Why You Must NOT Eat Party Food Anyhow in Lagos | African Folktales
Why You Must NOT Eat Party Food Anyhow in Lagos | African FolktalesWhy You Must NOT Eat Party Food Anyhow in Lagos | African Folktales
The Second Plate
For almost a year after Madame Bounty left Randall Avenue, nobody talked about her.
Not openly, anyway.
People still remembered what had happened, of course. How could they forget?
But Lagos has a way of teaching people to keep moving.
There were bills to pay.
Children to raise.
Businesses to rebuild.
Weddings to attend.
And life, stubborn as ever, continued.
My name is Bisola, and I thought the story of Madame Bounty had ended.
I was wrong.
It began again on an ordinary Thursday morning when Comfort found something beneath a stack of old plastic chairs in my storage room.
She was cleaning before the day’s deliveries when I heard her call my name.
“Bisola.”
There was something in her voice that made me stop what I was doing.
“What happened?”
She was standing beside the chairs, holding a small brown envelope.
“I found this.”
I walked toward her.
The envelope was dusty and sealed.
There was no name on it.
No address.
Nothing except one word written across the front in faded black ink.
BISOLA.
My stomach tightened.
“Where did you find it?”
“Under these chairs.”
I took the envelope from her.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Comfort whispered something that made the room feel suddenly colder.
“Those chairs were the ones from Madame Bounty’s courtyard.”
I looked at her.
“You are sure?”
She nodded.
“I recognize the scratches.”
I wanted to throw the envelope away.
Instead, I opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
There were five names written on it.
Mama Uch.
Kletchi.
Toby.
Chiamaka.
And Dr. Adai.
But underneath those five names was another.
A name that made my hands go cold.
Comfort.
She saw it.
Then she stepped backward.
“No.”
I looked at her.
“Comfort…”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“That is not possible.”
There was a second piece of paper inside the envelope.
This one contained a sentence.
The first five were only the beginning.
That was the moment I realized something terrible.
We had spent a year believing we had escaped Madame Bounty.
But perhaps Madame Bounty had never been working alone.
The first person we called was Rachel.
She arrived at my shop within thirty minutes.
I placed the papers on the counter.
She stared at them.
Then she looked at Comfort.
“Did anyone know you found the box?”
Comfort shook her head.
“I never told anyone except you and Bisola.”
Rachel frowned.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
She picked up the paper.
“The handwriting isn’t Madame Bounty’s.”
I stared at her.
“How do you know?”
“I saw enough of her handwriting in that notebook.”
Rachel turned the paper over.
“This is different.”
Comfort swallowed.
“Then who wrote it?”
Rachel did not answer.
Instead, she asked a question.
“When did you last see Madame Bounty?”
Comfort looked down.
“Almost eleven months ago.”
“Exactly.”
Rachel placed the paper back on the counter.
“If she left nearly a year ago, someone else may have continued what she started.”
Nobody spoke.
The possibility was horrifying.
We had spent months believing that removing one person had ended the danger.
Maybe we had only removed the face.
Not the system behind it.
That afternoon, Mama Uch came to my shop.
She looked different.
Stronger.
Her fabric business had recovered significantly.
Not completely, but enough.
She had recently opened another section of her shop and hired two new employees.
When I showed her the paper, the color disappeared from her face.
“Why is my name there again?”
“I don’t know.”
She stared at the five names.
Then she pointed to Comfort’s.
“What does this mean?”
“We don’t know.”
Mama Uch became quiet.
Then she said something none of us expected.
“I remember something.”
“What?”
“The day before Madame Bounty left.”
We all leaned closer.
“She came into my shop.”
“What did she say?”
Mama Uch rubbed her fingers together nervously.
“She asked me whether I believed everything was over.”
I felt a chill.
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her she was leaving, so yes.”
Mama Uch looked toward the door.
“She laughed.”
“She said, ‘People always think the person holding the plate is the one controlling the meal.'”
Rachel’s expression changed.
“What else?”
“Nothing.”
Mama Uch shook her head.
“She simply walked away.”
For several seconds, the shop was silent.
Then Comfort whispered:
“Maybe the plate was never the real thing.”
That evening, something happened that changed everything.
Kletchi came running into my shop.
His face was pale.
“Bisola.”
“What happened?”
He was breathing heavily.
“Someone came to my house.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did they want?”
He pulled something from his pocket.
A small folded piece of paper.
My heart sank before I even opened it.
Inside was a message.
You were never supposed to recover.
Kletchi looked at us.
“This was pushed under my door.”
Rachel took the paper.
“Did you see anyone?”
“No.”
“Did they say anything?”
“No.”
He paused.
“But there was something else.”
“What?”
He reached into his pocket again.
