The descent into Lagos began with turbulence—not the gentle kind that rocks you like a cradle, but the sharp, sudden jolts that make passengers grip their armrests and remember they're hurtling through the sky in a metal tube.

Dami pressed her face to the window as the plane dropped through clouds. There—the coastline, the sprawl of Lagos spreading like spilled paint across land and water. The Atlantic glittered in the afternoon sun. Somewhere down there, her father was waiting.

"You're nervous," Tyrel said beside her.

"Observant."

"Your leg's been bouncing for the last twenty minutes."

She stilled it consciously, then gave up. "My father will be at arrivals. He always comes personally for important things."

"And I'm important?"

"You're marrying his daughter. To him, that makes you family." The word tasted strange. "He'll want to size you up immediately."

Tyrel adjusted his watch—a subtle gesture, but Dami recognized it now as one of his tells. He was nervous too, though he'd never admit it.

"What do I need to know?"

"About my father?" She thought for a moment. "Chief Adekunle Agbaje. Self-made businessman. Started with a single shipping vessel, now owns a fleet. He values respect, hard work, and directness. He'll test you—not obviously, but he'll be watching everything. How you greet him, how you stand, whether you look him in the eye."

"And your mother?"

Dami's expression tightened. "She'll be there too, probably. She loves spectacle. A daughter returning with an American fiancé? She'll make sure everyone knows."

The plane touched down with a jolt, engines roaring as they decelerated. Around them, passengers burst into applause—a Lagos tradition. Someone shouted "Thank you, Jesus!" and laughter rippled through the cabin.

Home.

Through the window, Dami could see the familiar chaos of Murtala Muhammed International Airport—ground crews moving with organized disorder, buildings that had seen better decades, the humid haze that made everything shimmer.

Tyrel stood, reaching for their bags in the overhead compartment. His crew was already moving, Marcus leading the way through the crowded aisle. Somewhere behind them, Bolaji would be deplaning too, watching, waiting.

"Remember," Tyrel said quietly, his hand finding hers as they joined the queue. "We're in love. We're excited. This is the happiest moment of our lives."

"Right." She forced brightness into her voice. "The happiest."

But as they moved toward the exit, her heart hammered with something that felt nothing like happiness.

 The terminal assaulted them with heat and humanity.

Air conditioning struggled against the press of bodies—travelers, greeters, hustlers, taxi drivers, relatives with hand-written signs. The air was thick, humid, smelling of sweat and perfume and the particular funk of an airport operating beyond capacity.

"Stay close," Tyrel murmured, his arm around Dami's waist as they navigated toward immigration.

The lines were long, snaking through barriers marked "Nigerian Passport Holders" and "Foreign Nationals." Tyrel and his crew peeled off toward the latter, while Dami moved toward her line.

"I'll meet you after customs," she said.

"Dami." He caught her hand. Around them, people pushed past, but for a moment, they stood in a bubble of stillness. "Whatever happens out there, no backing out."

"I know."

He looked like he wanted to say more, but instead just nodded and released her.

The immigration line moved with the particular speed of Nigerian bureaucracy—which is to say, not fast. Dami watched Tyrel across the hall, answering questions from the officer, his expression neutral but confident. Marcus and the crew were pulled aside for additional screening—four large Black men traveling together always drew extra attention.

Her own process was quick. The officer barely glanced at her passport before stamping it and waving her through. "Welcome home."

She collected her luggage—battered but intact—and moved toward the nothing-to-declare exit, her stomach a tight knot of anticipation.

 The humid air of Lagos wrapped around them as they stepped outside.

The chaos was immediate—porters shouting, families jostling forward with outstretched arms, car horns blaring from the pickup zone.

Dami's chest tightened. She spotted him instantly: Chief Agbaje, tall in his cream-colored agbada, gold embroidery catching the sun, standing with a woman at his side—not her mother, but Mrs. Oladipo, his ever-present secretary.

Her father's face broke into a wide smile the moment he saw her. "Damilola!" he boomed, his arms stretching wide.

Tyrel, without hesitation, slipped his hand into hers and drew her closer. His grip was firm, steady, almost protective.

Dami blinked, startled. I thought I'd have to coach him through this... but looks like he's got this, she mused silently.

She pushed through the crowd, and suddenly she was enveloped in her father's arms—solid, warm, smelling of shea butter and expensive cologne. For a moment, she was seven years old again, safe in her father's embrace.

"My daughter," he murmured in Yoruba. "E ka bo. Welcome home."

"E se, baba. Thank you, father.”

He pulled back, holding her at arm's length, studying her face. "You look thin. Are they not feeding you in America?"

"I'm fine, daddy."

Then Tyrel stepped forward, and without hesitation, he prostrated—completely, fully, his body stretching flat on the arrivals pavement in the traditional dobale greeting. Around them, Nigerians noticed and smiled approvingly. Tyrel held the position for the appropriate length of time before rising smoothly to his feet.

"E ku aaro, sir," he said, his pronunciation careful but correct. "My name is Tyrel Booker. I am honored to meet you."

Chief Agbaje's eyebrows rose. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face—genuine, pleased, impressed.

"E ku aaro," he responded, switching to English. "You know our customs."

"Your daughter taught me. She said respect is earned through understanding."

"Wise words." Chief Agbaje extended his hand, and they shook—a firm grip, measuring each other. "Welcome to Nigeria, Tyrel. Welcome to our family." He turned, gesturing to the woman beside him. "This is Mrs. Oladipo, my secretary. She makes sure I don't forget where I'm meant to be."

