THREADED

"This woman is unbearable," Kemfon muttered as her eyes remained glued to the screen.

A self-proclaimed introvert, she had spent the entire day binge-watching movies recommended by her staff.

She was now on her fifth film, this one starring Anne Hathaway, whom she admired greatly.

"I wouldn't survive if I had a boss like this for 72 hours. I'd shave my hair in frustration," she murmured.

"Aunty relax. It's just a movie," her friend Seima teased from behind.

Kemfon hadn't even noticed her presence. But Seima wasn't surprised. Trust Kemfon to get completely engrossed in a movie that gave her whimsical fantasies.

Kemfon chuckled, realizing she'd been caught.

"Girl! This movie is so interesting," she said in defense of her enthusiasm.

"Why wouldn't it be? It's got pale-skinned people who speak through their noses."

"Mtcheew! Silly, go away please," Kemfon replied, laughing.

Seima never liked Hollywood movies. She always complained she couldn't understand their accent, even though subtitles existed.

Deep down, Kemfon suspected Seima's aversion had more to do with the Hollywood models' thin frames. Seima, being plus-sized, wasn't a fan.

"I'm serious," Seima said, flopping onto the couch beside her. "All these Onyibo films. Their lives are too fast. Before you blink, someone is divorced, someone is dying, someone is adopting a dog."

Kemfon chuckled again. "That's the charm! The drama, the fashion, the crisp office scenes. I mean, look at this outfit-sharp blazer, six-inch heels. Anne is killing it!"

"Please, let me hear word," Seima said, rolling her eyes. "You can't even survive a proper 9-to-5."

They both laughed. There was comfort in such moments-simple, quiet joy wrapped in friendship. The kind of bond that didn't need constant affirmation but was always steady.

"Wait, are you okay at all?" Seima suddenly exclaimed. Kemfon turned to see what had prompted her friend's outburst.

Earlier, Kemfon had soaked cornflakes in milk but found the sugar jar empty. Rather than brave a trip to the nearby mart-a nightmare for her introverted self-she had improvised with salt instead. Seima had just tasted the salty concoction.

Kemfon burst into laughter. "I'm sorry, mummy," she teased, grinning like a mischievous child.

Seima stood arms akimbo, her expression a mix of disbelief and concern. "God help you. I wonder what stepping outside will do to you."

Kemfon shrugged. "At least now you have something to gossip about."

"You need therapy," Seima muttered, still staring at the bowl like it had committed a crime.

"Drama queen," Kemfon said, dragging the bowl closer protectively.

Outside, the sky was soft with the pastel hue of evening. The ceiling fan hummed lazily, and the familiar scent of hair cream and fried plantains from a neighbor's kitchen floated in.

Kemfon had grown up as an only child with a typically strict Nigerian mother. Socializing had never been allowed. Her mother wasn't friendly to anyone-not even her daughter. In church, at school, and in their estate, her mother was known for being quarrelsome.

From an early age, Kemfon learned that silence was safer. She avoided birthday parties, sleepovers, and anything remotely social. Her mother's favorite line was always, "Friends are the first step to destruction."

Her only companionship came from her aunt, Eno. Once Aunty Eno told her that her mother had grown up in a polygamous, impoverished family.

As a child, she suffered from alopecia and kwashiorkor. Aunty Eno described her niece's mother as ridiculed, shamed, and even accused of witchcraft.

"Your grandmother didn't care about her either," Aunty Eno once said.

"What do you mean?" Kemfon had asked.

Her aunt explained that her grandmother, once a beautiful daughter of an Ibibio chief, had become pregnant by a man who already had two wives.

Disowned by her family, she ended up with Archibong, her lover. He accepted her but could not marry her. She had hoped the birth of a beautiful son would strengthen their bond.

Instead, she gave birth to a girl who looked nothing like her-hairless, sickly, and unattractive.

Archibong lost interest, and the grandmother's resentment began. When she couldn't bear more children, her anger deepened.

Aunty Eno described her first encounter with Kemfon's mother as a child being bullied at the village square. Her own mother had intervened and eventually taken the girl to live with them in the city.

That girl became a sister to her and in years, became Kemfon's mother.

Despite understanding her mother's pain, Kemfon struggled with the woman's unkindness.

