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Jola woke up with a banging headache. She fumbled about her bedside drawer in search of her phone. 10am? She hissed and sat up in bed, trying to remember the events of the past 24 hours. Her head was pounding. She remembered she was supposed to meet up with Jimi, who was meant to be her date but was disgustingly late. She had tried his number several times, while sitting at their reserved table, waiting for him, but he didn’t pick up. Feeling disappointed in herself for trusting him again, she ordered a cab immediately. She remembered her heels echoing as she walked out of Crust and Creme restaurant into the car park. 

Click-clack-click-clack. 

Episode 1

‘Bola, aren’t you attending Titi’s birthday party again?’ Her mother asked. Mrs. George had an early work meeting and was amazed to see her 20-year-old daughter dressed in her regular green top and white jacket, watching TV. If there was anything Bola enjoyed, it was dressing up and spending time with her friends. Mrs George was sure her daughter did not inherit that from her.

‘I am not sure. She hasn’t been speaking to me, so I am unsure she wants me there.’  Bola said with a frown.

“How many times am I going to tell you, Eniola? I am not going with you to the youth camp. It is not my kind of scene.” Jade dismissed her friend with a wave of her hand and looked away. Her friend had been pestering her about going to the camp, and she was more interested in the arcade program organized by some of her friends from college.

I thought we were going to your place!” Mena nudged her friend Daisy as the latter veered off the road.

“Change of plans; I have a surprise for you!”

“Mena stared out the window as her friend drove past Sherman Road. She had known Daisy for about 6 months, but it felt longer than that. Daisy was kind-hearted, loyal and very vocal about her faith. Mena liked her immediately, and a few months later, they became best of friends.

“Stop staring, Leila.” Abby snapped her fingers to bring her Nigerian friend out of her daydream. She was staring intently at a guy; her mouth was slightly open.

“I wasn’t! I don’t even like him like that,” Leila blushed, her lips curved into a smile, showing off her dimples.

“Just talk to him already. You can never tell.”

Zara opened her eyes in horror, jumped off the bed and ran to the toilet. She pulled down the toilet seat and threw up as much as she could. It was the same dream. How could she have the same dream intermittently for the past 1 year? The details were the same. A woman in a burnt orange Hijab- holding on tightly to a young girl of about 6 years while pushing 10-year-old Zara away. They were in an apartment and were standing at the corner of the living room. It was dark and difficult to make out the faces.