The boats cut across the water in formation—a small fleet carrying the wedding party to the venue on the far side of Takwa Bay. Dami sat in the lead boat, surrounded by her bridesmaids who chattered nervously, adjusting their matching coral dresses and taking endless selfies.

But Dami barely heard them. She watched the resort grow smaller behind them, then turned to face forward, where she could already hear it—the drums.

Bata rhythms rolled across the water like a heartbeat, growing louder as they approached. The sound was primal, celebratory, unmistakably Yoruba.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Tyrel, somewhere in the boats behind her: Breathe. We've got this.

She typed back: Easy for you to say.

Not really. But we're too far in to turn back now.

He was right. The boats were already bumping against the dock.

***

The venue took her breath away.

The air shimmered with color—gele tied high like crowns, agbadas fanning out in waves of silk and embroidery, beads clinking, perfumes mixing with the smoky aroma of jollof rice and fried plantain drifting from catering tents. The bridal canopy was strung with fairy lights, the fabric dyed in soft greens and golds that matched her own outfit perfectly.

Guests packed the space—hundreds of them, maybe more—buzzing with excitement. This wasn't just a wedding. It was spectacle.

Handlers helped Dami from the boat. Kunbi and Eni immediately flanked her, fussing with her gele, fixing her ipele sash. The sound of ululations rose—women trilling their tongues in a chorus that made her cheeks burn.

"Dami, you're shaking," Eni whispered.

"I'm fine."

"Liar." But he squeezed her hand. "You've got this."

Her mother materialized from the crowd, in coral and gold aso-oke that matched the wedding colors.  "There you are! Come, come, we need to get you to the staging area. The ceremony starts soon."

Finally. Her mother had appeared.

"Mummy—"

"No time for talking. Everything is perfect, exactly as I planned."

As you planned, Dami thought. Not as Mrs. Oladipo planned. Always her mother's show.

 Asake grabbed her arm, pulling her toward a smaller tent. "Your father is already seated. The groom's party just arrived."

Inside the staging tent, final adjustments were made. Her gele was re-pinned. Her beads straightened. Her makeup touched up. Kunbi, the assistant, hovered nearby with a large decorated bag for collecting spray money.

Mrs. Oladipo appeared with her clipboard. "Remember—when the spray money begins, keep dancing. Kunbi will collect everything."

Dami nodded, her throat too tight for words.

The drums shifted rhythm, signaling the ceremony was about to begin.

"It's time," her mother said. For a moment, something flickered in Asake's eyes—pride, maybe, or sadness. "You look beautiful, Damilola. Like a queen."

"Thank you, Mama."

"Are you happy?"

The question came suddenly, unexpectedly vulnerable.

Dami's throat tightened. "I... yes, Mama."

"Good." Asake squeezed her hand once, then the moment passed. "Now come. Your father is waiting."

***

Chief Agbaje stood at the entrance, magnificent in coral agbada trimmed with gold.

When he saw Dami, his face split into a proud smile. "My daughter. My beautiful daughter."

She took his arm, and for a moment, she was seven years old again.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

"He's a good man, your Tyrel. I can see it." Chief Agbaje's voice grew thick. "I know he will take care of you."

Guilt crashed over her. "Daddy—"

"I'm proud of you, Damilola. So proud." He squeezed her hand. "Now come. It's time."

***

The alaga—the master of ceremonies—stood center stage, microphone in hand, her voice booming.

"Ẹ̀yin ọrẹ́ ati ẹbí! Friends and family, let us welcome the groom's party!"

The crowd erupted as Tyrel and his groomsmen entered. They moved in formation, and then—to gasps and delighted laughter—they prostrated. All of them, flat on the ground in perfect dobale.

Tyrel himself went down last, his green agbada spreading across the floor, his fila perfectly positioned. The crowd roared approval. Chief Agbaje beamed, clasping his hands together.

