“Love at Sunset” by Abdul Gani M (Unsplash)
Idowu
Everyone and their dog is married, fam. Can you fucking believe that, ID? At some point, you’ve got to be a man, forget Aisha, and be responsible. It’s the only way.
I smile politely at my long-time friend and the groom’s brother, Funto, and glance over my shoulder at the entrance of the masked party to see if my date has arrived. It has been an incredibly long day, but I’m used to it. Tayo, my best friend, described me as a professional best man. He isn’t wrong. I have performed the duty a dozen times over the last decade, and although I enjoy the planning, throwing great parties, and making sure everyone has a good time, I am retiring tonight. I am done. Fortunately, my older brother is unlikely to marry the traditional way; even if his and his partner’s love is so sweet, one can get diabetes from watching their PDA.
“Are you seeing someone? Dude, I have three good women on speed dial who would make good wives.” There is something unappealing about how Funto and many others speak about marriage. ‘Get married, you’re getting old. So that someone can take care of you in old age.’ As if it were a place where great things came to die. ‘Get married on time, o, you know you have to start having children early; you don’t want to deal with all that school run wahala in your old age.’ As if marriage was care work. And they wonder why many people flee at the mention of marriage.
I am not looking to get hitched. The probability of me becoming the groom is zero. I haven’t been in a monogamous relationship for four years.
“I am not seeing anyone, Funto. But I appreciate your effort.” I figure Funto is reluctant to drop the topic. I’ve heard the ‘when will you marry?’ question a gazillion times in the past year, and I’m adept at shutting it down. The trick I learned from my older brother, Tai, is not to argue; either nod, agree, or politely postpone the conversation to some future date.
I apply it to Funto. “Bro, I don tire. Let’s talk about this after I’ve had some Martell and a good night’s sleep.” I haven’t slept well in months, but Funto didn’t need that information. I am relieved when he smiles, pats my back, and ogles the ass of one of the party guests as he walks away. Great. One down. I reserve my energy for Christmas in Ibadan, where my parents and extended family will hound me with the marriage question. Last year, my cousin, Tito, introduced her friends to me. I hooked up with one of them first, and with two others later, all openly and consensually; then flew them to Miami for a while and called it a day with all three before the month’s end. This year, I intend to refuse Tito’s or anyone else’s offer, hot as the women may be. I am more focused on my new interest, Gidi Gallants FC, the local football club I recently invested in, not marriage.
The music in the hall is early 90s R&B, and bodies sway to Brandy’s voice blasting from the speakers. Guests continue to arrive at the afterparty. As the person in charge of the guest list, I can identify everyone even though they all wear costumed masks. Tayo and his bride, Lolu, chose a masked ball as the theme for the afterparty. One of my gifts to them is to throw an unforgettable party and secretly fly in their favourite artist from America to perform. I look forward to their smiles when they find out, and my work will be done. I enjoy making people I love happy, especially when they’re in love.
I saunter to the entrance, lean against the wall, hidden from guests, and wait for my date. I thrust my hands in my pockets, anxious but hopeful.
Ireti
I have a type—well-groomed, skinny, busty women. Sometimes, I didn’t mind a well-formed ass that fights to fit into a pair of jeans, but all in all, I like my women glamorous. When I saw Ireti at The Hairs 2025, she didn’t look like my type. But something in her lit up both the feral and protective in me. Her beauty was breathtaking, but simple—tiny studs, a casual outfit, and an innocence that instantly stirred a reaction in my pants. I sensed she was naïve about the endless fantasies of my world. I wanted to explore her, show her to the world, give her mind-bending orgasms, and fuck her in ways she’ll always thirst for.
I planned to seduce her, be all she can see, all she wants, and give her an unforgettable time. I expected to get tired eventually, maybe at about six months. Then we will part on good terms, as I do with all my lovers. Well, the clinically sane ones. And everyone would be content.
Tayo and Lolu, the new couple, arrive to the cheers of the guests. They make their way through the party crowd, greeting guests, obviously exhausted from the two-day celebration but still hyped. They’re dressed less formally than in the church and the reception, but in stylish custom-made outfits. I glance at my wristwatch, tempted to buzz Shalom and ask if Ireti is still coming, but I fight the urge to do that. I don’t want to seem desperate. I distract myself by mingling with guests, some of them unmasked, before returning to my concealed spot.
