“What’s the time now?” I asked.
“It’s 7:42; we agreed to leave by 7:00 PM,” M muttered annoyedly as I sank into the chair in my room. K was doing it again—making us late as usual. She always did. M, his brother, and I had been ready for a while, fueled by the anticipation of our potential blur tonight. Open Parlour.
C had sent the flier to the group chat sometime last week. He’d spotted it on Instagram, posted by a collective called aplacecalledmars. So we planned to go for three simple reasons. First, it was an opportunity to see Tega Ethan again; he was on the lineup of artistes for the night. Second, the venue was in Bodija, which offered a safety net—if the event turned out to be ass, we could easily go somewhere else for drinks and games. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the price was right: registration was free. All it took was a quick sign-up through a Peppermint link.
K finally came down when we told her that the Bolt driver was waiting, and soon we were winding through the streets of New Bodija looking for the location. After what seemed like forever, we finally got there. It wasn’t what we expected. The first thought that crossed my mind was, “Shey we never make mistake like this? Or, have they finished?” I mean, we arrived nearly three hours after the intended start time, and the street was deathly quiet.
As we were about to enter, we were greeted at the gate by the bouncer’s suggestive greeting: “Fine boys, how far nau?”
“We dey come,” I answered quickly.
We moved past him and entered an almost ethereal courtyard, wrapped in darkness but softened by warm, golden light. Strings of fairy lights stretched overhead in gentle arcs, like constellations. They cast a soft amber glow over everything—the chairs, the people, the plants—giving the whole space an intimate, almost cinematic warmth. Around the edges, plants blurred into the night, framing the setting like a natural border. There were a few people at the tables, laughing softly and sipping their drinks.
We were directed into a building, where we were attended to by Goldilocks (that’s what registered in my head because of her hair). She explained that they would start in about five minutes, but we could go upstairs to get drinks first. She cited technical difficulties as the reason for the delay.
Phew. Thank God for “African time.”
At this point, K smirked knowingly at the rest of us—we would have been so pissed if we came earlier and they hadn’t started. But just when we were about to worm our way deeper into the building, I saw BOJ like six feet from me.
I wouldn’t say I was starstruck (gats maintain composure), but I was flabbergasted. I mean, the most mainstream of all the artistes on the lineup was Dxtiny (no disrespect to the others), so seeing BOJ here was a total shock. So much so that, instead of actually meeting him or talking to him, the only words I could mutter were, “WTF, that’s BOJ, that’s fucking BOJ.” M told me later that I said those words about five times before they finally dragged me upstairs for drinks. I thought he might give a surprise performance, but I quickly dispelled it.
I forgot to mention that Jameson Whiskey was one of the event sponsors, so they had an open bar upstairs with bartenders serving drinks throughout the night. Everyone except M’s brother—who was on a sobriety streak—ordered a “Spice Route” cocktail for the first round. It was so good, the type of good that makes you go back to check the ingredients. I can’t recall everything in it now, but I remember there was a slice of apple/lemon, Jameson Black Barrel, and the distinct warmth of cinnamon syrup.
I was thoroughly impressed with the setting, so I did a little digging into the aplacecalledmars outfit. And for the umpteenth time this year, I swore under my breath: “Lagos people get all the good things.” They were a pan-African multidisciplinary creative collective that blended film, art, and curated events to create immersive cultural experiences that felt like an escape. Their Instagram showcased everything they’d been up to, and it was clear they were very in tune with the Alté community. While I was busy scrolling through their page, a few photographers caught us in the frame, Jameson-branded paper cups in hand, officially part of the night’s aesthetic.
Tega Ethan came out from an adjoining room, so M, his brother, and I went over to talk for a bit. By then, the sound checks were finished. The performance space was wood-toned and intimate; the stage sat slightly tucked in, as if it were drawing you in. At its center, a full drum kit anchored the back of the set, surrounded by instruments that promised a live, organic sound: a keyboard off to one side, a guitar resting nearby, and a lone microphone stand at the front. Above it all, a sign reading “OPEN PARLOUR” glowed softly. Warm bulbs embedded in the wooden ceiling cast a gentle amber wash over the room, creating a lived-in, neo-soul aesthetic.
I wouldn’t say I’m a part of the Ibadan creative scene, but you could tell that the majority of people in the room were, along with a fair few from Lagos. Whether they were all part of the aplacecalledmars collective, I couldn’t be sure. There were several familiar faces from Redlight Fashion Room, and K even mentioned spotting a fellow Sycamorian in the crowd. The audience wasn’t particularly diverse; it was the typical demographic for this kind of event: fashion-forward, creative, and cool.
