I had made one thing clear from the beginning. I typed it into the groomsmen’s WhatsApp group on Friday afternoon and waited. “Guys, no surprises tonight. Everyone let’s arrive early and give our guy a great send-off party into matrimony.”
I got seventeen blue ticks and a few thumbs-up acknowledgments, but nobody replied. That should have worried me, but I chose optimism. Big mistake.
Tunde had been one of my closest friends since our first year at law school. We had survived lectures, endless assignments, those brutal months studying for the Nigerian Bar exams and first jobs where we were treated like glorified errand boys.
Now, after years of claiming that marriage was an institution he had no intention of joining, the man was getting married.
Naturally, he asked me to be his best man. Apparently it was something I was already known for, after all the weddings I had done. How many? No idea, I had stopped counting somewhere after wedding number twelve.
At the law firm, my colleagues had started suggesting that I add it to my CV.
Professional Best Man. Extensive experience in crisis management, ring security, groom counselling and emergency transportation. References available upon request.
I laughed along with them, but Tunde wasn’t just another groom, he was family and I couldn’t say no.
Which was exactly why his bachelor eve had to go smoothly. I didn’t want one of those ridiculous Lagos bachelor parties that began with innocent drinks and ended with somebody trending on social media for all the wrong reasons.
My plan was simple: we would have dinner and drinks at a rooftop lounge in Victoria Island, with good music. Old friends sitting around insulting one another and telling exaggerated stories about our law school days. Then everyone would go home at a sensible hour because we had a wedding the following morning.
Simple, or so I thought.
By eight o’clock, almost everyone had arrived. Kunle eventually strolled in forty-five minutes late, looking completely unbothered with two guys behind him.
I stared at them. I had never seen either of them in my life.
“CJ!” Kunle said, grinning. “Hope you don’t mind?”
“I do.”
He laughed. “They’re cool guys.”
“I’m sure they are. Who are they?”
“My guys.”
“Your guys have names?”
Introductions were made. I forgot both names immediately.
“They’ll buy their own drinks,” Kunle assured me.
Famous last words.
The restaurant was beautiful. We had a private section overlooking Victoria Island, with the Lagos skyline glittering around us. Warm lights hung above the tables; Afrobeats played softly through hidden speakers and the evening breeze was just cool enough to make you forget that Lagos could roast you alive during the day.
Everybody was laughing, Tunde looked happy. Maybe I had worried for nothing.
The waiter handed out menus. Then Michael opened his mouth.
“Guys, let’s celebrate properly!”
Before anybody could object, Michael had ordered a bottle of premium wine that cost more than my monthly electricity bill.
I leaned towards him.
“Mike.”
“My guy.”
“I thought we agreed we’d keep things moderate.”
“We are.”
I looked at the bottle. “This is moderate?”
“It’s only one bottle.”
The waiter returned ten minutes later. “Would you gentlemen like another?”
“Bring two,” Michael said.
By ten o’clock, our table had somehow doubled in size.
I still don’t know exactly how it happened. Random people kept arriving. Apparently, everybody knew somebody who “just wanted to greet the groom.” One cousin became three, then became six. One of Kunle’s mystery guests made a phone call, and his girlfriend arrived with two friends. Even the DJ came over at one point to take pictures with Tunde. Every time I looked up, another chair had appeared. The waiter kept expanding the table.
Then the food orders became ambitious.
“Do you have steak?”
“Lobster?”
“Let’s get the seafood platter.”
“With extra prawns.”
“Can we get another round?”
“Bring some wings.”
“Actually, make that two.”
I watched the waiter tapping things into his tablet. My left eye began to twitch.
The groom, meanwhile, was having the time of his life.
“CJ! Thank you so much for organising. This is exactly what I wanted,” he said.
I smiled. At least one person was happy, while I was trying to control my blood pressure.
Then came the champagne parade. The lights suddenly dimmed, the music changed and sparklers appeared. Two waiters marched towards us carrying champagne bottles while everybody cheered and pulled out their phones.
I hadn’t ordered champagne. Tunde hadn’t ordered champagne. Yet five very expensive-looking bottles were now sitting on our table.
The manager appeared beside me. “Would you like us to open them now, sir?”
I frowned. “We didn’t order these.”
He checked his tablet. “Your friend did.”
Slowly, every head at the table turned towards Michael.
He looked around. “Oh.”
“Oh?” I repeated.
He gave a nervous laugh. “I thought the groom deserved something special.”
I should have ended the evening there. Instead, against every instinct God gave me, I allowed the night to continue. The champagne was popped, and everyone raised their glasses and cheered.
