I Do, Sort Of

The dress arrived at 9:40. It was Zainab's. It was one hundred and forty thousand dollars of French lace and it fitted Temi everywhere except her dignity.

"Hold your breath," said the seamstress, who had a mouthful of pins and the expression of a woman performing surgery on a lion.

"I am holding it."

"Hold it more."

"I have not breathed since the lift."

The mirror showed a stranger. A woman with her cheekbones, in white, with her hair swept up in the shape of someone who had never been broke. Temi touched the lace at her collarbone and felt something wobble behind her ribs.

"Madam Temi," whispered Bola from the corner, eyes shining. "You look like a Nollywood poster."

"I look like a woman who is about to commit fraud."