My First Lagos Rave: A Night of Chaos
From Body Odor to Range Rovers
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It was my first time attending a rave night in Lagos, Nigeria. Before then, I had always gone for typical Afrobeats-themed parties, where the vibe was familiar and predictable. But this night was different. I stepped out in my usual getup: a mini skirt, heels, crop top, and shoulder bag.
Earlier that day, I had spent almost all my money shopping and was left with just enough for the entrance fee to my regular beach hangout spot. I loved cooling off at the beach after stressful days, listening to the soothing waves of the ocean. After standing by the water for almost two hours, exhaustion set in. I decided to take a break at a nearby beach lounge. While I wanted to order a drink, prudence held me back — there was no way I was trekking home because I spent my last dime on cocktails.
Shortly after, While I was still sitting, two guys approached me, But immediately, I was hit with an awful stench. My first thought was, Where the hell is that smell coming from?! I began holding my breath in intervals, trying to pinpoint the culprit. Was it the handsome, light-skinned guy with dreadlocks? Or the dark, chubby guy sweating profusely like he’d just played a FIFA World Cup final?
Trying to be polite, I shook their hands and gave a fake name when asked. They looked rich — luxury watches, designer crossbody bags, and expensive-looking outfits. But that body odor was fighting battles!
Apparently, their car had broken down, and the chubby guy tried to fix it himself before heading straight to the beach to catch a rave party they’d already paid exorbitantly for.
“A rave?” I thought. That’s not something you hear often in Nigeria.
When they invited me, I hesitated. What if I bumped into someone I knew at this party? But curiosity won me over. I agreed to join them, mentally preparing a strategy: ditch them as soon as I spotted a familiar face.
My worst fear came true almost instantly. A college friend, Juliet, was coordinating the event. She saw me and started approaching with open arms.
“God, please let these guys keep walking,” I prayed.
But no, they stopped, giving Juliet all the time to notice the stench. Her face said it all. The disgust was written there like a badly scripted Nollywood movie. She hugged me briefly, then bolted.
I was mortified. Embarrassed and annoyed, I kept my fake smile intact, plotting my exit.
Once inside, I realized I didn’t need a VIP table to have fun. I left the guys at their table without much explanation — they weren’t thrilled, but neither was I after the disgrace they put me through. The party was wild — everything I’d never seen before in Lagos nightlife. The crowd was eclectic: gays, lesbians, trans people, foreigners in droves, and the rich kids of Lagos’ elite 1%. The DJs were flown in from Jamaica, Kenya, and the U.S., spinning Y2K classics nonstop.
No sitting tables unless you were in VIP, which cost over half a million naira. But who needed a seat? I was already dancing like my life depended on it. A South African guy approached me. His accent gave him away.
“Hello, beautiful. Are you here alone?” he asked.
Reluctantly, I replied, “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t bite,” he said with a sly smile. After introducing himself (not that I caught his name over the blaring music), he offered to buy me a drink. I said yes, hoping he’d leave me alone faster.
He dashed off, and I kept dancing. Soon, he returned with a cocktail. I took it, smiled, and continued vibing. But wait — another guy, also wearing a white button-down shirt, handed me a drink too. I accepted it, thinking it was the same guy.
When the South African guy returned and saw me holding another drink, he was confused.
“You already have a drink?” he asked.
Realizing my mistake, I laughed nervously. “Oops, sorry! I thought it was you.”
A nearby guy burst out laughing at the mix-up. Now I had two cocktails in hand and no excuse.
Later, I ran into Thaoban, a techie friend I secretly crushed on. He was surprised to see me.
“I didn’t think you came to parties like this,” I teased, leaning in slightly, feeling tipsy and flirty.
He smiled, noticing my awkward energy, and offered me another drink. I declined, not wanting to overdo it. He mentioned his cousin — a pretty, light-skinned lady — and excused himself to join her.
I waited for him to return. Instead, I got a text: “Hey, I had to leave to take my cousin home. Sorry!”
“Hmmm, Lagos men,” I muttered, replying with a dry “K.”
As I prepared to leave, a stunning mixed-race girl approached me. She asked me to accompany her to the restroom. On our way back, I saw Mr. Body Odor and his friend leaving. The light-skinned guy intentionally bumped into me, clearly upset at how I’d ditched them. I wasn’t even mad at him for doing that. Back outside, the guy who had laughed earlier tapped me on the shoulder.
“You’ve had a crazy night, haven’t you? You’re too hot — that’s why the men won’t leave you alone,” he said.
I laughed, and he offered me a ride home. I declined, wary of strangers. But he insisted I wait in his car for my Uber.
When his car flashed in the parking lot — a brand-new Range Rover Velar — I thought to myself: Maybe these raves don’t hurt after all.
I hopped in.