I can’t tell how, but I sense when she walks in. I look up from my phone and see her in a short, fringed champagne dress, her face covered with a black mask with gold trimmings around the edges. At first, I watch her, grateful to be hidden from view, and because Shalom is nowhere in sight. I want this night to be just the two of us. She stands in the middle of the room and looks around for me. It feels exciting, knowing that she is looking for me. This is what I want—that she’ll only be mine.
I sigh as Funto stops by her side and tries to chat her up. The man has a beautiful wife but still flirts with every woman he sees. I watch her eyes through her gold mask: they refuse to look at Funto and still search for me. I emerge from the shadows, stride to them, and ease myself in the tiny space between them.
“Ireti. It’s good to see you again.” I’m pleased to see the look of relief in those big brown eyes and her smile.
“I’m not staying for long,” she replies, and I smile.
We’ll see how that goes.
I offer my hand. “Can I have this dance?” She smiles, places a slender hand in mine. We ignore Funto and head to the dance floor, where a few guests are dancing to Heavy D’s Don’t Be Afraid. She is shy. I can tell from the way she moves: slowly and aware. “Nobody is watching us. Feel free to let loose,” I whisper into her ear, my hand on her waist. She smells of citrus and something sweet; I want to taste her on the dance floor. I resist that urge too. This is not how the plan goes. I must have self-control so she’ll be my Christmas lover this year. I imagine her in some sexy Elf or Christmas costume, and I get hard. I change my plan slightly. Now, I want her for two Christmases in a row. We’d have to call it quits before the third, however. There needn’t be room for complications.
We dance, and she smiles like we have a secret language we communicate in. To encourage her to let loose, I rap along to the song. At first, she’s hesitant, but at the third verse, she laughs and raps along. I slow down, watch her dance, mesmerized by how she loses herself in the music.
“Be like say you dey studio when dem record dis song, o,” I tease when she raps without missing a lyric.
She laughs, covers her face by habit, despite the mask shielding her face. Still shy. Will you be shy when I have your double Ds in my hands, and your nipples come alive in my palms? Will you be shy when I bury my cock deep inside your pussy? We’ll see. My thoughts are out of control. There is something that this gorgeous, innocent-looking woman has that none of my baddies have possessed, and it overpowers me. I am determined to find out what it is.
“Shalom and I used to rap this when we were kids.”
As the music changes to Ja Rule’s and Bobby Brown’s Thug Lovin’, I notice she stopped rapping, and I assume she isn’t as familiar with it as she is with Don’t Be Afraid.
Halfway through the song, I say, “It’s an open bar. Let’s go and find something to drink.”
She leans in. “What does an open bar mean?”
“It means you don’t have to pay to drink anything, or everything in this bar if you choose.”
Her lips part and form an ‘oh’, and I wonder about her. Perhaps it is because I spend my time with women who are party animals and social butterflies, but there is something unusual about her complete unawareness of the things I am familiar with.
We go to the bar, hop on tall stools, and pore over a drinks menu. She traces her finger down a list and pauses over a mocktail. She glances from the menu to the mixologist who attends to another guest.
“Do you need help with that?” I ask.
“I can’t decide.”
I lean closer and see she is contemplating a Mai Tai. I ask, “Have you ever had alcohol?” I’m merely curious, but when she shakes her head, I feel a stirring inside. It isn’t physical; it is more protective. “Okay, maybe don’t start with that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s got rum in it. And rum is strong.”
She shrugs. “I’d still like to try.”
I want to discourage her, but I also know better than to tell a determined woman what I think is best for her. “Okay then.” I wave the mixologist over, order a Mai Tai for her and two shots of tequila for me.
“Shalom mentioned you’re a writer.” I place my arm on the table. I’d Googled her after Shalom introduced us. Her information scattered across Facebook, Twitter, and Substack was limited and curated, but I’m curious to know more.
