The first time Nigerian clubbing happened to me was after my final exams, earmarking eight years of academic toil. Before that, I was no stranger to loud Afrobeat music and dancing but nothing could prepare me for the vibrant spectacle that awaited me. The afternoon of that day was also my graduating class' sign-out. In this raucous event, we would hop into a fleet of cars, screaming out our lungs as we paraded through the university campus in our class sweat jackets. One of my friends was running late to this one-in-a-lifetime event, so I called.

Me: G, Where are you now? We are about to start the sign-out.

G: I am coming please, I am in the Bolt car already with P.

In less than five minutes, she and P arrived.

Me: G, what's up now? Why are you just coming?

G: My dear, It was make-up o! I was waiting for P to be done with her make-up.

Soon, we joined our mates in different cars and the convoy kicked off our celebration. At various points, the cars stopped and a wad of cash was sprayed like confetti. The display of wealth accompanying our convoy and the music blasting through the speakers as we disrupted traffic made the passersby pay attention to us. 

G: Claire, there's an after-party after this at a club. What are you wearing? She asked. Me, I still want to wear this sign-out jacket so that people will know I've graduated and they will spray me money at the club.

Me: My girl! I laughed. I'll wear the same thing now. I want to dance!

As night fell, I found myself in the company of my friends as the club gates were opened to us. 

G: What’s that smell?

Me: I think it's Marijuana and cigarettes. 

We went to a free section and exchanged pleasantries with a few colleagues. The club pulsated with life—a cacophony of laughter, chatter, and the infectious Afrobeats and Amampiano music. We danced heartily, our faces being illuminated by strobe lights. But amidst this revelry, the club lights were suddenly turned off and the music killed.

G: Claire, see Azul! she pointed.

I turned to see the arrival of a procession led by a man adorned with yellow-beaded lights, carrying a wine box up in the air like a modern-day Dionysus. They made their way to a man, accompanied by the hype man's crass commentary extolling wealth.

Hypeman: “Azul no be for civil servant”, “How much are you spending money?” he queried.

This "strange" spectacle repeated throughout the night, punctuating the dance floor. Soon, the man ordering expensive drinks became the centre of attention. Throughout the night, the dance floor became a stage for a Darwinian display of wealth. Cash rained down like answered prayers, sparking a frenzy of hands struggling to grasp the most cash from the floor. 

G: Claire, I picked 10,000 naira.

Me: Jesus! Are you for real?

G: My dear, people are not joking o! Even guys were struggling with me to pick money. How much did you pick?

Me: I didn't pick much o! I was scared my phone screen might break if I actively joined in the struggle.

G: My dear, you have to shine your eye o! she surmised.

As I watch videos of that night, I can't help but acknowledge my role in perpetuating this culture - a celebration of wealth, excess, and the insatiable desire for more. In the world's poverty capital, the glorification of affluence has become ingrained in our culture, shaping our complex perception of success.