This time he pulled out a small metal button.
My stomach dropped.
It looked exactly like one of the objects that had been inside Madame Bounty’s wooden box.
Kletchi stared at it.
“That was on my shirt.”
“What?”
“The shirt I wore to Madame Bounty’s party.”
Nobody spoke.
Then Rachel said something quietly.
“Someone has access to the old items.”
That night, I barely slept.
Every sound outside my window made me sit up.
Every passing motorcycle sounded like someone stopping outside.
At three in the morning, I heard footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
They stopped directly outside my gate.
I held my breath.
There was a knock.
Three times.
I did not move.
Then another knock.
This time, something slid beneath the gate.
The footsteps disappeared.
I waited several minutes before opening the door.
There was another envelope.
This one had no name.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed Madame Bounty standing beside another woman.
The photograph looked old.
Perhaps ten years old.
Madame Bounty was younger.
But the woman standing beside her was unmistakable.
I knew her.
Everyone on Randall Avenue knew her.
Her name was Mrs. Evelyn Adebayo.
She had lived three streets away.
She was known for hosting charity dinners.
She was famous for helping struggling families.
And, more importantly, she had been one of Madame Bounty’s closest friends.
I stared at the photograph.
“Rachel.”
She took it from me.
Her face went blank.
“I know her.”
“Everyone knows her.”
Rachel shook her head.
“No.”
She looked at me.
“I mean I know what she used to do.”
“What?”
Rachel’s voice dropped.
“Before she became respectable.”
Twenty years earlier, Rachel had worked at events across Lagos.
She had seen everything.
Rich families.
Poor families.
Political gatherings.
Church celebrations.
Business dinners.
And she had learned that certain people appeared repeatedly around certain wealthy hosts.
Not as guests.
As advisers.
As cooks.
As organizers.
As people who knew exactly who was struggling and exactly who was prospering.
“Evelyn was one of them,” Rachel explained.
“One of who?”
“The women who knew how to turn desperation into opportunity.”
I stared at her.
“Are you saying she taught Madame Bounty?”
“I am saying Madame Bounty did not invent this.”
The words hung in the air.
“What did she learn?”
Rachel looked at Comfort.
“How to identify people who had something valuable.”
“Money?”
“Not always.”
“Then what?”
“Opportunity.”
“Influence.”
“Relationships.”
“Confidence.”
“Hope.”
She looked at me.
“Anything another person could be desperate enough to destroy.”
My skin prickled.
Suddenly, Madame Bounty’s parties looked different in my memory.
The plates.
The smiles.
The questions.
She was never simply feeding people.
She was studying them.
The next morning, we went looking for Evelyn.
Her house was large.
Much larger than I remembered.
There was a high wall around it and a black metal gate.
We knocked.
A young man opened.
“We are looking for Mrs. Adebayo.”
“She isn’t here.”
“Where is she?”
He stared at us.
“I don’t know.”
Rachel stepped forward.
“Tell her Rachel came.”
The young man’s expression changed.
He closed the gate immediately.
We looked at each other.
“That was strange,” Comfort whispered.
Rachel nodded.
Very strange.
We returned the next day.
The gate was open.
But the house was empty.
Completely empty.
No furniture.
No curtains.
No cars.
Nothing.
It looked as though the occupants had disappeared overnight.
Then Comfort noticed something on the floor.
A photograph.
She picked it up.
It showed another group of people.
And behind them was Madame Bounty.
But she was not the only familiar face.
There were six women in the photograph.
Evelyn.
Madame Bounty.
And four others.
One of them was wearing a wine-red wrapper.
The same color Madame Bounty had worn to nearly every major event.
Rachel stared at the photograph.
“That’s not her.”
“What?”
“The wrapper.”
She pointed.
“That pattern belonged to Evelyn.”
I looked at Comfort.
“Then why did Madame Bounty wear it?”
Rachel’s answer was quiet.
“Because she wanted people to associate it with her.”
We returned to my shop and began searching through old records.
Receipts.
Event bookings.
Chair rentals.
Canopy deliveries.
Names.
Dates.
For hours, we searched.
Then I found something.
A receipt from eight years earlier.
The client was not Madame Bounty.
It was Evelyn.
She had rented two hundred chairs.
Ten canopies.
And thirty tables.
The event had taken place on another street.
I remembered it.
Because I had delivered the equipment myself.
And because Rachel had been the caterer.
I looked at her.
“Do you remember this?”
She stared at the receipt.
Then she closed her eyes.
“I remember.”
“What happened?”
Rachel’s voice became quiet.
“A young businessman attended.”
“Who?”
“I don’t remember his name.”
“What happened to him?”
She looked at me.
“He lost everything six months later.”
Nobody spoke.
The pattern was suddenly undeniable.