“Yeah. I love writing.” I nudge her to continue. “I studied English in school, and I write at…”
She pauses because our drinks arrive. She sips her colourful drink quickly from a straw. Reflexively, I place a hand on her back and gently massage it. “Easy. Don’t rush it.” I feel her muscles relax as she sips slowly, her full lips wrapped around the straw. I imagine how much I would love that cute little mouth wrapped around my cock. I want to explore that mouth, know what it tastes like, but I must wait. My mind is unable to fathom the strength of her magnetic pull on me, and how much my body lusts for her. But I am not one to rush. I grab my shots, throw my head back, and swig two glasses. The alcohol burns my throat, and I nudge the mixologist to pour me one more shot.
“Why are you rushing yours?”
“It’s tequila. It’s meant to be drunk quickly.”
I’m intrigued. Has she never had alcohol? She doesn’t look like she is faking it, but it intrigues me. The room is fuller now; conversations rise above the punchy, rhythmic bassline of an early 2000s hit. More guests are at the bar, and the mixologists have their hands full. Around us, voices undulate. “Are you good with your drink?”
“I would like another drink. What will you recommend?”
I like my role as her alcohol expert for the night. Since she is new, I figure she’d be better with something she can sip slowly. “Champagne.”
I call the mixologist and have him pour her some champagne. She grabs the flute as we leave the bar and walk to a cocktail table. “You haven’t told me what you do?” she asks.
“I am a tech entrepreneur and serial investor.”
“Which tech company?”
“A startup called SciFa.”
“I know your company. I didn’t know you’re the founder.”
“Co-founder. Along with Tayo, who got married today.”
“Your company made headlines after it was acquired, or something.”
“Yes. Tayo and I sold it to a foreign company last year, and they retained us to run it.”
“Tech celebrity,” she teases.
I smile. “I’m not a celeb; I am just a small businessman.” My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. This moment is solely for her. “So aside from writing, what else do you do? What do you do for fun?”
She shrugs, sips her champagne. “I don’t do anything else. It is one of the reasons I came to Lagos.”
“You can do many fun things in Lagos. Especially in December.”
“I know.”
“Lots of events are happening already. For example, Olamide has a show tonight, and I have a ticket.” I lean closer. “We can go if you want.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“But you have just one ticket.”
“I bought a table.” I had planned to attend the show after this afterparty, and I knew it would be a better experience if we went together.
“You’re unbelievable. Like a fantasy. A rich young guy who throws parties and enjoys himself for a living. It’s like a K-Drama.” She is freer, looser from her inhibitions. We have the rum and bubbly to thank for that.
“I watch K-Dramas.”
“Are you serious?” She looks like she doesn’t believe me.
I got into K-Dramas out of curiosity. My older sister, Kenny, loves them, and whenever I visited her and her family, I’d catch some interesting scenes. Curious, I started watching them to de-stress. The idea was to have them play in the background, but one day, I watched a scene in Tale of the Nine-Tailed, became intrigued, and stayed hooked. “I watched Boys over Flowers and a few more. My favourites are Tale of the Nine-Tailed and Guardian: The Lonely and Great God.”
I enjoy the shock on her face that parts her full lips and leaves her open-mouthed. “You’re different. Almost all the guys I have met talk down on K-Dramas.”
“I’m confident enough to admit what I like.” Then, I add, “I love romcoms too.”
She raises a hand, and we high-five.
“So, are you interested in the Olamide concert?”
“Absolutely.”
I offer my hand to her, and wonder what she thinks of me beneath that mask.
As if she can read my thoughts, she removes her mask, takes my hand, and says, “Let’s go.” We walk hand in hand outside the hall, grateful for the outside silence. I’d arranged for Tayo’s and Lolu’s afterparty to run without my presence.
There is less traffic on our end as we link the venue of Olamide’s concert at Eko Convention Centre. “So Shalom left you alone all by yourself tonight.” I want to know if Shalom is keeping tabs. She’s my good friend who knows my reputation with women. She probably hates this moment and hopes it would end soon.
“Yup. I came to have fun tonight. I’ll worry about the consequences later.”
I understand the feeling. I was that way after Aisha walked out on me. Night after night, I made choices that I suffered the consequences for later. I was doing it again tonight. Shalom is my dear friend, and I’m chasing her cousin because I can’t ignore the thrill I haven’t felt in many years.
