Table 7

Saturdays are for parties. Today was no exception.

I got dressed, powdered, blended, and properly aso-ebied. Thankfully, my makeup artist redeemed herself. Last month, despite booking her a month in advance and explaining that I needed to leave early, she still arrived late, after several phone calls and repeated promises that she was "almost there."

"Justina, where are you?"

"I'm on my way, ma."

"On your way... where?"

The line went dead. She eventually arrived an hour after I had planned to leave the house, then expected me to smile so she could perfect my highlight.

Today, however, she came on time. I was happy. She was happy.

I arrived at the venue exactly as planned and immediately began scouting for the perfect table. Close enough to the caterers. Close enough to the air conditioner. Experience had taught me that both could determine the quality of your afternoon.

The party was already in full swing. After taking a few pictures with friends on the red carpet, I walked into the hall. Two friends spotted me and waved excitedly. They were sitting at what I instantly recognised as my perfect spot.

Table 7.

My favourite song was playing, so I danced my way over and settled in.

Then it began.

Coolers moved from table to table. Trays glided majestically across the hall like models on a runway. Everything sailed elegantly... right past us.

Nothing landed on Table 7. Not even a stray puff-puff.

At first, we pretended not to notice. After all, we were there to celebrate our friend on her birthday and the opening of a new branch of her business. Food was secondary. Or so we told ourselves.

But when the guests around us began smiling a little too much and laughing a little too freely, we concluded there had to be something extraordinary in that food. Solidarity alone could not explain that level of happiness.

I followed every caterer with my eyes as though I had been appointed Chief Traffic Controller of Kitchen Affairs. My tablemates did the same. Eight grown adults, pretending to have conversations while secretly tracking trays. Our eyes met every few seconds, anxious and silently asking the same question.

"Who did we offend?"

My stomach answered before anyone else could. It grumbled. I held it the way one holds on to a birthright.

Eventually, someone remembered we existed. A drink arrived.

Warm. Not room temperature. Warm. As though it had been stored beside the generator.

Then another server appeared, balancing a tray high above his head. Hope returned. He lowered the tray and announced,

"I have one plate. Who wants it?"

One plate. For an entire table.

The lady opposite me slowly raised her hand, like a pupil who knew the answer but wasn't sure she should say it. The server placed the plate in front of her and disappeared without a promise to return.

Seven pairs of eyes followed that plate as she gently pulled it towards herself, one hand guarding it protectively, like a lion protecting a fresh kill from scavengers.

By now, I had begun calculating the cost of attending the party. The outfit. The shoes. The makeup. Transport. Hair. Was it worth it?

Then I remembered something. Before leaving home, I had switched off the kitchen light with complete confidence that I would not be returning there that evening.

Now my mind had already entered meal-planning mode. There was rice. Maybe enough chicken for one respectable serving.

Tomatoes.

I had even started mentally chopping onions when I heard a voice behind me.

"Serve this table."

I turned. I didn't know the woman who spoke, but in that moment, she sounded like an angel who had received clear instructions.

Within seconds, plates arrived. Not just plates. Proper plates. The kind that makes you sit up, adjust your posture, like you've just been upgraded to first class. Then came a variety of cold drinks. Actual cold drinks.

We ate. We drank. We smiled. We laughed. Every financial calculation disappeared.

Almost immediately, the DJ played one of my favourite songs. With one hand holding my fork and the other keeping rhythm, I joined the celebration.

Funny how quickly life can change. One moment you're wondering whether you'll be cooking rice when you get home. The next, you're dancing with a full stomach and thanking God for whoever remembered Table 7.

Perhaps that's true beyond parties too. Sometimes life feels like every other person is being served except you. You wait, you wonder, and eventually you start making peace with less than you had hoped for. Then, often when you've stopped looking towards the caterers, someone simply says,

"Serve this table."

Until then, try not to leave the party too early.

— Abimbola Writes