Chapter 18: Switched Phones

If you think Lagos weddings are chaotic, try adding a phone mix-up to the equation.
Trust me, nothing good comes out of it.

I was standing near the cocktail bar, enjoying a rare moment of calm, when the drama began. The couple had made their grand entrance into the reception hall and taken their seats. The food was being served, everyone was enjoying the lively music, and I was thinking I might get through this wedding without any major incidents.

Then I saw my phone screen light up.
New message: Did anyone else see you there that night? I froze. That message wasn’t meant for me. My heart started pounding as I checked the phone’s wallpaper. Instead of the photo of my car, there was a picture of a lady, smiling sweetly.

Oh no.

I had someone else’s phone. I retraced my steps. Earlier, I had placed my phone on the bar while ordering a drink, and I must have picked up the wrong one. Now I was holding a lady’s phone, and she was holding mine. Somewhere in this venue, someone had access to my entire message history, including the bachelor party details that could sink this entire wedding.

I scanned the room, searching for the lady in the photo. There she was, sitting at a table, scrolling through my phone.
I rushed over, trying to remain calm.
“Hi! You have my phone.”
She looked up, “What?”
“Phones got switched. That one’s mine.”
She checked the screen, her eyebrows furrowing, “Wait. You are CJ, the best man?”
“Yes,” I said, praying she hadn’t seen anything incriminating.
Her face lit up with excitement. “Oh my God, I’ve been reading your texts. You’re hilarious! Who is Ogechi, and why does she keep texting you about palm wine?”

I groaned internally and sat down next to her. I leaned in so we could hear each other over the music. “Long story. Can I have my phone back now?”
But instead of handing it over, she scrolled further, “Oh, what’s this? Bachelor party in Ghana?”
My stomach flipped. “It’s not what you think,” I said, trying to grab the phone.
She pulled it away, laughing, “I’m joking. Relax. But seriously, what happened in Ghana?”
“Nothing happened,” I said quickly. “It’s just groomsmen stuff. Please give me the phone.”
Before she could reply, her phone buzzed in my hand. I glanced down and saw a message pop up: I’m still in love with you. The sender? The groom.

I blinked. “Um, what’s this?”
Her face fell. “Oh no.”
“So, you’re the groom’s side chick!”
“CJ, I can explain—”
“What are you both up to?” I whispered, trying to keep my voice down. “Does the bride know?”
“No,” she said, panicking. “It’s not like that; I’m not trying to mess things up!”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, checking the time. We had exactly 20 minutes before the couple’s first dance. “Come with me now.”

I pulled her aside and dialled the groom’s number from my phone. He answered after two rings. “CJ, what’s up?”
“We have a problem,” I said. “You texted your side chick.”
Silence.
“I-I didn’t mean to,” he stammered. “I was nervous, and…”
“No time for excuses. Where are you?”
“I’m upstairs, changing for the first dance.”
“Stay there,” I ordered. “I’m coming.”

I dragged the lady with me, weaving through tables and dodging photographers and got the lift to the 10th floor. Dele opened the door to the suite. His face was pale, and his bow tie was slightly crooked. He looked like a man on the verge of fainting.
“You better have a good explanation,” I said.
“It was an accident!” he said, running his hands through his hair. “I was scrolling
through my old texts, and I panicked and… hit send by mistake.”
“Does your bride know about this?”
“No!” He looked horrified at the thought.
I turned to the babe. “You haven’t replied, right?”
She shook her head, “No, I swear.”
I exhaled, relieved. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Delete the message on both
phones, and we pretend this never happened.”
They both nodded furiously like school kids agreeing to keep a secret from their teacher.

“Actually, why don’t we delete your entire message history?” I said. I grabbed both phones, deleted the messages, and handed them back. “Now,” I said, straightening the groom’s bow tie, “get your act together. You’re about to dance with your wife.” The babe slipped away.
“Thank you, CJ,” he whispered, looking like he owed me his life.
“Don’t thank me. Just don’t mess up again.”

As I watched them take the dance floor to Timi Dakolo’s Iyawo Mi, I finally relaxed. The bride was glowing, oblivious to the situation we had just avoided.

Later, the babe found me by the bar. “Thanks for not making it a big deal.”
“Just doing my job,” I said, sipping my drink.
“Maybe one day, you’ll need my help covering up your secret,” she teased.
I laughed, “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

But in Lagos, you never know.