The rain turned out to be the best part of her morning and far from a lucky charm. The meeting with GuobOil was delayed by over thirty minutes as one of the participants was having a bad day. After the meeting, the sun came out in full force as though it wanted to reabsorb the rain in minutes. Ṣemi hurriedly got dressed, swapping her jewel-toned casual look for a muted grey and cream combination.

By the time she left the house, she had only twenty minutes to get to Ikoyi for her appointment with Mr Akinsanmi, one of her office’s most prominent clients. She considered herself a native Lagosian, and with the help of Google Maps and a little aggression, she made it through the snarling traffic to Bourdillon just in time, even if a little frazzled.

She trotted along the sleek marble floors in her four-inch heels, adjusting her skirt over her generous hips, and found the receptionist’s desk. Putting on her most cheerful expression, she said, “Good afternoon! My name is Ṣemilore. I am here to see Mr Akinsanmi. I have an appointment with him.”

Ṣemi’s smile was worthy of a toothpaste ad, but the receptionist was instead focused on someone walking in behind her. Ṣemi turned to glance at the person the receptionist found more important and scoffed loudly. Typical, she thought. He looked like one of those legacy wealth Lagos boys, so blessed with money and good looks that they cut through life and queues like a hot knife through a slab of butter.

“Mr Williams. Good afternoon, sir. You are welcome.” The receptionist’s voice seemed an octave higher than natural. Her eyelashes fluttered, and she all but waved Ṣemi out of the way. How rude, Ṣemi thought, hoping that this Mr Williams had the decency to acknowledge that she was there before him. Their eyes met for a second. Did she see a gleam there? Was this amusing to him?

“Is he in?” the man asked. He had a directness about him. His voice belonged more to an elder statesman, like a judge or a thespian of many years. He noticed the look on Ṣemi’s face as the receptionist nodded and gestured for him to go in through the double doors beside her. “He’s been expecting you, sir.”

Ṣemi shook her head in disbelief as the man walked past her and went in. Flustered, she turned back to the receptionist, her smile gone.

“I have an appointment with Mr Akinsanmi,” she repeated tersely.

The receptionist, who had been gazing at the space Mr Williams once occupied, pulled her attention back to Ṣemi. “Yes, I heard you, but he is currently in a meeting. Please have a seat, and I will let you know when you can go in.”

Unbelievable!

Ṣemi walked a little less confidently to the waiting area. To think that she had brought out her inner agbero this fine Friday just to get here on time, only to be made to wait all the same. She eased into a leather-covered seat, joining two other angry-looking people. She made eye contact with one of them, an older man in a dull grey suit and slightly worn shoes, and they exchanged a smile and a nod. For some reason, this small interaction lifted her mood. She didn’t even mind that the room was freezing and that she had no idea how long the insolent Mr Williams, whom she had dubbed Arrogant Rich Boy, would take. She sighed and brought out her phone from her bag, intending to send a series of rants to her friends, when the large TV mounted in the corner of the waiting room caught her eye.