Ada has thrown her phone into the sand, but the effects of that choice are waiting for her just outside the patio doors.
The quiet on the balcony was a physical release, a cool compress against the fever of the last hour. Ada leaned her elbows on the stone railing, her green gele creating a long, regal shadow against the wall. For the first time in years, her mind wasn't a busy highway of "to-dos." It was a still pool of water.
She looked down at her hands. They weren't shaking. That was the most shocking part. She had just insulted the most powerful man in her work life and dumped a six-figure salary into a vase of decorative sand, yet her pulse was as steady as a church bell.
The Stranger in the Shadows
"That was a very expensive phone to lose in the dirt," a voice remarked from the darkness of the far corner.
Ada didn't jump. She turned slowly, her silk skirts rustling. Sitting on a wrought-iron chair was a woman who looked like she had been cut out of wood. She was older, perhaps in her late sixties, wearing a simple but incredibly expensive white buba and pagne. No lace, no sequins—just pure, high-thread-count beauty.
"It wasn't lost," Ada answered, her voice steady. "It was sacrificed."
The woman chuckled, a deep, gravelly sound. "I am Mrs. Onosode. I've spent forty years watching people in that hall pretend to be happy while checking their pockets for their tethers. You are the first one I've seen actually cut the rope."
Ada recognized the name. Mrs. Onosode wasn't just a guest; she was the "Iron Lady of Logistics," a woman who owned half the shipping containers currently sitting at the Apapa port.
"I didn't cut it for an audience," Ada said, moving closer.
"Those are the only cuts that stay bled," the older woman nodded. She pointed to the empty chair beside her. "Sit. Tell me, Emerald Queen—now that you aren't an 'analyst' for a man who doesn't know how to wear a shirt, what are you?"
The Rebirth of Ambition
Ada sat, but she didn't fall into the chair. She perched on the edge, the energy of the party still humming in her skin.
"I am a woman who knows how to manage chaos," Ada began, surprised by the words as they left her mouth. "I spent three years organizing the lives of people who couldn't find their own car keys without a spreadsheet. I know how to make systems move. I just forgot that I was the one supposed to be driving the system, not the engine oil."
Mrs. Onosode watched her with eyes that had seen a thousand business deals rise and fall. "Chaos is a profitable business in Lagos, Ada. But joy? Joy is the ultimate leverage. A person who isn't afraid to walk away from a bad deal is the most dangerous person in any room."
For the next hour, the Owambe continued behind them—a faint symphony of drums and laughter—but on that platform, a different kind of music was playing. It was the sound of a new plan being made. Mrs. Onosode didn't offer her a job; she offered her a task.
"Come to my office on Monday. Not at 8:00 AM—that's for people who are afraid of their bosses. Come at 11:00 AM. Bring a pen, a clear head, and that same look you gave Mr. Williams."
The Return
When Ada finally stood up to head back inside, she felt different. The "spacious feeling" had been replaced by something sharper: Purpose.
She stepped back into the hall. The party was in its second wind. Mr. Williams was gone—likely fled to the safety of his fluorescent-lit office to lick his wounds. Her coworkers were still there, but they looked at her differently now. She wasn't a warning tale anymore; she was a hero in the making.
She walked back to the dance floor, but she didn't go to her table. She went straight to the center, where the light was brightest. She found her mother, who was busy talking with a group of friends, and pulled her into a dance.
"Ada, what happened with your boss?" her mother whispered, leaning in. "Titi said you were shouting!"
Ada laughed, a bright, clear sound that rose above the talking drum. "No shouting, Ma. I was just correcting a mistake in the program."
The New Rhythm
As the clock hit midnight, the party showed no signs of slowing down. But Ada wasn't tired. For the first time, she wasn't counting down the hours until the weekend finished. She wasn't mourning the passing of time.
She was the owner of the time.
She reached up and fixed her gele, tightening the cap. The green cloth felt lighter than air. She looked toward the exit, knowing that when she walked out of those doors, she wouldn't be going back to the life she had left that morning.