never fully kept, but we still welcomed it like an old friend. 

Where fairy lights twinkled prematurely from shop awnings, markets swelled with aso-ebi fabrics, bold ankara prints, and Christmas songs blasted from every corner speaker, mixing with carols in Yoruba. Jade had already moved our end-of-year vacation from imagination to execution. Flights. Clothes. Pictures. 

Her hands moved faster than her mouth, sketching joy into the air like she was drawing a new universe into existence, fingers tracing invisible maps on the tablecloth. “It’s happening this year," Jade declared, tapping the table so hard our glasses rattled. "No more group chat imagination. We’re travelling. Period. Abroad here we come. Dubai malls, Paris, London, name it!" 

Beloved laughed, soft and warm, her gold bangles clinking like tiny cheers. "Say it louder so the universe can hear you," she added, cupping her ear dramatically. Then she leaned back, eyes twinkling with mischief. "But have you guys checked the naira? Exchange rate is wicked this season. We need a budget that doesn’t evaporate mid-airport, or we’ll be hawking akara in Heathrow." 

Jade waved her off, undeterred, pulling out her phone to flash a Pinterest board of sandy beaches and neon lights. "Budget? Please. We’ll hustle side gigs, sell asoebi on Instagram, manifest visa approvals. I’m visualising us sipping cocktails in Bali while our exes scroll our stories in envy!" I smiled, even laughed along, caught up in their electric energy. 

Deep down, though, the thrill twisted with a quiet ache, could I really leave all the mess this year had done to me behind? But as Jade started a chant of "Abroad or nothing!" and Beloved dragged me into it, hope flickered. Maybe this year, we’d actually fly.

Somewhere between Jade’s excitement, "Red gown for me, something fierce to match the fireworks", and Beloved’s calm questions about budgeting, the months behind me crept in and sat beside me like an uninvited guest, familiar and heavy.