Tyrel dipped his head politely. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

Mrs. Oladipo smiled warmly. "Welcome to Lagos, Mr. Booker."

Dami caught Tyrel's brief glance—he'd registered her mother's absence but said nothing, absorbing it with practiced composure.

Mrs. Oladipo stepped forward, offering her hand to Dami. Her smile was brilliant, practiced. "When your father told me you were getting married, I could hardly believe it. You've been so secretive about your love life."

"I wanted to be sure," Dami responded quickly. "Before introducing him to everyone."

"And now you're sure?" Her father's voice was gentle, but his eyes were sharp, watching her face.

She looked at Tyrel, standing there in Lagos arrivals with her family, his crew hovering awkwardly behind him. For a moment, she saw him as her father must—a stranger, an American, someone claiming to love his daughter.

But she also saw the man who'd learned to prostrate, who'd stumbled through Yoruba phrases, who'd held her hand on the plane.

"Yes, daddy," she said. "I'm sure."

The lie came easier than it should have.

"Good." Chief Agbaje clapped Tyrel on the shoulder. "Then let's go home. Your mother and brothers are waiting. And we have much to discuss. A wedding doesn't plan itself!"

As they moved toward the exit, Dami caught sight of Bolaji in the crowd, watching. Their eyes met for a brief second—his expression unreadable—before he turned away, disappearing into the Lagos chaos.

Outside, the heat hit like a physical wall. The air was thick, humid, smelling of exhaust and the particular scent of Lagos—oil and ocean and ambition. Drivers and porters swarmed, shouting offers, but Chief Agbaje's presence cleared a path.

A convoy of vehicles waited—two black Mercedes SUVs with drivers standing at attention, and one smaller car.

"We ride together," Chief Agbaje announced, gesturing to the lead SUV. "Your men can follow with the luggage."

Marcus looked to Tyrel, who nodded. "We'll be right behind, boss."

They climbed into the family Lexus—Chief Agbaje in back with Dami and Tyrel, Mrs. Oladipo in front beside the driver. The familiar leather smell wrapped around Dami like memory.

As the car eased into Lagos traffic, Mrs. Oladipo turned, her smile warm but brisk. "Everything is in motion for Sunday. The planning committee has it all under control. No hitches."

Sunday. Three days away.

"What about my dress?" Dami asked, leaning forward, hope and worry tangled in her voice.

Silence. Mrs. Oladipo's smile faltered.

Her father cleared his throat. "Your mother is taking care of that," he said firmly, as if that settled it.

Dami turned sharply, giving him a look. Really?

"Don't worry," Chief Agbaje added quickly, his voice booming with reassurance. "I gave her plenty of money. She said there's this celebrity tailor in Lekki, very popular on Instagram. Expensive, but I told her—there's nothing I won't do for my baby girl. You'll shine like the star you are."

Tyrel's hand found hers on the seat between them, a silent question: Are you okay?

She squeezed back: I'm fine.

But she wasn't. There was her mother's absence at the airport.

"First time in Lagos?" Chief Agbaje asked Tyrel, steering the conversation away from the uncomfortable silence.

"Yes, sir. First time in Africa."

"And what do you think?"

Tyrel looked out the window—at the crush of humanity, the beautiful chaos, street vendors navigating between stalled cars, billboards advertising everything from banks to churches to political candidates, a woman balancing a tower of plantains on her head while talking on her phone.

"It's... alive. More than anywhere I've been."

Chief Agbaje laughed, pleased. "Yes. Lagos is not for the weak. But if you survive Lagos, you can survive anywhere." He turned to study Tyrel with those sharp, assessing eyes. "My daughter chose to build her life in America. I supported that, though I missed her. Now she brings you home. Tell me, Tyrel—are you worthy of her?"

The question hung in the air, direct and unavoidable.

Tyrel didn't hesitate. "I'm going to spend my life trying to be."

It was the perfect answer—humble but confident, acknowledging the challenge while accepting it.

Dami's father nodded slowly. "Good answer."

Mrs. Oladipo turned back around. "We've prepared the guest house for Mr. Booker and his groomsmen. Very comfortable, private, but close to the main house."

"Thank you," Tyrel said. "That's very generous."

As the car navigated deeper into Lagos—past the mainland, toward Victoria Island where her family lived—Dami felt the reality settling over her like a second skin.

This wasn't a rehearsal anymore. This wasn't Seattle or Frankfurt or a training montage.

This was Lagos. This was her family. This was real.

"Tyrel, we'll need to discuss the bride price tomorrow," her father said. "It's tradition—a list of items, some money. Nothing excessive, but it must be done properly."

"Of course, sir. I've been learning about the traditions. I want to honor them."

"Good, good." Chief Agbaje smiled. "We'll go over everything at dinner tonight. Just family—your brothers are very eager to meet you."

The car turned onto a tree-lined street in Victoria Island, pulling up to an imposing gate. Security guards—armed, professional—checked the vehicle before opening it. Beyond lay a sprawling compound—manicured lawns, fountains, a house that was more mansion than home.

"Welcome," Chief Agbaje said as they pulled to a stop, "to your new family."

Dami looked at the house where she'd grown up, at Tyrel beside her playing his role perfectly, at her father's proud smile, at Mrs. Oladipo already checking her phone for the next task.

And above it all, the ticking clock: four days.

Four days until she stood at an altar and lied to everyone she loved.