My ankles hurt. Walking in heels is not as exciting as the women I see on Instagram make it seem. I know you would wonder why I simply did not remove them, but I prefer to maintain class regardless of the pain I was in. Don’t blame me, I’ve been taking lessons from Bobrisky - my "Instagram mentor" who swears heels can fix a broken heart and a sagging confidence. Although I can’t wait for the day to be over so I can go back to wearing my beloved Crocs, the only footwear that treats my feet with kindness.

Today is Lilian’s introduction ceremony, and though I’m happy for her, my excitement doesn’t stretch far. Maybe if I were still a teenager, when family gatherings were synonymous with jollof rice mountains and dance-offs with cousins, I would be buzzing. Or maybe in my early twenties, when the idea of marriage still felt like a glittering dream rather than a cultural obligation. But who am I not to turn up for my favorite cousin?

The compound is alive. Yoruba drums beat out rhythms that demand hips to sway, the scent of fried plantain and smoky jollof rides the air, and the chatter of relatives weaves into a loud, colorful tapestry. Yet, I brace myself, because no family event is ever complete without the aunties’ verbal warfare.

They come in swarms, armed with wrappers tied tight and voices sharper than pepper soup spice:

“Do you think you’re getting any younger?”

“Did you turn your back on men after Femi?”

“Why are you still single?”

They asked these questions loudly but then whispered behind painted lips, “Abi is she into women?”

I rolled my eyes so many times I feared they would stick. It’s always the same script. My only crime is that my finger remains unadorned by a ring. Never mind that I earn more than half of their sons combined or that I finally got my promotion at the bank. In their world, achievements crumble in comparison to bride price negotiations.

I needed a drink, something cold enough to drown their voices and cool the throbbing pain around my ankles. The drinks were stored in a blue round drum tucked in the corner of the garden. I made my way toward it, weaving between folding chairs and half-dancing uncles.

That’s when I saw him.

He was seated among a cluster of couples - women leaning into their men like climbing plants on stakes. Except for him. He sat alone, his agbada crisp and embroidered with subtle gold, his face partially shadowed under a cap tilted at an angle. My heart made the foolish leap it had no business making. “Is he still single, too?” I asked myself, pretending I was only curious in passing.

I almost reached the drum when I saw him rise to his feet. Panic zipped through me. What if he noticed me? My ankle wobbled under the weight of my fear, and then it happened. I tripped over a stone and tumbled behind the drum. A chorus of laughter erupted from nearby teenagers who had been waiting to pounce on free entertainment.

“Too bad, Ifeoluwa, too bad,” I scolded myself. Everyone’s falling in love, and I’m falling behind a drum filled with assorted drinks.

The shadow of a hand stretched over me, and when I looked up, it was him. The man in the agbada. His palm extended, steady, patient. My pride wanted to refuse, but my ankle throbbed harder than my ego. I placed my hand in his, and he pulled me up gently, his grip firm.

“You okay?” His voice was low, warm, and oddly familiar.

“Yes… just my heels betraying me,” I muttered, adjusting my wrapper.

He smiled. “Crocs are better.”

My eyes widened. How did he?

He laughed. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

That’s when it hit me. Back in university, there was this quiet guy in my faculty who always teased me about my obsession with Crocs. He had been in the debate club, sharp-witted but never loud, always scribbling notes in the corner. His name floated back from memory.

“You…” I whispered. “Kunle?”

He nodded. “It’s been a while.”

I almost choked on air. Kunle, the same guy who once slipped me notes of encouragement during my breakup with Femi, the same guy who disappeared after graduation without a trace. And here he was, standing tall in an agbada, smiling like time hadn’t swallowed years between us.

We found a quiet corner away from the noise. He told me he had been abroad, building a tech startup that recently expanded to Lagos. I told him about my battles in the banking sector, about my aunties’ obsession with my womb and ring finger. We laughed, we sighed, we remembered.

But the biggest twist came when he leaned in, voice low: “I came today because of you. Lilian is my cousin too, but when I heard you’d be here, I couldn’t resist.”

My glass almost slipped. For years, I thought I had been invisible, stumbling through heartbreak and family pressure unnoticed. Yet here was Kunle, confessing he had been watching, waiting, biding time.

The ceremony drummed on, aunties circling like hawks, but I felt oddly shielded. The pain in my ankles dulled. For the first time in years, a family gathering didn’t feel like a cage.

Later, as we sat side by side, his hand brushing mine under the table, I caught the stares of my aunties. Their whispers hung in the air, but for once, I didn’t care. Because maybe, just maybe, falling behind a blue drum wasn’t a tragedy.

It was the stumble I needed to fall into the right story.