My Unforgettable Showdown with Wedding Bouncers In Lagos.

 Tomorrow, January 25, 2024, will mark a year since I was served my biggest humiliating experience. I had promised to take it to the grave, but after several panic attacks, I decided to share it here on this faceless forum, where at least my dignity and pride won't be tainted. Anything for my self-healing and self-forgiveness.

Tomorrow, brethren would make it 365 days since a 23-year-old Di-Okpara Mmadu (firstborn son) was disgracefully bounced out of a wedding party by some Obalende-Floyd-Mayweather in the presence of over 689 people, excluding women and children.

Tomorrow, people of God will mark one oscillation of the sun since I stopped worshiping at Winners Chapel Morroco Road branch, where the praise session always ends with this song, "Everything Nah Double Double." I decided to work the talk instead; double the hustle instead". Even though evidence of the "Doubled Hustle" might not really be glaring now, at least the eye-doubling hunger that made me attend that party where I was served a hungry-man 3-in-1 humiliation is no more.


It was on the chill evening of January 25th, 2023, as I was lying on my bed, in deep thoughts, trying to put one and two together on how to put 2023 to good use financially, that one of my guys, a long-standing member of the "God Abeg" evangelical ministry, called me.

He said he just heard about an update about a place where we could get our shege-striken eyes a treat, surprise our garri-automated bellies with a good meal, and maybe get a few great connections that would catapult our destinies to the next level.

The wedding party of one Abroadian dude, rumored to be married to a 68-year-old Canadian grandma, for the obvious reason of course, who now returned to Lagos to marry an actual, full-fledged, wholehearted wife. So as expected, the dignitaries at that event should be the groom's business associates, who can help link us with well-paying 70+ European sugar mummies. My guy, Elvis, said he wouldn't even mind being linked with a 96-year-old from Equatorial Guinea.


Fair enough, the wedding reception venue was just a stone's throw from my school, Unilag; in fact, it was just a 45-minute trek. So with all these odds in my favor, you don't expect to say no to a request by my friend to accompany him to a place where my destiny might be retouched with a relaxer.

As soon as I dropped that phone call, I dropped the "ones and twos" I was trying to put together, dressed up and put myself together, and rushed to the spot where my guy said he would be waiting for me. And together, both of us trekked under the hot, flaming sun to Oribs Garden and Events Center.

On getting there successfully, we crossed the main gate, crossed the event arena gates, and were making our way to where blasting music was playing, only to sight these two hefty "Agada-gbachiri Uzos" in the same weight class with Kizz Daniel's bouncer at the entrance.

Before a person got into the event's lot, these bouncers had to be shown their invitation card with their name on it and then get scrutinized with an automated security device (the type used in banks) before they were allowed in. On top of the wedding? IV? When it's not a political close-door meeting of South-Western governors.


In my 19-year stay in the Gwantu local government area of Kaduna, I have never once heard of or witnessed an occasion that was not meant for some people. Everybody could attend, but only that food and refreshments might be attend to everybody. But as for attendance? Everybody was eligible. Even people of the opposite faith, especially Alm√£jiris, were allowed into church weddings and child dedications. What fuckery is Wedding IV?

My guy, Elvis, was just as lost as I was. Growing up in Benin, he told me that the only place one was guaranteed privacy while celebrating anything was inside the shrine of a dreaded deity. Any other venue was a free roundabout for Ambrose Alli Cultists. So of course, dem no born you well to put a barricade. Try assembling bodyguards, and trust me, you, your wedding, and your newlywed spouse might just be weeded off the surface of the earth.

But well, this is Lagos, where anything is what it is.

At this point, I just wanted to turn back home, but my freelance criminal of a friend, with 13 and a half years experience in creative illegality and a staunch believer in 'No gree for anybody (including people with chests three times the size of Francis Ngannou), thought that going back was going to be an act of "giving up on our dreams".


Dude told me he had a plan, and what was this stupid plan?

  1. We were going to gallantly and confidently want to walk through that entrance as if we had no business with the bouncers.
  2. And if they should try to stop us (most likely), we would tell them that we had been at the wedding event for over two hours but only stepped out to handle some urgencies.

With this reason, a rugged composure, a straight face, and a confident posture should allow us to pass. But

  1. If they should ask about our wedding I.V. (very likely), we would lie and say that we left it at our seats while rushing to attend to the urgency that made us step out.


  1. But if they insist on "No I.V., no entry," then one of us would pick up his phone and pretend to call the groom, while in actual reality, the callee is the other of us, whose name will be renamed and saved with the groom's name, Yemi. But there will be no answer because the callee's phone will be on silent or entirely switched off. (As expected, the groom wouldn't be answering calls on his big day either.)


After the call, we would show these bouncers our call log, and with that, they should grant us a pass.


