Divest, Payments & Love: An IJGB Triangle For Detty December

He didn’t plan to get tipsy. That was the first mistake. The second was assuming Lagos would behave itself on a night when he wasn’t fully sober.

He’d arrived at the lounge with the usual resistance, claiming he had work the next day, that he didn’t have the energy, that Detty December wasn’t for him. He ordered a drink the moment he sat down. It was the kind of drink that tasted harmless until you stood up too fast.

And then there was the girl, another IJGB, though he didn’t know it at first. She sat beside him with the quiet alertness of someone who observes before she speaks. She laughed at his jokes a little too easily, and every time she leaned in to say something, that soft London tint in her voice gave him the sense that she, too, was adjusting to the Lagos heat in small increments.

The night grew warmer. The drinks didn’t stop coming. His thinking, normally sharp, became foggy around the edges. But he was present, and the presence felt good.

So when the waiter returned with the bill, he barely blinked. He reached for his phone with the confidence of someone who believed the night still belonged to him. His bank app refused to load.

At first, he thought his hand was shaking. He blinked, tried again, then again. The app responded with the vague stubbornness of something that knew he was in no condition to argue with it.

“Network,” he muttered.

The waiter nodded, the way waiters nod when they’ve heard the same excuse from too many well-dressed men.

He tried the USSD code. Error. Tried another account. Error.

The girl watched him quietly, her expression tucked somewhere between concern and amusement.

When the waiter came back, gently, politely, his tipsiness made him louder than he intended.

“I said it’s network!” he shouted, as if raising his voice would frighten the waiter into understanding.

The waiter held her ground, but he didn’t move closer. The girl touched his arm, but he shrugged it off without thinking. He was already too far inside the moment to rescue himself.

“You people should fix your pos!” he yelled, gesturing in a way that made his balance uncertain. “Do you know who I am?”

He didn’t finish the sentence before the bouncer appeared beside him, tall and steady, wearing the expression of someone bored of the same scene repeated with different faces.

Before he could fully protest, the bouncer grabbed him by the collar, firmly, not violently, just enough to communicate the boundaries of the evening.

His feet almost lifted off the ground; his pride disappeared entirely.

“Sir,” the bouncer said, voice low, “you need to calm down.”

The girl stood quickly. “Please,” she said, “he’s with us. He’s fine. Just, just ignore him. He’s tipsy.”

He tried to respond, but the bouncer’s grip silenced whatever syllable was planning to escape. His shirt tightened across his chest, and for a brief moment, he wondered if this was how his Detty December would end, dangling in front of strangers while a woman he barely knew tried to negotiate his dignity back on his behalf.

Then she did something unexpected.

She took out her phone. “I’ll just use Divest,” she said, almost casually. “Crypto-to-cash is faster. I already converted my crypto to naira earlier today.”

She unlocked the Divest app and moved through it with a confidence that made him feel like he’d missed an important memo. A few taps. A quick conversion. Payment done.

The bouncer released him, the waiter relaxed, and he, face flushed, lip slightly bruised from his shirt’s collar pressing against his teeth, mumbled something that was supposed to be gratitude.

You, you paid by converting crypto to naira?” he asked, still breathless.

She nodded. “Yes, in less than 60 seconds. Divest does instant crypto-to-cash. No delays. No drama. No need for shouting at innocent waiters”

She guided him outside, one hand lightly holding his elbow as if she wasn’t certain he could walk in a straight line. When they reached the car, he tried to apologise, but the words tumbled out in the wrong order.

“Don’t worry,” she said, her tone soft, almost amused. “We’ll talk tomorrow. When you’re human again.”

The next morning, sunlight pried him awake. His head felt heavier than usual. His lip ached with a dull, persistent throb. He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it.

Then her voice came from the armchair across the room.

“Well, well. Lagos heavyweight champion is finally awake.”

She was holding a cup of tea, watching him with the grin of someone who’d been waiting to deliver a punchline.

“You screamed at a waiter,” she said. “Then you tried to lecture a POS machine. Then you almost got folded like laundry by a bouncer.” She paused, eyeing his lip. “And you lost the fight.”

He groaned. “Please tell me you’re exaggerating.”

“I wish,” she said. “But don’t worry. I paid. With my Divest. Very gracefully.”

He covered his face.

She laughed. “The lip will heal. The shame? Maybe not so quickly.”

He uncovered his face and looked at her properly. Her hair was tied up, her expression softening now that the teasing had run its course. There was something warm in the way she looked at him, something familiar, even though they’d only met the night before.

“This is probably not how you imagined meeting someone you’ll tell your kids about,” she said, smiling.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

She shrugged lightly. “Just saying. Some people meet at museums. Some meet on planes. We met because you tried to fight a POS.”

He laughed, despite the pain in his lip.

Later, whenever and wherever the story will be told, it will be “Your father got drunk, shouted at a waiter, fought a POS, and almost got thrown out of a club. I felt sorry for him. And that is how our family began.”

Funny right? A love story shaped, strangely, by a crypto-to-cash app.

Well, we wrote this very interesting and descriptive story just to let you know that: You can make payments in local currencies anywhere in Africa with your crypto in just 1 minute. All you need to do is download Divest.

ToodleDoo!