The concert has already started by the time we arrive at the venue. I park, and after we clear security, we walk a thickly carpeted walkway to the hall where Olamide is performing. I hope to have a wild time in Lagos this December, before going home to Ibadan. I’m not looking forward to Ibadan this Christmas, because my cousin, Zion, is getting married, and my mother wants me there in the days leading up to the wedding. Heck, I didn’t even know about the wedding until last week, and I didn’t ask my mother for details. Zion and I haven’t been on speaking terms for many years. Before then, we weren’t close, but our fight drove a wedge further between us. Although I spent Christmas in Ibadan last year, Zion, who is a pastor, was away on a retreat. I wish I could avoid his wedding and send some money as a gift. But my mother wouldn’t allow it. She’ll probably make me attend every ceremony during that wedding weekend. Folakemi Smith wants what she wants.
An idea pops into my mind, and without thinking about it, I pause our walk, lean closer to Ireti, and ask, “Where will you spend Christmas?”
“Ibadan.”
“Perfect! Will you attend a wedding in Ibadan with me as my date?”
It kills the spark that had been in her eyes all evening. She steps away from me, lets go of my hand, and looks away. I realize I’ve taken it too far by talking about attending a wedding with a woman I just met. What the hell was I thinking? If someone I just met wanted me to attend a wedding ceremony with them as their date, I would dash for the door. “Ireti.” My voice lowers in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I was just…”
“Let us just enjoy the night, please. All the talk about weddings after how many hours of knowing each other? There’s more to one’s life than a freaking wedding!” She places one hand on her waist and the other on her chest as she exhales slowly. When I step closer, she takes a couple of steps back. I struck a nerve for sure. I wish I’d been more sensible. “Don’t speak to me about any wedding. Okay?”
“I promise I won’t.”
She presses her lips together, draws in a lungful of air, exhales deeply. Her cute lips form an O. Eventually, she takes a step towards me, takes my hand again, and manages a smile. “Let’s go.”
The atmosphere in the packed hall is pulsating, as animated fans scream along to Melo Melo, one of Olamide’s popular love ballads. I hold Ireti’s waist reflexively, lead her to my reserved table, pull out a chair for her before sitting next to her. Bright lights strobe across the stage as Olamide performs, and choreographers dance behind him in sync to the loud music. Ireti stands, sways to the music, and laughs, completely unbothered by the world around her. Next to us, some VVIPs who also bought tables nodded half-heartedly; while others are busy with their devices. Around us, the thousands of attendees who are in the standing section dance along.
Waiters bring a bottle of Cognac and bottles of water in ice buckets to the table. They are complimentary, for the price of my buying the table at the concert. “Do you want anything to drink?” I ask as the music changes to a more lively Olamide hit. The room erupts in excitement, the crowd roars and sings. A few people from the next table stand, cameras up, and record the moment. Ireti dances to the beat. I stand and whisper in her ears, “Do you want anything to drink?” She leans closer, her body presses into me so she can hear me.
“Yes! I want a drink!”
I love that she is having fun. When the music changes into a favourite of mine, I dance with her. She pulls deeper into my embrace. She looks at me, holds my gaze. Her lips pucker. In that moment, the world slows down and the noise around us is muffled. I look at those lovely, full lips, tempted to kiss them. But she beats me to it. Her tongue is in my mouth before I can think. Fuck yes, I want this. I wanted it badly, so I take charge, and take her mouth. We swirl tongues and I hold her waist as if we are the only people in the place. She moves too fast, and her teeth graze my lips. I tighten my hold , slow her down. “Wait,” I breathe into her ear. “Slowly. Gently.” I say the words and place my forehead against hers. I have an erection that is too embarrassing for the world to see, so I hope that slowing down would help. She is patient, ready for me when I kiss her again. “If we continue, this will become something else,” I chuckle.
She pulls away, eyes heavy with lust. “Let’s stop then.” Her face betrays her words, but I am a gentleman. I would only do what she wants. She turns her back to me, leans into my arms. I try my hardest to ignore my throbbing erection.
We leave the concert around 4 a.m., intoxicated on each other, yet wanting more.