By midnight, the party started winding down. The minute somebody mentioned settling the bill, everybody suddenly remembered important responsibilities.
“I’ve got an early meeting.”
“My driver is waiting.”
“I promised my wife I’d be home before 1.00am.”
“I’ll transfer my share tomorrow.”
Within fifteen minutes, nearly half the guests had vanished. I have never seen grown men disappear so quickly.
The waiter walked straight past everyone else and placed the leather folder with the bill directly in front of me.
Of course he did, I was the best man. Apparently that also made unofficial wedding sponsor.
I opened the folder and looked at the figure. Surely there was a misplaced decimal point. I quietly closed the folder and took a sip of water.
I opened it again, it was still expensive.
Tunde leaned towards me. “Bad?”
I slid the bill across the table.
He stared at it, eyes widened. “Jesu.”
Around us, everyone suddenly developed fascinating interests elsewhere. One guy was studying the ceiling. Another was scrolling furiously through his phone.
Someone stood up. It was Kunle.
“Where are you going?”
“Bathroom.”
“You’ve been to the bathroom already tonight.”
He paused. “I have… hydration issues.”
“Sit down.”
He sat. I cleared my throat.
“Right, gentlemen. Let’s settle up.”
Silence.
“I’ve calculated the split. Everyone just transfer your share.”
Then the excuses began.
“My banking app isn’t opening.”
“I’ve exceeded my transfer limit.”
“I forgot my token.”
“I only brought cash.”
I looked at the last offender. “How much cash?”
He hesitated. “Five thousand.”
I stared around the table. These were lawyers, bankers, consultants, tech bros. Guys who posted motivational quotes on LinkedIn and used phrases like multiple streams of income. Yet somehow, they were trying to dodge paying for dinner.
The manager returned. He wore the kind of polite smile that wasn’t really a smile.
“Will you be paying by cash or card, sir?”
I smiled back. “Just giving everyone time.”
“Of course.”
He didn’t move.
I looked at the table again.
Tunde suddenly stood up. “Guys.”
Something in his voice made everyone stop pretending to check their banking apps.
“You’ve all shown up for me over the years,” he said. “And I appreciate it. I don’t care about expensive drinks. I don’t care about champagne. I just wanted one last evening with my friends before tomorrow.”
He paused.
“But watching CJ carry this entire bill after organising everything…” He shook his head. “That’s embarrassing.”
Nobody laughed or made a joke. For once, the silence did some useful work.
My phone pinged. Transfer received. Another notification, then another and another. Apparently, everyone’s banking apps had miraculously recovered at exactly the same time. Miracles still happened in Lagos.
Michael came over, holding his phone. “My bad, CJ. I got carried away.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Four bottles ago?”
He winced. “Sorry.”
A notification appeared on my phone. I looked at the amount. Michael had transferred enough to cover all the champagne, including service charge, VAT and a generous tip.
I looked up at him. For one emotional moment, I nearly hugged the man.
By the time we finally left the restaurant, it was after one in the morning. I walked towards my car with Tunde beside me. Behind us, the remaining groomsmen were still laughing and arguing about who had eaten most of the prawns.
Tunde nudged me.
“You know, I think this is why you’re always best man.”
“Because I organise well?”
“Yes, and because you survive disasters.”
I unlocked my car. “I’ve learnt something tonight.”
“What’s that?”
“Next wedding, I’m collecting everybody’s contribution before anybody orders water.”
Tunde burst out laughing. “You’ll still say yes when the next person asks you to be best man.”
I opened the driver’s door. I wanted to deny it but we both knew I’d be lying. Despite the chaos, the disappearing guests and the heart attack disguised as a dinner bill, there was something special about standing beside your friends as they began the next chapter of their lives. Maybe that was why I kept saying yes, even when it nearly emptied my bank account.
.
The next morning, I was adjusting my tie in the hotel mirror when my phone buzzed. I expected another groomsman crisis, like wrong shoes or missing cufflinks. Instead, the message was from one of Kunle’s mystery guests from the night before. I frowned and opened it.
“Bro, thanks for everything yesterday. My girlfriend said you handled yourself like husband material.”
I laughed and thanked him. Then the second message appeared.
“She has a nice cousin that’s single. Should I introduce you?”
I stared at my phone, then at myself in the mirror. Navy suit, fresh haircut, best man duties about to commence.
I smiled. Maybe being a Serial Best Man had some benefits after all.
Want to read more about CJ and his adventures? Buy Memoirs of a Serial Best Man (part of The Lagos Flash Fiction Series) by Tolulope Popoola now!
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