The first artist, Ekene, soon took the stage. This was my first introduction to him as an artiste, and I was honestly impressed by his vocals and crowd engagement. He performed four songs before bowing out.
Up next was Tega Ethan. Before he even started, M was already praying he’d perform “Harmattan,” apparently his favorite Tega song. When the first notes finally hit as his penultimate track, M was a breath away from falling to his knees. At one point, Tega sang directly to K (pretty sure M was jealous here, lol). Tega Ethan eventually closed out his set with “Ibadan,” off his Micra Blues EP. As an Ibadan-based artiste, his connection with the crowd was magnetic; the room swelled as a sizable portion of the audience sang along with him. Throughout the set, I have to admit I kept stealing glances at BOJ, who remained sat in a corner, vibing along and quietly sipping his drink.
At this point, our cups were empty, so we headed back to the bar for refills. I grabbed another Spice Route, M did the same, and K opted for a Date Night. As good as they tasted, my only problem with the drinks was that they weren’t quite strong enough for me (I tried to encourage the friendliest-looking bartender to add as much Black Barrel as possible).
K had been sending out a few snaps about how cool the event was, which G definitely saw. He must have been bored out of his mind back at ABH because he decided to join us right in the middle of the event. When he arrived, K went outside to pick him up. Before she even made it back, the third artiste, Braye, had begun his performance.
He was comfortably my favorite performer of the night. I had listened to a couple of his songs before, albeit absentmindedly, but the live renditions were pure gold. His jazz-leaning vocals, with hints of reggae, came to the fore, beautifully accentuated by the drums and the bass guitar. Good God, that guitar. In no time, everyone was singing, “Maybe this could even be / Something deeper than love… I’ve got nowhere to go / Love in a deeper.”
We took in the performance from upstairs. I could have sworn that as I looked down, my gaze locked with a mystery woman while we sang the lyrics of “Bring You Home” to each other. Then again, I wear glasses, so I very well might have been seeing things.
We came back down after I got my fourth cup of the night. The blur was finally hitting; colours started to meld, and everything seemed funnier. Dxtiny was next to perform, and what immediately caught my eye was that he was rocking a low cut. As the most mainstream artiste of the bunch, his set was surprisingly underwhelming. It was understandable, though, given the genre he sings. He’s more Afropop, which carries a much faster pace than the soulful, mellow renditions we’d enjoyed thus far. Right out of the gate, he crooned his biggest track, “Uncle Pele.” He put in a commendable effort; his vocals carried well, and he shared short stories behind some of the songs he performed.
After his performance, most people headed out for fresh air. I went to the bathroom to empty my bladder, and after squirting some liquid soap onto my palms, I discovered the water wasn’t running. I swore under my breath for the second time that night, then stepped out, hoping the soap would just air-dry on my skin. We went back in to find them packing up the sets and everyone saying their goodbyes. In my head, I was screaming, “Why is there no afterparty? Am I supposed to go back to my room and just sleep off this buzz?”
The host, a beautiful woman in a black dress, had earlier encouraged us to take stickers from a small bowl in an alcove to the left of the room. Since we were leaving anyway, I pocketed about ten. A photographer was close by, so I grabbed him and asked him to take a few pictures of M, M’s brother, and me; K and G were nowhere to be found.
We eventually headed upstairs and found them there. BOJ was also there, just about to get a drink from the bar. M suggested I go speak with him, and I’m thankful I did—he was incredibly calm and receptive. He took a couple of pictures with us and then headed out.
After the pictures, we all eventually converged in the courtyard and began the hunt for a Bolt back to ABH. Both M’s brother and G ordered rides. M’s brother’s driver arrived first, but since G’s ride was close too, he had to cancel, offering a string of “sorries” and promising the man 1,000 Naira for his troubles. We all had a good laugh at that.
As we walked toward the gate, we left BOJ, Braye, Ekene, the host, Goldilocks, and a few others behind in the courtyard. The bouncer greeted us suggestively again, and just like before, I answered, “We dey come.” The street gate was locked by then, so the Bolt driver was waiting on the main road. We had to trek through a back street to reach him. When we finally got there, K took the front seat while the four of us crammed ourselves into the back. On the way home, we talked about how cool the event had been, feeling grateful that this was one of those outings that actually made it out of the group chat.