Super hilarious and extremely creative, but I was looking forward to my guy's fifth point because the four schemes he plotted seemed like some classroom drama script by JSS 2b students of a local secondary school in Kubwa, Abuja.

It didn't sound feasible. It didn't sound like anything could work on those two walls of Jerusalem.


So I backed out. And Brethren, I said all I could to discourage my guy, Elvis, from the mission impossible he wanted to take on, but Omo, nothing could distort the mind of someone who thinks that the Wi-Fi connection his destiny needs is at that wedding party.


So I told him to go first, and if that strategy worked, then I would come after.

Believers, guess what?

This guy tried, and he succeeded.


Not only was he allowed into the wedding party, but Dude even shook hands with those bouncers.


Omo! Motivation gon! At that point, bruh, all the stocks in my Morale and Confidence exchange market inflated by 150%.

See intentionality, nah. Imagine a boy I'm intellectually sounder than.


I mustered all courage and moved towards those bouncing chests, but Omo, Brethren, the closer I got, the faster my heart was beating, and the more an inner voice was shouting, "Go back, return home; this thing you're about to embark on is not your calling." I got more scared with each step, but Omo, the keyword for me was "intentionality."

Finally, I came face-to-face with these monsters. With that first glance at them, I swear all my intentions, aspirations, beliefs, dreams, and even manhood were dismantled. I can bet that, at the moment, if anybody had asked me what the name of the third son of my primary school headmaster is, I would say Kemi Olunloyo. No doubt, that should be the most controversial moment of my life.

But somehow I managed to comport myself and tried so hard to replace the look of an amateur armed robber with that of an Italian gangster. Then I nudged forward as if I had no business with the imaginary beings at that entrance. (That was the strategy my guy told me about.)

What I don't know is whether this was the strategy he used that worked for him, because in my own case, what I got was a roar: "Oga, where's your I.V."


Instantaneously, my blood vessels froze, my nostril switched to airplane mode, and my entire body rose to high tension. If I had made the mistake of saying a word just immediately after that roar, I would have sounded like all those doll babies on Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network.


So I paused for a while, cleared my throat, gathered a bit of inner momentum, and then replied aggressively, "Shey una no dey capture faces. For goodness' sake, I just stepped out a few minutes ago to attend to something. I even greeted you guys before stepping out. I left my I.V. on the chair I was sitting in, for Christ's sake. Is the I.V. some kind of trophy? I mean, even trophies are kept in  cabinets." And then, feeling like a Champions League top goal scorer, I said the last phrase like an Ibeju-lekki bus conductor: "Abeggg, allow me to pass, Jaree.". 

With these words, I don't know whether I was expecting those 'walls of Jerusalem" to fidget and be like, "Boss, no vex, enter please," but, Omo, what afterward was proof that this common term used by all these Okrika motivational speakers, "Be Audacious," is suicidal?


Those bouncers first of all smirked at themselves and sized me from head to toe before one of them responded with a sentence that should have served as my "Prevention Is Better Than Cure."

"Bros, if you don't leave this place now if we place our hands on you, the next place you'll find yourself will be the dustbin closest to an Emir's palace.


I should have shamefully obeyed this statement.

I should have obeyed my instincts and left that time; the whole thing would have ended with me fooling myself in the presence of just two bouncers, but MBA! I followed the instructions of the wild voice drumming, "Risk takers are goal-getters."

I don't know what was really going on in my mind that moment I tried to peer through the middle of these guys and force myself into the wedding premises, but brethren, the way I was lifted and flung is the true definition of "your mind go dey."

I landed on the ground so hard and loudly that the DJ of the occasion had to pause his mix to be sure there was no mix-up somewhere. The velocity at which I was flinging caused even the M.C. to ask the bride whether she was seeing her menses.



Hey, Hey, Hey, wouldn’t you love to meet the writer of this exciting piece you just read? Maybe patronize what he does for a living as well.

 My Name is Chukwu Ebuka Fulfill, a chemical engineer by profession and a writer/psychologist by divine ordination who hails from Nimbo town in the Uzo-Uwani Local Government Area of Enugu State. My induction into the writing space happened sometime around July 2011, while I was still 9, when I started writing kids’ church dramas and playlets. I have since then developed a special interest in writing engaging, conversational, fun, motivational, and exciting write-ups, both for viewing and reading purposes.

Before the Chat GPT era, I wrote for notable websites, and have over a hundred works credited to my name and more than two hundred discredited from my name (Ghost Writing Jobs).

I deal with the following writing specializations:

-Script/Fictional Contents

-Blog/Article Content

-SEO-Optimized Contents

-e-Books computations

Want to hire me for your upcoming writing project? Please send me a message at or send a WhatsApp message to 09017632896 or 09137414523.


It would be an absolute delight to work with you.



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