Her mother was wealthy, owning many shops and properties, but was emotionally distant.

To make matters worse, Kemfon resembled her grandmother, a woman her mother despised most. She often saw faint traces of dislike in her mother's eyes.

There were days Kemfon wished she looked different-maybe darker-skinned, shorter, or even plumper. Anything but this uncanny resemblance to a woman she'd never met.

It was unfair, she thought, to inherit someone's sins by mere genetics.

She had grown up with no father either. He left because he couldn't stand her mother's behavior. Though he tried to reconnect, her mother never allowed it.

She remembered the few letters he sent, and the way her mother tore them without reading. There were phone calls too, cut short before she could even say hello. At some point, he stopped trying.

All Kemfon had was Aunty Eno.

Eno was everything her sister was not-warm, humorous, nurturing. She encouraged Kemfon's passion for sketching clothes, even when her mother dismissed it as childish nonsense. She bought her sketchbooks, colored pencils, and even the first sewing kit. Eno believed in her before she believed in herself.

Now, in her twenties, Kemfon still leaned on her aunt's wisdom. And Seima's friendship. Together, they were her safe spaces in a world that felt too loud, too demanding.

The movie was still playing, but her mind had drifted. She stared at the screen, her thoughts spinning threads of memory and quiet grief.

"You're zoning out again," Seima nudged.

"Sorry," Kemfon said softly. "Just thinking."

"Well, stop thinking and start doing. Like, maybe open a sugar jar before pouring salt into your life."

Kemfon laughed again. "That's... surprisingly profound."

"Thank you. I try," Seima said, flipping her braids dramatically.

And in that small, odd moment-between Hollywood drama and salty cornflakes-Kemfon felt a little more human. A little less alone.

Kemfon was in a foul mood.

One of her junior workers stood nervously before her, wringing her hands and stammering an apology. She had damaged the top of Kemfon's expensive sewing machine with a hot iron-an unforgivable sin in the fashion house.

"I'm really sorry, ma. It was a mistake. I didn't know the iron was still plugged in-"

"Are you hearing yourself?" Kemfon cut in sharply. "Do you realize how much that machine costs?"

The poor girl bowed her head, mumbling more apologies, her voice barely above a whisper.

The day had been filled with cutting, stitching, fittings, client calls, and rushing multiple orders before their deadlines. The studio buzzed with activity-snippets of fabric on the floor, the hum of machines, tailors bent over tables, and stylists measuring mannequins. It was everything Kemfon had dreamed of when she started out, yet today, everything grated on her nerves.

Having grown up admiring her mother's flair for dressing, especially how the older woman styled her wrappers and bold accessories, Kemfon had developed a genuine passion for fashion design from an early age. But it had been a lonely, rebellious kind of passion, one she'd had to nurture quietly.

Despite earning degrees in accounting-first a BSc and then an MSc-to please her mother, she eventually took the leap to pursue fashion full-time. It wasn't easy. She started small: sketching for hours, sourcing fabrics from Lagos markets, sewing until her fingers ached. But her gift couldn't stay hidden for long. Word spread. Clients came from across the country and even abroad-brides, celebrities, diplomats' wives, and socialites all wanted a piece of her style magic.

Even though her mother disapproved of her career choice and often mocked "tailoring" as a business for dropouts, she still subtly supported her. She supplied her with expensive fabrics from her numerous business connections-lace from Austria, silk from Dubai, aso-oke from Iseyin. It was the only way her mother knew how to love.

"Olama," Kemfon called sharply, interrupting her own thoughts. "Why is this outfit so sparsely beaded? Did you borrow beads? I need this heavily beaded. The bride asked for luxury."

"We'll add more beads, ma," her manager quickly assured her, coming forward to take a closer look.

Kemfon sighed. There was always something. Either the seam was crooked or the embellishments were off. She wasn't a perfectionist by choice-it was a necessity. One mistake could cost her reputation.

"Shalewa," she barked suddenly. "Where's my lunch?"

"I left it on your desk, ma," Shalewa responded timidly from the back.

Kemfon walked briskly to her small office within the studio and uncovered the plate of food. Her mood was already sour, and the hunger only made things worse. She sat heavily and emptied a spoonful of food into her mouth.

Her face contorted in a frown. "Why is it so hot?" she whined, looking around like the food had personally offended her.

