I was working that night. Shots N’ Bikinis — an overnight party at Vogue Beach, Oniru. It was Sunday, April 20th, 2024. Flaming shots, dance circles, guys, ladies, bikinis, alcohol, music, and enough waistlines moving in rhythm to start a revolution.
FunZ was the official ticketing platform, so I was there as a staff member. ID badge? Check. FunZ smile? Check. My job was to scan tickets, sell onsite tickets, support the organisers, delegate duties, and help keep the event running smoothly. Somewhere between managing late check-ins, I saw her — Florence.
Bright pink braids. Glitter on her cheeks. A mesh top, micro skirt, and Crocs that had clearly danced through more Lagos nights than I could count. She wasn’t just at the party. She was the party.
We struck up a conversation while she tried to remember which email she used to sign up. Then she asked for a power bank, and, well, she never really stopped talking. Not in an annoying way, more like storytelling. Florence had the kind of presence that made you feel like missing a single word would be missing out on a whole life.
She danced, laughed, posed for pictures, sipped from different cups, and between all that, gave me pieces of her life. I knew she had more to say, so we exchanged contacts. A few days later, she sent me a voice note — long, reflective, messy in the way only real stories are.
This is Florence’s story. In her own words.
“They say the soft life is for everyone. Me, I’m still queueing.” — Florence, 24.
I didn’t plan to live like this. After University, I thought the steps would be clear. Finish school, do NYSC, get a job (preferably hybrid, so I can slay at home), and start stacking money to japa or launch my skincare brand.
Instead, I’m at home, still sharing one cooking schedule with my mum and arguing with my siblings about boundaries.
And it’s not like I’m not trying. I send out applications every other week — sometimes even daily. My Gmail has folders for CVs, rejection emails, “We’ll get back to you,” and ghosted HRs. I rewrote my CV seven times. I took a course on LinkedIn optimisation. I even started learning Product Design, but honestly, I was just designing chaos. I learned Virtual Assistance, but I’m the one who needs assistance.
Nigeria will humble you. There’s no sugarcoating that.
One day I got tired. Tired of refreshing my Gmail. Tired of feeling small. Tired of waiting for someone to give me permission to feel like I mattered. So I started saying yes to parties. “I don’t just party for vibes. I party for survival.” There’s this idea that if you’re seen dancing, you must not have problems. Lie.
Me? I party because it’s the one place I don’t feel like I’m failing. When the bass hits and I’m on a rooftop, cocktail in hand, surrounded by strangers who don’t care what I studied or where I work — I feel free. I feel like I’m still in control of something.
The night we met, I’d been to two other parties earlier in the day. It was my third outfit change. I even borrowed my cousin’s Crocs. In March, I went to three parties in four days — one in Lekki, one on the mainland, and a beach party in Ilashe, where I lost my slippers and my dignity.
I’ve slept in jeans. Sobriety has come in the form of shawarma and roadside suya. I’ve cried in Bolt rides on the way home. But I’ve also laughed till my chest hurt, met crazy-talented creatives, and, for once, just once, forgot that my country was failing me.
“Sometimes, joy is my resistance.”
My mum thinks I’m unserious. My aunt keeps asking if I’ve “considered teaching.” Half of my friends have japa’d. The other half are in tech bootcamps and eating dollars. Me? I’m in a WhatsApp group chat called “Party Calendar 2.0.”
And I’m not ashamed. I’m in transition. It’s messy. It’s confusing. But it’s mine. Some mornings I wake up and panic, wondering if I’m wasting time. Other mornings, I wake up and remember: I’m 24.
The pressure is loud, but my joy is louder. That’s why I keep showing up. To the dance floor. To life. One party at a time. Here’s the twist: that same girl crying in Bolt rides home is now learning event planning. One of the organisers from a party I attended noticed my vibe, said I was a natural, and gave me a chance. I started helping out, sharing drinks, and making sure people were vibing. Now, I’ve worked four events. One moment I was on the dance floor, the next I was being paid to host it.
I didn’t expect saying yes to one event would lead to something. But it did. I still don’t have everything figured out. I still don’t know what I want to “be.” But now I know I can create experiences that make people feel alive.
And I’ve started saving. Not much, but it’s mine. Small-small from the gigs I get. I don’t like being broke.
At this point, I plan to start making more money from all this madness and it only makes sense. My friends ask me for event plugs anyway. Lagos parties started as escape for me, now they’re turning into opportunity. I recently found out I could become a FunZ Sales Rep and get paid for selling tickets to events I already attend. If I’m going to be shaking waists at 2a.m, I might as well be shaking accounts too. Imagine making money and having fun? This outside life might just start paying rent soon.
Simi, let’s see where life takes me. But until then? I’ll keep dancing. Because sometimes, in this country, joy is the job. Funny enough, I heard Shots N’ Bikinis is having another party soon. I’m already planning my outfit. That night at Vogue Beach changed something in me.
If life won’t give you the soft life, sometimes you have to go out and dance your way into it.