Madame Bounty had not been the beginning.
She had been a student.
And someone had taught her.
Three days later, Comfort disappeared.
She had gone to the market.
She never returned.
At first, we assumed her phone had died.
Then an hour passed.
Then two.
Then four.
By evening, I was terrified.
We searched the market.
We called hospitals.
We asked everyone.
Nothing.
At nine that night, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Nobody spoke.
Then I heard Comfort’s voice.
“Bisola.”
My heart stopped.
“Comfort! Where are you?”
“Don’t come looking for me.”
“What happened?”
“I found something.”
“Where are you?”
“Listen to me.”
Her voice was trembling.
“They are not interested in money.”
“Who?”
“The people behind Madame Bounty.”
I stood up.
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Comfort!”
She began crying.
Then she whispered:
“I found another notebook.”
The line went dead.
We spent the next morning trying to find her.
Then, just before noon, a message arrived.
A location.
No explanation.
Rachel and I went together.
It was an abandoned building on the outskirts of Surulere.
The door was open.
Inside, we found Comfort sitting on the floor.
She was shaken but alive.
I hugged her.
“What happened?”
She held up a notebook.
“This.”
It was larger than Madame Bounty’s notebook.
Older.
The pages were filled with names.
Hundreds of them.
Some dated more than fifteen years back.
People from Lagos.
People from other cities.
Business owners.
Politicians.
Pastors.
Teachers.
Doctors.
Families.
And beside every name was a word.
Success.
Marriage.
Promotion.
Inheritance.
Pregnancy.
Business.
Opportunity.
Then I saw the final page.
There were three names.
Mine.
Rachel’s.
And Comfort’s.
Beside mine was written:
Business.
Beside Rachel’s:
Knowledge.
Beside Comfort’s:
Witness.
And beside all three was the same word.
Pending.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“We need to leave.”
Rachel nodded.
But Comfort was staring at something else.
At the bottom of the page was another sentence.
When the first plate is refused, prepare the second.
I remembered Adise.
The night of the housewarming.
The plate she had refused.
I looked at Rachel.
“Second plate?”
Rachel’s eyes widened.
Then she whispered:
“The first plate was never the end.”
Suddenly, we heard a car outside.
We froze.
Another car pulled up.
Then another.
Doors opened.
Footsteps approached the building.
Comfort grabbed my arm.
“They found us.”
Rachel closed the notebook.
“Back door.”
We ran.
We barely escaped through the rear entrance.
Behind us, a door slammed open.
Someone shouted.
We ran through an alley until we reached the main road.
Only then did we stop.
I looked at Rachel.
“What do we do now?”
She looked at the notebook.
“We expose all of it.”
“To who?”
“Everyone.”
That evening, we called the people whose names appeared in the notebook.
One by one, they came.
Some had lost businesses.
Some had lost marriages.
Some had lost careers.
Some had experienced unexplained tragedies.
And every story seemed to connect back to the same network.
The same gatherings.
The same people.
The same pattern.
Then Mama Uch arrived.
She looked at the notebook.
And suddenly she started crying.
“What?”
She pointed to a name.
“That’s my older sister.”
I stared at her.
“Your sister?”
“My sister died twelve years ago.”
Rachel turned the page.
Her name was there.
Beside it was written:
Inheritance.
Mama Uch covered her mouth.
“My sister was supposed to inherit our father’s property.”
She looked at us.
“She died three weeks before the documents were signed.”
Nobody spoke.
The room became silent.
For the first time, we understood how far back this went.
Madame Bounty had not created the darkness.
She had inherited it.
And now someone else was waiting to inherit it from her.
Then the door opened.
Everyone turned.
A woman stood there.
She was wearing a deep wine-red wrapper.
The same color.
The same style.
She smiled.
And I knew immediately who she was.
Evelyn Adebayo.
She looked at us calmly.
Then she said something I will never forget.
“You should never have opened the second notebook.”
Nobody moved.
She stepped inside.
“You thought Madame Bounty was the villain.”
She smiled.
“She was only the woman who became hungry enough to learn.”
Rachel stepped forward.
“Why?”
Evelyn’s smile disappeared.
“Because people like you never understand what hunger can make someone do.”
Then she looked directly at me.
“You want to know why she fed people?”
I said nothing.
“Because every plate creates a connection.”
She slowly lifted her hand.
“And every connection creates an opportunity.”
Then she looked at the notebook.
“But now the question is no longer what Madame Bounty took.”
Her eyes settled on Comfort.
“It is what you three are willing to lose to make the truth known.”
The room fell silent.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, I understood something terrifying.
Madame Bounty had not been the end of the story.
She had been the warning.
And somewhere in Lagos, there were still people preparing the next plate.
