Suya Boy and the Senator's Daughter

At nine forty on a Friday night, Emeka Obi was fanning his grill with a piece of cardboard when a bride fell into his stall.

She came in sideways, through the gap between the tarpaulin and the table, in a cloud of white tulle, a veil half torn off, one shoe missing. She landed on his sack of onions and lay there, gasping.

"Madam?" said Emeka.

"Shh!"

"You are on my onions."

"I know! Be quiet!" She rolled off, snatched at her skirt, and crouched behind the cooler. She was perhaps twenty-six, with a round determined face, hair in an elaborate braided crown, and mascara running down both cheeks. "Please. Don't look at me."

"I cannot avoid it. You are in my shop."

"Just... act normal."

"What is normal?"

"I don't know! Sell suya!"

He shrugged. He turned back to the grill. The meat sizzled, fragrant with ginger and groundnut and pepper. A line of customers stood waiting, mostly security guards from the Hilton and a few taxi drivers. Behind the stall, across the road, the hotel blazed with lights. A red carpet unrolled from the entrance. A crowd of photographers jostled by the door.