BOLAJI'S PRIDE

The Pride of Bolaji: Part One: THE GRAVEYARD OF EGOS...


In the gilded enclave of Lekki, where Atlantic breezes carried the scent of money through floor-to-ceiling windows and success glittered from every marble façade, there lived a woman whose very name had become currency among Lagos's elite. Bolaji Adedayo, daughter of Chief Timothy Adedayo, oil titan and real estate emperor was not merely the subject of conversation at highbrow gatherings. She was the conversation.
Beautiful felt too pedestrian a word for what Bolaji possessed. Hers was the kind of presence that rewrote the rules of attraction, that made grown men stutter and seasoned politicians forget their talking points. Her skin held the warm lustre of burnished gold, and her eyes...dark as Lagos midnight yet sharp as cut obsidian seemed to peer directly into souls, cataloguing worth with surgical precision. When she moved through a room, conversations paused. When she spoke, the air itself seemed to listen.
But it wasn't her beauty that made Bolaji legendary in Lagos circles. It was her tongue; precise as a surgeon's scalpel, devastating as a courtroom verdict.
At twenty-six, Bolaji remained gloriously, defiantly single. Her suitors read like a who's-who of Nigerian power: tech moguls fresh from Silicon Valley, senators' sons with political dynasties behind them, oil heirs with offshore accounts, even celebrity pastors with megachurches and private jets. They came bearing gifts that could fund small countries, promises that could reshape skylines, and declarations of love that poets would envy.
They all left empty handed.
Kunle Olumide, whose fintech empire was valued at ₦15 billion, had arrived with white orchids flown in from Thailand and an invitation to dine above the clouds en route to Monaco. Bolaji had examined him with the detached interest of an art critic studying a forgery.
"You pilot jets?" she'd asked, her voice honey over ice. "How quaint. My father owns three and still doesn't feel the need to announce it with cologne that screams 'trying too hard.'"
Kunle's driver found him twenty minutes later, sitting in his Bentley, staring at nothing.
When Alhaji Sani Danjuma; northern royalty with bloodlines stretching back centuries sent a necklace of Burmese sapphires accompanied by handwritten verses in three languages, Bolaji had photographed the poem and shared it across her social media with surgical precision:
"Another audition for the role of husband. The position requires a man, not a jewelry merchant with delusions of poetry."
The necklace was returned by courier that same evening, still in its Hermès box.

@@@

Bolaji's inner circle consisted of Lagos's most privileged daughters; women who measured their worth in designer handbags and Dubai shopping sprees, who spoke in brand names and vacation destinations. Yet even among this rarified company, Bolaji reigned supreme. Not merely because her father's wealth dwarfed theirs, but because she refused to apologize for occupying space in the world.
During a champagne brunch at the Four Points, overlooking Victoria Island's pristine coastline, her friend Adaeze had ventured the question that hovered unspoken in their circle:
"B, surely there's someone who's caught your eye? Or are we witnessing the world's most elaborate game of playing hard to get?"
Bolaji had set down her Baccarat crystal flute with the deliberate care of someone making a point.
"Adaeze, I don't play games; I set the rules. Here's my criteria, since you're curious: He must surpass my father's wealth, possess the kind of presence that stops traffic, and carry himself with enough confidence to stand beside me rather than behind me. Until such a man materializes, I'll continue watching the parade of wannabes from my throne."
The laughter that followed carried the nervous energy of courtiers who knew better than to challenge their queen.
@@@

If heartbreak were a monument, Bolaji's romantic history would rival the pyramids. Her rejected suitors had formed an unofficial support group of sorts...men who'd entered her orbit as conquerors and emerged as cautionary tales.
Tunde Bello, an Afrobeats producer who'd written her a song titled "Queen of My Heart," had vanished from Lagos social media after she'd informed him that his voice "sounded like a dying generator attempting karaoke."
Dr. Emeka Okafor, a Harvard-trained surgeon who'd sent her medical journals with romantic annotations, received a public response that became urban legend: "I asked for a man who could heal hearts, not dissect them with the charm of a mortuary attendant."
Yet Bolaji felt no remorse for the emotional carnage in her wake. In her mind, she was performing a public service... separating the wheat from the chaff, the lions from the sheep. She'd grown up watching her father command rooms full of powerful men, and she'd learned that respect was earned through strength, not given through weakness.
In the quiet hours after midnight, when Lagos's chaos settled into whispers and her Banana Island penthouse fell silent except for the distant sound of waves, Bolaji would sometimes permit herself moments of introspection. Not doubt, never that but a kind of regal contemplation.
Wrapped in Italian silk against the night air, gazing out at the city lights that sparkled like scattered diamonds, she would speak to the darkness:
"He's out there somewhere. Not a supplicant or a worshipper, but an equal. Someone who sees my crown and raises his own rather than bowing. When he arrives, I'll recognize him immediately, not by what he brings me, but by what he refuses to surrender of himself."
These were the only moments when Bolaji's armor showed the faintest hairline crack, not of weakness, but of hope.


THE STORM CLOUDS GATHER

And so the legend of Bolaji Adedayo continued to grow: the woman who couldn't be bought, conquered, or convinced to settle. Her throne remained unshakeable, her standards uncompromising, her pride worn like ancestral jewelry passed down through generations of queens.
But in the shadows of Lagos's elite circles, whispers had begun; ancient wisdom spoken in hushed tones about the dangers of flying too close to the sun, about the universe's peculiar sense of humor when it came to those who believed themselves untouchable.
They said that fate had a particular fondness for teaching lessons to those who thought themselves beyond its reach.
For now, though, the Queen reigned supreme, her subjects scattered like leaves before her wind, her kingdom intact and unchallenged.
The peacock, after all, had never met her match.


To be continued in Part Two: The Teacher And The Throne...