Her staff snorted quietly. Hot meals were the norm, especially when ordered from the buka down the street. Kemfon shot the staff a cold look.

"What's funny?" she asked, her voice low but dangerous.

"I'm sorry, ma," the young woman said immediately, scurrying away like a rat avoiding a trap.

Just then, her office door burst open without warning.

"Oh God! I came at the right time," Seima's loud voice filled the room as she made her way straight to the food like a heat-seeking missile.

She didn't wait to be invited-she rarely did. Pulling a chair, she scooped a spoonful into her mouth with a pleased groan. "Mm! Na here the party dey!"

Kemfon sighed and shook her head. "Ever heard of 'knock knock'?" she asked, feigning irritation.

"What's that?" Seima replied with a shrug, speaking through a mouthful of food.

"Simple good manners, ma'am," Kemfon answered, rolling her eyes.

"Whatever!" Seima waved it off with her spoon. "Anyway, today is Friday, and we've got a party to attend tonight."

"You and who?" Kemfon asked, clearly startled.

"You and me, obviously," Seima declared like it was common knowledge. "Aunty, you must go out. I don't care if you fall sick. This weekend, you're going out to a social gathering. Even if I have to drag you there myself."

Kemfon opened her mouth to protest but Seima didn't give her a chance.

"You've been hiding in this shop since January. It's now June, and I've only seen you in lipstick once. That's unacceptable."

"I have work to do," Kemfon protested weakly, pointing toward the chaos unfolding in her workroom.

The thought of being in a crowd, making small talk, pretending to enjoy loud music, and sweating under club lights gave her goosebumps. Not the good kind.

"You have a capable manager," Seima said, gesturing toward Olama, who was already correcting the beading issue. "From what I've seen, your supervision is done for today. You've got no excuse. You are going out tonight."

She poked Kemfon in the chest for emphasis, her finger jabbing dramatically like she was sealing a sacred pact.

Kemfon groaned inwardly. Her stomach twisted-not from the spicy food but from the rising anxiety. She could already feel the tension building in her shoulders.

She could almost hear the blaring music, feel the strobe lights, smell the perfume-clouded air. Parties weren't her scene. Never had been. But with Seima, protests rarely worked.

And somewhere-deep, deep down-maybe a small, hidden part of her wanted to step outside her comfort zone. Maybe.

Banks had downed six shots of liquor and sat hunched at the bar, unimpressed.

To him, this wasn't a party-it felt more like a glorified professional dinner.

The lighting, the chatter, even the music seemed too calculated. He even spotted a woman in what looked like office wear.

"Who wears that to a party?" he muttered.

His friend sauntered over, noticing his mood.

"Guy, what's up with you?"

"What's really going on here?" Banks shot back sarcastically.

They laughed together. His friend already knew Banks wasn't a fan of this sort of party.

"You are here alone again?""You know me," Banks said. "My car's in the parking lot. If that counts."

More laughter. Drinks kept flowing. The topic shifted from work to football, and then to the secretary at his friend's office who seemed too determined to ignore the wedding ring on his finger.

"Bro, what were you expecting when you started gym?" Banks joked.

"I wasn't expecting female attention, that's for sure."

As they chuckled, Banks' eyes locked on someone across the room. Finally, something interesting.

She stood out-not just because of her silky backless dress, but the ease in her discomfort, the softness in her withdrawn stance.

Her skin glowed under the dim lights, and the neckline of her gown revealed a delicate collarbone and a teasing glimpse of cleavage.

He couldn't tell if it was the dress or her body that was sculpted to tempt. Whatever it was, it worked.

"Bad guy," his friend teased as he noticed Banks' focus shift.

His friend soon got called away by his wife, leaving Banks alone with his drink and the image of her etched into his mind. She disappeared from his sight moments later. He had to know where she went.

Kemfon moved through the party with reserved elegance.

Though she wasn't one for crowds, she had to admit Seima had been right-this event had potential.

She had just finished a short conversation with a bubbly woman who turned out to be the daughter of the prominent Senior Advocate of the country.

They'd exchanged numbers, and the woman had gushed about Kemfon's dress.

"You made this? Kemmy Wears, right?" the woman asked, eyes sparkling.

Kemfon nodded shyly.

