Saturday arrived with a bright, mocking sunshine. It was the perfect day for a high-society wedding.
I sat in my apartment in Lagos, three hundred miles away from the festivities in Enugu. I was dressed in comfortable sweatpants, my laptop open on the coffee table. To my left was a cup of herbal tea. To my right was my phone, currently displaying the live-stream of the wedding reception that one of Clare’s boastful bridesmaids had set up on social media.
Through the screen, I watched the opulence unfold. The sprawling manicured lawns of the estate were covered in massive white marquees. Thousands of white roses and orchids hung from the ceiling in elaborate floral installations. The guest list was a who’s-who of political figures, wealthy merchants, and socialites.
There was my father, wearing a bespoke traditional Agbada, holding a customized walking stick, laughing loudly and accepting congratulations from Clare’s wealthy father. He was playing the role of the successful patriarch who had provided his son with an absolute palace.
There was Jimmy, looking devastatingly handsome in his tailored tuxedo, twirling Clare around the dance floor built over the garden patio. Clare wore a designer gown that sparkled under the midday sun, looking every inch the queen of her new castle.
They were so happy. So utterly, blindly arrogant in their stolen glory.
A notification popped up on my laptop screen. It was an email from Barrister Obi.
“Subject: Final Closing Documents – Enugu Estate.”
The message was brief. “Anna, the funds have cleared escrow and are fully secured in your primary account. The hospitality group’s representatives are standing by. I just need your final digital signature to transfer the deed and execute the immediate possession clause.”
I looked at the live stream. The music was thumping, a popular Afrobeat track making the crowd jump and cheer. Jimmy was popping a bottle of expensive champagne, spraying the foam into the air while his groomsmen roared with laughter.
“This celebration is for immediate family only,” I repeated his words to myself.
I dragged my cursor over the signature box. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t feel a sudden pang of guilt or a desire to be the “bigger person.” The bigger person is just a polite term for a willing victim, and I had resigned from that role the moment my father hung up the phone.
I clicked Sign. Then I clicked Submit.
While the champagne glasses clinked and the wedding party roared with laughter, I quietly sold the house.
I picked up my phone and dialed Barrister Obi. “It’s done,” I said.
“Received,” he confirmed. “The new owners are executing their rights immediately. Their legal and security team is five minutes away from the property.”
