The Wedding
Crasher

Lara sat in her small shop located in a busy Lagos neighbourhood. Fabric towered from floor to ceiling, swallowing the walls. Some had been cut and others were brand new orders not yet accounted for. The plastic fan in the back corner whined uselessly. The Lagos heat was an oppression. She scrolled through her TikTok feed and switched to Pinterest, looking at beautiful designs she had saved.

Her phone began to ring. She looked at the caller ID. It was Mrs Fashina. On the caller ID, Fash was what popped up.

Everyone feared her. She was the richest and most revered fabric dealer in Lagos — the main plug. She had monopoly. No one dared rival her. She was quick to put one out of business with one phone call. When a UK returnee once tried to rival her, Madam Fash opened a bigger shop on the same street and killed the business in three months.

"Lara good afternoon." Madam Fash's voice came loud and clear through the other end. "You know why I am calling. When am I going to get my money?"

Lara explained the agency, the unpaid invoices, the clients who hadn't settled. Madam Fash had heard it all before.

"Every day you tell me the same story. Next week, two weeks, next month — the calendar is out of dates." A pause. "Lara, your lies bore me. I need my money by Monday morning. Today is Friday. You have three days. If I don't get my money by 11am on Monday, get ready to receive a not-so-friendly visit from my boys."

The line went dead.

How did things become so bad? Lara thought to herself. Once, celebrities begged for her designs. Now she couldn't afford thread.

She walked to the mirror on the wall and stared at her reflection. All she could see was the face of a failure. Someone who had come a long way from what she studied at university. Economics. An economics graduate who could not manage a business. She started sewing during a school strike. It turned into her ticket out, until it didn't.

Her phone rang again. It was Joy, her apprentice assistant, calling from the market. The vendor had refused to release any supplies until Lara settled her account. Two hundred thousand naira owed. Client hadn't paid. Lara told Joy to come back to the shop. She hung up. Then a delivery boy arrived for his balance. Then Mr Leke called about the rent. Then Yvonne.

She said it to herself. She walked away from the mirror and saw her debt in the form of unpaid invoices staring at her from the desk.

Lara sat in the back seat of the Uber at 7:30pm, watching Lagos blur past as the traffic crawled. It had been a long day and she was ready to go home. How could she sleep when the debt she had mounted was higher than Kilimanjaro.

Her phone began to ring. It was her childhood friend Yvonne.

"Better question — when am I getting back the eight hundred thousand I lent you?"

The words punched her gut.

Yvonne was not sympathetic. She had told Lara to diversify. She had told her the Instagram lifestyle was a lie. She had told her Lagos wouldn't sustain a dream built on beautiful photos of borrowed fabric.

"You borrowed eight hundred thousand to post Dubai fairy tales. Now you're broke. Do you expect me to clap for you?"

Lara flinched. She'd deserved that.

Then Yvonne's tone shifted. She mentioned the G-Wagon that landed in her driveway three weeks ago. She mentioned Mr Bako — a man in his late fifties they'd met at an Intercontinental dinner. The initial attraction had been Lara's, but she hadn't been interested. Yvonne had taken the opportunity.

"Being yourself is the way," Yvonne said. "No fake life, no fake drama. You will attract destiny helpers."

Destiny helpers. Lara knew she needed one. Fast.

"Until I blow, fake life till the end," Lara replied, laughing.

The laughter lasted about three seconds. Then Yvonne asked again about the money and the line went dead.

She could see the comments flooding in. Every compliment a small lie she was maintaining. She closed the app.

The Uber slowed near her compound. Lara got out a few houses away, shoes in hand, tiptoeing to the gate. She pushed it carefully — it creaked. She froze. Pushed further. Crept through.

"Lara the designer," a deep voice said from behind her. Mr Leke. Cigar in mouth. Standing in the dark.

"I was born at night," he told her. "But I was not born last night."

She escaped into her flat. Slammed the bolt. Heart racing.

Madam Fash. Aisha. Yvonne. Mr Leke.

This is a big problem, she told herself as she leaned against the door frame.

And somewhere in a Banana Island mansion, a wealthy bride-to-be and her careless cousin were compiling a wedding guest list — and typing the wrong designer's Instagram handle into a vendor invitation.