"You're talented. I've got a media brunch in a few weeks-send me a catalog. I'd love to wear something from your collection."

Kemfon's heart fluttered. This was more than just flattery. This was an opportunity.

As the woman disappeared into the crowd, Seima rejoined her.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Seima squealed

"Do you know who she is?"

"I do now," Kemfon murmured, trying to contain her smile.

"And she asked for your catalog? Babe, that's a gateway to A-list visibility. You can't mess this up."

"I know, girl," Kemfon said, taking a deep breath.

Moments later, overwhelmed by the noise and energy, she stepped outside.

Kemfon needed air.

The noise, the bodies, the perfume-everything inside the party was too much.

She stepped outside to the back lawn, thankful for the quiet.

She slipped off her heels and let the cold earth cool her soles. The moonlight illuminated the garden just enough.

She lay back on a stone bench, taking in the night sky, when she caught the scent of cologne-strong, masculine, and unfamiliar.

Her heart skipped.

"Can I be forgiven for privacy intrusion?"

The voice was deep, confident, and had a touch of mischief.

She sat up, turning towards it.

From the dim light emerged a tall man in black pants and a wooden deep blue shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show a silver crucifix.

He held two glasses.

"Who are you?" Her tone was wary, but her body language betrayed a flicker of intrigue.

"Banks," he said, offering her one of the glasses.

She didn't move.

"Ouch. That means," he said with a mock pout.

"Did you follow me?" she asked, trying to sound stern.

"Yeah," he said simply. "Can you blame me?"

She rolled her eyes. "That's exactly what a creep would say."

"I'm not a creep. I promise," he said with a small chuckle. To her own surprise, she laughed a little.

"You looked like you needed air," he added. "I needed it too."

"Well, I did. This whole event is suffocating."

He smiled. "You don't seem like the party type."

"I'm not."

"Then why are you here?"

"My friend. She dragged me out. Refused to take no for an answer."

He nodded. "I came solo. Hoped for a better vibe. So far, you're the most interesting part of the night."

That flustered her slightly. She glanced at him.

"Bold much?"

"Just honest."

They sat in silence that wasn't

uncomfortable.

Then he asked, "So what do you do?"

"I'm a fashion designer. I own a brand-Kemmy Wears."

He looked intrigued.

"No way. My cousin works for Kemmy Wears. Amara Adams."

Kemfon blinked. "Wait-Amara? That's my model."

She reached into her purse, scrolled through her phone, and showed him a picture.

"That's her," Banks said.

She laughed softly. "Small world."

"You're talented," he said genuinely. "Your designs are bold but elegant-like that dress you're wearing."

She looked down at her dress.

"Seima picked it. I wouldn't have dared."

"Well, thank her on my behalf," he murmured, eyes twinkling.

He leaned slightly closer, and the space between them crackled with tension.

He reached out slowly and brushed the loop that held her dress around her neck.

She shivered.

Her breath caught in her throat. She knew she should tell him to stop.

But she didn't.

He leaned in, his lips just grazing the skin of her neck. His breath was warm. Her skin prickled under the cold air.

"You smell... so good," he whispered.

Her thoughts were a storm of warning signs and forbidden excitement.

"I should go back in. My friend might be looking for me." Her voice was barely audible.

"I'll walk you in," he said.

They walked side by side.

The party music grew louder as they neared the stairwell. Qing Madi's "Goosebumps" played almost mockingly in sync with what she felt.

Before she could stop herself, she turned and kissed him.

Her hands explored the firmness beneath his shirt. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her into the kiss like he'd been waiting for it all night. Their lips moved like they had something to find in each other.

Then came footsteps.

She broke the kiss, her breath ragged. She saw two guests descending the stairs.

Banks looked at her, eyes dazed, lips slightly parted.

She picked up her purse from where it had dropped, adjusted her dress, and tried to compose herself.

"Maybe we could talk after tonight?" he asked, reaching for her hand. "I could call you... If you'd give me your number."

She stared at him. This was too much, too fast. She wasn't ready.

"Goodnight, Banks," she said, gently pulling her hand away.

And without another word, she ascended the stairs and disappeared into the party.

Inside, the lights felt brighter, the music louder, and the world just a little more confusing.

This night wasn't over-but it had already changed something in her.