When Tyrel rose, he stood tall in his green agbada, the gold chain at his throat catching the light. His eyes found Dami across the space.

And everything else—the noise, the crowd, the drums—dimmed.

The alaga called for the bride's entrance. The drums shifted, traditional wedding songs filling the air.

Dami walked forward with her bridesmaids, her heart hammering. Guests pressed close, phones recording, women ululating. But she only saw Tyrel, waiting. 

***

The traditional ceremony began.

Dami knelt on the mat before her parents, her gele nearly tipping as she bent. Her father pulled her up and kissed her forehead.

"My daughter," he said softly, "you look like a queen today."

Her chest ached. If only you knew the truth.

The ritual continued—prayers in Yoruba, the blessing of kola nuts, the symbolic gifts exchanged between families. The alaga narrated everything with theatrical flair, keeping the crowd engaged and laughing.

Tyrel slid into place beside Dami, their shoulders nearly touching as the crowd clapped and chanted. When he reached to take her hand for the formal blessing, she felt her pulse trip.

His thumb brushed hers—deliberately or not—and she inhaled sharply.

The alaga leaned into the microphone, teasing: "Ah, see how the groom cannot take his eyes off his bride!"

Laughter erupted. Cheers rose.

Dami lowered her gaze quickly, heat climbing her neck. Tyrel leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear so only she could hear.

"How am I doing?" he murmured.

She stiffened. "Too well. We’re supposed to be pretending.”

"Exactly." His voice held a smile. "So pretend you're falling in love with me."

Her heart lurched.

The ceremony built to its climax—final blessings, formal acknowledgment from both families, the joining of hands. The alaga declared them husband and wife in Yoruba tradition.

The crowd exploded in celebration.

Drums thundered. Women danced. Men sprayed champagne into the air.

And then the DJ's voice boomed: "Ẹ ma kú oríre! Begin to spray the couple!"

The money-spraying began like a storm.

Guests surged forward in waves, the air suddenly thick with cash—naira notes and dollars cascading like confetti, fluttering down around them. Kunbi crouched at the ready, her hands quick as lightning, scooping bills from the floor.

Tyrel's men lingered at the edges, eyes sharp, subtly guarding the flow of money.

Dami and Tyrel were pulled to the center of the dance floor as the band struck up a popular wedding song. At first, their movements were tentative, awkward—two people pretending.

Then the music caught them. Tyrel's hand on her waist pulled her closer. She let herself relax into his lead. And for a moment, they moved together like they'd done this a thousand times.

Chief Agbaje was first onto the floor, striding forward with a thick stack of bills. He threw them into the air with flourish—money raining down on the dancing couple, a symbol of blessing and prosperity.

It was also their payday.

More guests followed. Her father's business associates, each trying to outdo the other. Her mother's wealthy friends. Uncles, aunties, distant relatives—everyone wanted to be seen being generous.

The air filled with currency—naira, dollars, pounds—a rainbow of bills floating down like blessings from heaven.

Dami kept dancing, kept smiling, even as her mind calculated. How much so far? Fifty thousand? A hundred? They needed at least two hundred fifty to break even.

Tyrel leaned close as they spun, his voice barely audible over the music. "Keep going. We're not done yet."

She nodded, throwing her head back in practiced laughter as another wave of money filled the air.

Guests pressed forward, pressing bills to their foreheads in blessing, tucking money into their clothes, showering them with generosity.

The drums pounded. The dancing intensified. The money kept falling.

And somewhere in that whirlwind of color and sound and celebration, with cash raining down around them, the pretense began to feel dangerously real.

Tyrel's hand tightened on her waist. She looked up at him.

And saw something in his eyes that wasn't part of the performance.

Then she saw him.

Bolaji, standing at the edge of the crowd. Not participating. Not celebrating.

Just watching.

Their eyes met across the chaos of falling money and dancing guests.

And she saw it in his face—suspicion hardening into certainty.

He knew.