Rooftop Bar in Lagos – Part 1: Rain on Victoria Island

The storm arrived without warning, a black wall of cloud rolling in from the Atlantic. One minute the rooftop bar on Victoria Island was full of laughing people and Afrobeats; the next, the waiters were stacking chairs and everyone was running for the stairwell.

Folake stood in the middle of it all with a glass of Chapman and no umbrella.

"Here," said a voice. A man had stepped up beside her and tilted a large black umbrella over both of them. He was tall and broad-shouldered, in a crisp white shirt and tie that the rain was already ruining.

"Thank you," said Folake. "I am Folake."

"Tunde. You look like someone who is not afraid of weather."

"I am afraid of ruining my shoes," she said, and he laughed.

They waited under the umbrella while the storm hammered the roof. Thunder rolled across the lagoon. The skyline blurred to gold and grey, towers and cranes and the long arch of the bridge.

"It is beautiful," said Tunde.

"It is a flood waiting to happen."

"I am a structural engineer. I design buildings that stand up in floods." He grinned. "I look at the skyline like other people look at art."

"What do you see?"

"Loads," said Tunde. "Beams. Weak points. And one very good tower on the left that I did not build but wish I had."

Folake laughed, and felt the tension in her shoulders ease. She worked in advertising, ten-hour days, a boss who loved deadlines more than people. She had come to the bar alone because she had run out of excuses.

"Can I ask you something?" said Tunde.

"Yes."

"Do you always come to bars alone?"

"Only when I want to be left alone," said Folake. "You are not good at it."

"I am terrible at it," said Tunde. "I am very good at umbrellas, though."

The storm eased after an hour. The rooftop dripped, and a waiter brought out a platter of suya, spicy and smoky. Tunde insisted she eat first.

"This is the best I have ever had," said Folake, around the first bite.

"My aunt makes it better."

"Then your aunt should open a restaurant."

"My aunt is eighty," said Tunde. "She would terrify the customers."

"Can I ask you something?" said Folake, wiping her fingers.

"Yes."

"Would you like to have dinner with me on Saturday? Somewhere with a roof, and no storm."

"Yes," said Tunde, at once. "But I will bring the umbrella."

"Green?" she asked.

"Green," said Tunde. "Very green. Eat, Folake. The suya is going cold."