He had only been back in Lagos for three days, but the city had already started treating him like a returning prince. He liked that. He liked the attention, the nostalgia, the quiet sense that he had come back bigger than he left. So when he stepped into the club that night, fresh haircut, clean sneakers, shirt that still smelled faintly of Heathrow duty-free, he walked in as though Lagos had been waiting for him to arrive before the night could begin.

His friends were already there, scattered around a table near the centre of the room. The club was loud in that familiar Lagos way, music vibrating through the floor, lights dancing across people who were pretending not to look at each other while very much looking at each other.

When he joined the table, the others made space with that blend of excitement and expectation reserved for someone who has flown in from another continent. He settled in, nodded at the waiter, and ordered the kinds of things men order when they want other men to recognise their presence. (This is the thing about IJGBs; they show off and act like they aren’t. Your babe isn’t safe from their show-offs, your man isn’t safe either.)

The bottles arrived with sparklers, because that is what December in Lagos demands. The waiters marched in a small procession, and heads turned toward him because Nigerians always want a glimpse of the drama, we love drama, and we never miss it. The hype man too didn’t help matters, he started going off: something about “our brother from away,” something about “big energy”, even Cubana Chief Priest would be jealous of this IJGB.

Hours passed easily. Laughter came without effort, and he let himself enjoy the small theatre of being seen. It wasn’t arrogance; it was simply the reward for surviving eleven months of cold foreign mornings and NHS queues.

But Lagos, like all living things, has a sense of timing.

When the bill arrived, it came quietly, carried by the same waiter who had earlier delivered bottles with a kind of ceremonial pride. This time, the man stood back a little, giving him the sort of respectful distance waiters adopt when they bring something that might trouble the air.

He took the POS machine with casual confidence. There was nothing to fear. He had come prepared. He inserted his foreign card, typed in his PIN, and waited. The others weren’t watching him directly, but he could feel their attention resting lightly in his direction the way a cat rests a paw on a trapped bird; curious, not yet concerned.

The POS machine responded with a short, unfriendly beep. DECLINED.

He frowned a little, the kind of frown that wasn’t really annoyance but mild surprise. He told the waiter to try again. The machine declined him again.

He felt something tighten in his chest. He tried another card. Declined. He tried a third. The screen remained stubborn.

Around him, the noise of the club continued, but something in the atmosphere shifted. People at his table suddenly became very interested in their phones. A girl at the next table glanced over briefly before returning to her drink. The waiter’s polite expression softened into something that looked like sympathy. Even the lights seemed to hold their color a little too steadily.

He forced a small laugh. “Must be the network,” he said, though the confidence in his voice had thinned. He asked the waiter to try again. The waiter obeyed because that is what waiters do, but the machine still rejected him.

Embarrassment never arrives loudly; it seeps in quietly, collecting itself in the back of the throat, then the palms, then the spine. He straightened in his seat, trying to keep his expression calm, but he could feel the failure gathering weight.

His friend Tunde leaned in, voice low, tone even. “You don’t use Divest?” he asked. “You know how here is now. POS machines just do whatever they like.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Tunde unlocked his phone, opened the Divest app, and tapped a few times: the movement fluid, practiced. He showed him the screen almost casually, the way someone shows a shortcut they’ve used a hundred times. Crypto to cash. Instantly. No negotiation, no effort. Tunde settled the bill, and the waiter’s shoulders relaxed in visible relief.

The tension faded from the table, and the night continued, but something had shifted in him. The embarrassment was already beginning to recede, replaced by a quiet, practical realisation: Lagos respects speed, not sentiments.

Outside, the air was cooler, carrying that faint harmattan dryness that makes everything feel a little more honest. He stood for a moment, letting the noise of the club fall behind him. Then he took out his phone and downloaded Divest without hesitation.

Not because of the embarrassment, though that had played its part, but because he understood something essential about Detty December: the night doesn’t wait for anyone, and your money shouldn’t either.

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 this Christmas season with your crypto in just 1 minute.

All you need to do is download Divest.

ToodleDoo!