The Christmas decorations twinkle magical lights on Ajose Adeogun Street. I drive slowly down the street twice and U-turn at both ends because she wants to take in the sights. I park so she can take videos and photos. She insists that I join her and pulls my arm. I don’t need convincing. We come out from the car, pretend we are a couple on a secret espionage mission, but break character when we laugh like naughty children. We dash across the empty road, and she strikes poses in front of one of the sparkling decorations. I click away, taking photos, making videos, storing memories she can relive later. I store my memories of that moment in my head.
We hop back into the car. And because she’s so happy, I do a final lap up and down the street. This time, I open the roof of my convertible, and make another memory as I watch her stand on the car seat, hold the windscreen, and smile at the cool December air in her face. When I drive through the decorated, arched entrance, creating a tunnel effect, I slow down, so she can capture that on her phone, too. She giggles like a little girl in a sweet shop, and squeals with joy into the silent night.
My roof is back up when I pull up outside Shalom’s duplex.
“I had so much fun with you tonight,” she says “You’re a sweet person.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
I undo my seatbelt so we can hug. We kiss, softly at first, then hungrily, unable to get enough of each other’s lips. She places my hand on her breasts. When I find her boobs, she moans and it sounds so good. She places my hand between her thighs and pulls me in. I brush my thumb over her cotton panties, then shift them aside gently. I slip a finger into her wetness. She moans again, arches her hips and crotch towards me. That act drives me wild with desire.
Too wild, because I finally pull away. I can’t make love to her tonight, so I must end it. The wait to see her again will be agonising, but sometimes, I love delayed gratification. I know it will be indescribable when I finally have her. I struggle to calm my nerves, but it doesn’t work. I need to be far from her before I can think clearly again. I whisper, “Give me your number.”
She shakes her head, and holds an innocent smile on her face. Beneath the streetlights, her skin is smooth, and glows like it’s airbrushed. She draws closer, whispers into my ear. “Can you please make me…can you give me an orgasm?”
All the blood in my body shoots to my cock instantly. I have never been begged for an orgasm. Not like this; as if she’s asking for an extra glass of juice. She guides my hand back to where it was moments before. She blinks rapidly, shuts her eyes, and draws in a sharp breath as my fingers find her clit. I bite my lip. Where has this woman been all my life? I rub the thin fabric, lift my finger from her clit for a few seconds. I watch as she lets go, gasps. I slip a finger into her, and she stills. I stop.
She moans, “Don’t go too deep. Just… I don’t know… be slow.” I obey; my thumb circles her clit.
“Press your clit against my finger.” She arches, and I work my finger in and out of her as she asked. “Yes! Fuck! Yes!” I keep the perfect rhythm for a few minutes, while we also kiss. I feel the pressure build in her body. Then, she tugs hard at my shirt and bites my lip to stifle her scream as she orgasms. She is panting when she pulls away.
“Give me your number,” I ask again.
She adjusts her clothing. “Let’s leave it to fate.”
Fate? Now that is new. My women never leave shit to fate. They leave it to my bank account, my ability to make them smile with gestures and expensive gifts. Fate? What did that mean?
“It was fate that I came to Lagos to surprise my cousin, and for us to meet. If we’re meant to see again, fate will arrange it.”
Abi fate dey craze ni? Ko ni da fun iya fate. I should prod, but I am too numb.
She plants a sweet, tender kiss on my lips and opens the door. “Good night, ID Smith. It was lovely meeting you. I will never forget tonight.”
I watch her leave. She wants fate? I will give her fate.
Tomilola Coco Adeyemo grew up in Ibadan. She attended the Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife, where she earned a Bachelor of Arts in Dramatic Arts and the sheer audacity to pursue writing as a career. She found early success in Nollywood with credits on hit TV shows, documentaries and Nigeria’s first feature-length animation. Tomilola is known for her contemporary romance fiction that explores the female gaze, as well as her skill in weaving spirituality and cultural nuances into fiction. She is lovingly called ‘the Mariah Carey of African romance’ thanks to her bestselling Christmas romances. Outside her hit Christmas romance novels, A Very Gidi Christmas, A Nollywood Christmas, and A Christmas Wahala, she has also authored the Yoruba spirituality-meets-romance novel, Efun’s Jazz. Tomilola lives in the chaotic city of vibes and hustle — Lagos — and her interests include, but are not limited to old music, sitcoms, coffee, amala & ewedu and all things romance.
