Chapter 2: Last-Minute Order

Some clients plan their weddings twelve months in advance. Others give you a spreadsheet, a Pinterest board, and a three-person committee. And some, like Yvonne, call you on Thursday night, sounding as though she has just survived a minor plane crash.

“Hi, is this Dayo of Sweet Cravings?”
“Yes,” I said, already wary. Her tone had that urgent wahala pitch.
“My wedding is on Saturday. I need a five-tier cake. Something classy, nothing too dramatic. But elegant.”
I blinked. “As in two days from now?”
“Yes,” came the reply.
“Ma’am, with all due respect…”
She cut me off. “I’ll pay double.”
That silenced me.
She continued, “Bisi, the planner recommended you. She said you’re the best.”

Now, I couldn’t even argue. That woman again. Bisi always had a way of dragging me into last-minute miracles, like I was the Jesus of fondant.

“Do you have a design?” I asked, resigned.
“I trust your judgment. Just make it unforgettable.” And she hung up.

Cynthia looked at me from across the room where she was boxing mini cupcakes. “What was that?”
I blinked again. “A bride. Saturday wedding. Wants a five-tier luxury cake. Hasn’t paid a deposit. And I think I just agreed.”
Morayo clutched her chest. “You want to kill us.”
“I didn’t say yes,” I lied.

I’d said yes. I called Bisi to confirm that the booking was legitimate and to ensure I would receive payment.

 

By Friday morning, I was elbow-deep in cake batter and stress. Cynthia drafted the stencil, while Morayo handled logistics. I called my fondant supplier twice and begged him to deliver before 2.00 pm. I even pulled out my special gold dust, the one I reserved for my premium brides and corporate clients with deep pockets and low emotional stability.

By evening, my kitchen smelled like a combination of victory and sleep deprivation. I stepped back to admire the progress. Four tiers baked, filled, and crumb-coated. The fifth was in the oven. My Spotify playlist was playing Asa. For a second, I felt peace. Then Cynthia’s voice shattered it.
“Dayo! There’s a problem!”
I turned sharply. “What again?”
“Power just went out. The generator isn’t coming on.”

I stared at her like she had just announced the end of the world. NEPA had struck. My generator, a grumpy beast of a thing, was refusing to cooperate.
“Did you check the fuel?”
“Yes!”
“Oil?”
“Yes!”
“Did you sweet-talk it?”
“No, I’ll try that next.”

While she whispered sweet nothings to the generator, I stood in my dark kitchen, arms folded, praying over my unfinished cake. That fifth tier was crucial. You can’t serve a four-tier cake when your bride is expecting a five-tier cake. That’s how wars start in Lagos.

Ten minutes later, the generator coughed, sputtered, and roared to life. Relieved, I nearly cried.

Saturday morning arrived, and the cake was ready. It was a thing of beauty: tall, sleek, and fondant so smooth you’d think it had been photoshopped. It had a white base with gold trim, hand-painted floral details, and a touch of edible pearls. Even I was impressed with myself. The only problem? We didn’t know where to deliver it.

Yvonne hadn’t sent the venue address. I called. No answer. Texted. Nothing. By 10.00 am, I was pacing. Cynthia was already in her “let me call Bisi” mode.

Thirty minutes later, Bisi replied, cool as ever: “Eko Atlantic, white tent by the fountain. 1.00 pm sharp.”

Of course. Because where else would a bride with five-tier cake dreams and no time management skills be getting married?

We got there by 12.30 pm. The sun was blazing like it was fighting for its life. Our carefully laid edges were sweating. The tent was surrounded by luxury cars, floral arches, and human statues painted in metallic colours.

We wheeled the cake in carefully, and I almost hissed when someone tried to pose beside it for a selfie. “Please, the cake is not a backdrop,” Morayo warned.

At 2.45 pm, forty-five minutes late, naturally, the bride arrived. She stepped out of a Rolls-Royce, dressed in a dazzling lace mermaid gown with a veil long enough to cover the whole of Oshodi bridge. She didn’t notice me, of course. She was busy being a bridal goddess. But as the guests gasped at the cake, I stood at the back and smiled.

Later, just before we left, she walked past and paused. Her eyes locked with mine. For a second, recognition flickered.
She smiled. “You must be Dayo.”
“I am.”
She nodded at the cake. “You outdid yourself.”
I nodded back. “Thank you.”
Then she walked away.

Back in the car, Morayo passed me a cold drink and asked, “Would you do that again?”
I took a long sip.
“For double the money?” I said. “I’d do it in heels.”

 

 

 

Check back in next Saturday for the next instalment of the Flash Fiction Series! And read the previous instalment here!