Last weekend, I survived a Nigerian house party. And I don’t mean “oh, it was lit.” I mean my obituary could’ve dropped that night.

Friday night, my friend sends me the demon text: “Small house party tomorrow. Just close friends. 7PM. Bring drinks.”

Translation? 40 strangers. Two rooms. One balcony shaking like it’s filing for early retirement in heaven.

I pull up at 7:30 with two bottles of wine. Mistake. The heat in that apartment was fighting for my soul. Everyone breathing directly into each other’s necks. Balcony already making cracking sounds — like it had one more selfie left before collapse.

Then one idiot brings “special brownies.” No announcement, no warning. Nigerians don’t microdose — they just say, “Chop, e sweet.”

Within minutes:

  • One uncle-looking man is kneeling in front of a potted plant begging for forgiveness.
  • One babe is crying because she’s convinced the ceiling is her mother shouting, “You’ve wasted your destiny.”
  • • Another person is clutching her chest saying she’s “seeing colours that don’t exist.”

Meanwhile, the balcony railing is literally detaching from the wall. Fourth floor. And people are still leaning over it like they’re auditioning for Final Destination 7.

Then the host’s girlfriend — Anita, Amaka, Angel, who even knows, kicks the bedroom door open. Finds him and her own brother, and no, they’re not doing Bible study.

She goes WWE. Bottles flying. Glass shattering. Somebody’s forehead now has its own private blood supply.

Suddenly, the lights go off, but NEPA is innocent. Someone decided it was smart to plug a faulty generator inside the apartment. Now carbon monoxide is creeping in like a side character in a Nollywood horror.

Security bursts in with police. Someone had called it in as a “drug party.” They see blood, high people, an unconscious girlfriend — decide they’ve just stumbled into a ritual initiation.

Stampede starts. People slam into glass doors. One guy tries to escape through the bathroom window; his shoulder taps out of the group chat entirely. I get trampled, ribs screaming.

ER count: 15 people. Injuries ranging from glass cuts to carbon monoxide poisoning to “tried to fight the balcony and lost.” Nurse looks at us and asks, “Car accident?”

“No,” I say. “House party.” She stares like she’s just locked eyes with Lucifer.

Three days later, my bones are still filing complaints. The host’s apartment? Condemned. The balcony? Already tagged unsafe before we turned it into a dance floor.

Group chat pings: “That was wild! Same time next weekend?”

And the scariest part? I’m actually considering it.

Because Nigerian parties aren’t vibes. They’re assisted suicide with a DJ. We gather in unsafe buildings, eat mystery substances, flirt with actual death, and call it “enjoyment.”

The miracle isn’t that they’re bad. The miracle is that we’re alive enough to tweet about them.

📍This piece is filed under: Cancel Me Softly

Messy, unrepentant, sometimes empowering. This is where petty meets power. Stories of people choosing delusion, choosing themselves, and refusing to take the high road — and somehow still landing on top.
The soft life after the breakdown. The villain arc that made you love yourself.

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