Preface

Trust in GOD

Patient

Intuitive 

Untraveled path

Open heart

Grace

Divine alignment 

Grateful

Harvest time

Receive

–Your Ancestors

The decision had been made—Lagos in January, right after the Detty December craze. It felt like perfect timing, a fresh start wrapped in the electric pulse of a city that had always lingered in her mind. She had booked her flight, securing her window seat with a perfect view of the world unfolding below. As the departure date inched closer, excitement and nerves interwove, forming an intoxicating anticipation. She imagined the moment the pilot’s voice would announce their descent into Lagos, the city’s golden lights flickering beneath the night sky, welcoming her home to a place she had never been but always felt connected to.

This wasn’t just a trip. It was a return. A reawakening. Lagos was the first stop. The gateway back to a life of movement, of exploration, of reclaiming the world on her own terms. A journey back to herself, back to the world, where every experience. Every sight, sound, and encounter, would carry meaning. Would the world recognize her, embrace her, as she stepped fully into this new chapter? Would it pull her in, unraveling her destiny piece by piece? She didn’t know, but she was ready to find out.

Her mind swirled with images of sun-drenched afternoons at private beach houses, moonlit drives through VI, the rush of the markets, the elegance of beautiful restaurants where conversations danced between languages and laughter carried like music. She could almost feel the rhythm of the city already, pulsing beneath her skin, whispering: Come, and receive all that is meant for you.

Touching down at Murtala Muhammed International Airport, she would step into a world that had been calling to her long before she answered. The moment her feet met the ground, she knew, she would breathe in the energy, the possibility, the undeniable pull of fate guiding her toward something greater. But more than anything, she felt the quiet hum of destiny weaving its way into her path. The synchronicities had been undeniable. Repeating numbers on clocks, familiar songs playing at the right moments, unexpected messages that seemed too perfectly timed to be mere coincidence. It was as if the universe itself had aligned, whispering that this journey was more than just a getaway; it was an initiation, a step into the life she had always felt waiting for her.

She had prayed for guidance, for clarity, and the signs had come in waves. Gentle nudges reminding her that she was exactly where she needed to be. This wasn’t just about travel; it was about alignment. About receiving. About allowing herself to step into all the good that was already hers. She had no idea what Lagos would bring, but she knew one thing: she was ready.

The night wrapped around her like a velvet embrace, thick with the lingering traces of the day’s heat, carrying with it the essence of the city—raw, alive, and unapologetically itself. The air carried a richness, a weight—one that promised stories yet to unfold and possibilities waiting in the shadows. Lagos Island hummed with life, opulence, and a rhythm uniquely its own. Luxury cars: Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, Mercedes, purred along the road. Their headlights casting fleeting glimpses of men, well-dressed and exuding the scent of expensive cologne, and women, designer-draped in ensembles that turned sidewalks into runways. Just beyond the glimmer of high-rise terraces and rooftop lounges, the yellow and black danfo buses wove through traffic, their conductors hanging precariously from the doors, calling out destinations in rapid Pidgin. The smell of suya, and pepper-laced stew drifted from the local bukas, the city’s unpolished culinary gems where flavors were rich, and conversations raw.

Inside Euphoria, she sat with two new friends: an expat from LA who had made a home in Banana Island and a male friend who was a renowned fashion designer, each bringing their own flair to the evening. The conversation flowed effortlessly, a mix of cultures and experiences blending into the elegance of the night. She moved with quiet confidence, weaving through the dimly lit space on her way to the ladies’ room. The soft glow of chandeliers reflected against the sleek marble floors, casting a golden sheen over the crowd. He noticed her instantly: the way her dress, elegant yet undeniably alluring, skimmed her silhouette with just enough allure to intrigue without revealing too much. It was the kind of beauty that spoke in subtlety, the confidence of a woman who knew exactly how to command attention without demanding it. Each step carried effortless grace, turning heads not because she sought to, but because she couldn’t help but do so. 

By the time she was returning to her table, she *felt* him. A presence that sent a slow burn through her veins. A magnetism so strong it felt like he had always been there, lingering just beyond her reach. When their eyes finally met, it wasn’t new: it was familiar, written into her spirit long before this moment. His gaze was deep, knowing, as if he had been waiting just as long as she had.

A Lagos Big Boy through and through, he wasn’t used to being the one to pursue. From the moment he saw her, something told him she was different. Maybe it was the way she carried herself, or maybe it was something deeper, something unspoken. He had a feeling she already knew his presence, his interest, his unspoken claim. There was an unspoken certainty about him. Something in the way he carried himself, in the cadence of his speech, in the quiet authority of his presence. He was calm, composed, exuding a self-assurance that didn’t demand attention but effortlessly commanded it. He moved with intention, never rushed, never frantic, as if time itself bent to his will. There was a steadiness about him, the kind that drew people in without a single word spoken. If she hadn’t already guessed he was Yoruba, she would soon enough. It wasn’t something that needed to be stated; it was something felt, understood, recognized in the spaces between words. Power and influence usually meant women sought him out, not the other way around. Yet something about her, the way she moved as if the world was already hers, made him reconsider.

Instead of approaching her himself, he did what men of his status often did—he sent one of his associates to convey his interest. A quiet yet deliberate gesture, meant to summon her attention without disrupting the flow of the evening. It was a test, a move played countless times before, and one that rarely failed.

But she refused, effortlessly dismantling the game before it even began.

She barely acknowledged the associate, her attention seemingly fixed elsewhere, as if she hadn’t even registered the approach. It wasn’t rudeness, just a quiet certainty that if something was meant to reach her, it would do so directly. The moment stretched, charged with an unspoken expectation. If he truly wanted her attention, he would need to step forward himself, not through intermediaries, not with quiet gestures, but with presence and intention.

Finally, he moved. No messenger, no distance. Just him, stepping forward with purpose. The air seemed to shift as he approached, his presence commanding attention like a silent storm rolling in. Her friends took notice, their conversations pausing mid-sentence, drawn to the effortless confidence he exuded. He was tall, dark, and undeniably striking: 6 feet 5 inches of smooth allure wrapped in quiet power. He greeted them politely, his deep voice carrying the warmth of quiet confidence. “Good evening, I hope I’m not intruding. May I join you?”

Her friends exchanged knowing glances as he pulled up a chair, effortlessly folding himself into the atmosphere of the evening. The gentle clinking of glasses, the low hum of conversation, and the faint notes of soulful music playing in the background created a symphony of refinement around them. He turned his attention to her, his voice smooth yet certain, each word intentional. ‘I’ve met grace before, but you wear it differently, like it belongs to you, like you belong to it.’”

A slow smirk played at her lips as she raised her glass, her movements languid, unrushed. “Is this how it usually works for you? A look, a signal, and the world bends to your will?”

He leaned in, resting his elbows lightly on the marble tabletop, his confidence unwavering. “Some things, you don’t search for. They find you.”

The restaurant buzzed with an air of quiet sophistication, the soft chime of glassware meeting polished wood, murmured conversations punctuated by warm laughter, and the slow, sultry music curling through the air. Time folded in on itself, their words dissolving into something deeper. There was no need for rushed explanations. The knowing was already there. The song in the background shifted, the soft hum of conversation and distant music blending seamlessly into the night.

She closed her eyes for a second, absorbing it all. The music, the warmth of the night, the intensity of his presence. Was this the moment she had always felt coming?

When she opened them, his gaze was still on her, patient, studying her. This time, she held it, a silent challenge passing between them, a melody of unspoken words. The night stretched before them, full of possibility, full of fate.

And just like that, the melody changed. A new rhythm, a new beginning. The night was theirs to write.