Ikoyi was alive with its usual quiet luxury. Expensive cars hummed on smooth roads, boutiques glowed under soft, warm lights, and the scent of oud and imported flowers floated in the air.
Chineye stepped out of her driver’s car wearing a two-piece silk set that shimmered in the morning sun. Her dark glasses covered half her face, but even with that, people stared. She walked like the world belonged to her—because in her mind, it did.
The glass doors of Maison de Luxe, one of the most exclusive boutiques in Lagos, parted for her. Inside, the air was cooled, scented with vanilla, and soft music drifted gently. Two attendants rushed forward immediately.
“Good morning, Miss Chineye,” one greeted with a small bow.
“Mmhmm,” she replied, taking in the new collection. “Bring the red Iluoma gown I saw on Instagram last night. And the heels—number 014—the silver ones.”
“Yes, ma.”
She walked to a mirror and admired herself, flipping her straight wig back. She already knew she was fine; the mirror was only confirming what heaven had crafted.
While she waited, someone else walked in.
Someone loud.
Someone bright.
Someone with a presence that made the boutique shift.
Derah.
Her name alone caused whispers. She was another Lagos internet queen—over 600k followers on Instagram, popular for her luxury lifestyle, soft girl aesthetics, and dramatic attitude. She had the kind of confidence that made you think she was born in a Versace box and raised on champagne.
“Good morning, everyone!” Derah sang as she strutted in. Her voice floated like perfume, but her heels hit the tiles like a warning.
The attendants froze for a second, not knowing whom to attend to first.
Chineye didn’t turn; she just smirked.
“Good morning, Miss Derah,” another attendant said, rushing to her.
“Oh please. Spare the formality. I’m here for the Tiffany-blue corset dress from the new collection.”
“Yes, ma. Right away.”
Derah moved to the display area, flipping her weave—long, curly, and dramatic. She glanced sideways and noticed Chineye. Her fake smile tightened.
“Ah. Chichi. You’re here.”
“Obviously,” Chineye replied without looking at her.
Derah laughed, but it was sharp. “You didn’t see the memo? Lagos boutiques have a rule—only one baddie at a time.”
Chineye slowly removed her glasses and turned, revealing eyes that could slice ego. “If that’s the case, then you shouldn’t be here, now should you? I came first.”
The attendants exchanged nervous glances.
The air crackled.
“But it’s a public boutique,” Derah said, hands on her hips. “Unless your father bought it last night.”
Chineye smiled sweetly. “He can. Would you like him to?”
A gasp carried across the room.
Derah stepped closer. “You’re feeling yourself too much.”
“Someone has to, since you can’t do it without filters,” Chineye replied, tone smooth and deadly.
“Omo!” the younger attendants whispered under their breath.
Instagram followers aside, both girls were trained in the art of petty warfare. They had dragged each other online before—subtly—and their fans loved it. But this… this was physical proximity. This was dangerous.
Chineye turned away again, dismissing Derah. That alone enraged her.
“By the way,” Derah said loudly, pretending to admire a bag, “have you heard about that show? The Real Lagos Baddie? Twelve or fifteen girls in one house competing for five hundred million. Madness but… interesting.”
Chineye’s posture stiffened. She hadn’t told anyone yet that she was planning to audition.
“I saw it,” she answered coolly.
“You applied?”
“Maybe.”
Derah smirked. “I applied too.”
Chineye lifted a brow. “You? For money?”
“For influence, darling.”
Chineye laughed—a low, seductive sound but dripping with mockery. “Influence? You mean the one you already lost after your last relationship scandal? That one?”
Derah’s smile evaporated.
Before she could respond, the boutique attendant arrived.
“Miss Chineye, here is your Iluoma gown.”
Chineye took it gracefully.
“Miss Derah, we are checking for your corset dress.”
Derah rolled her eyes. “Better check fast.”
Chineye looked Derah up and down, slow and detailed. “Well… may the best girl win. On the show too.”
“Oh I intend to,” Derah whispered back, eyes narrowing. “And don’t forget—you’re not the only fine girl in Lagos.”
Chineye winked. “I don’t even count you.”
The boutique tension was so thick, even the mannequins looked uncomfortable.
Meanwhile, life was simpler, loud, and unpredictable in Apapa.
Amaka pushed open the front door of their small house, dropping her handbag on the plastic chair. Her heart was still beating from the morning robbery attempt. She removed her wig, flung it on the table, and entered the kitchen where her mother, Njure, stood frying plantain.
“Mama, good evening.”
“Evening? It’s still afternoon,” Njure snapped dramatically. “How was work?”
“Terrible,” Amaka said, grabbing a slice of plantain from the plate. “One boy tried to snatch my bag again.”
Njure paused. “Again? These Lagos boys will not kill me before my time. You, Amaka, you must leave this area. Every day you’re fighting with criminals.”
“Mama, where will I go?” Amaka sighed. “Even landlord increased rent. Everything is hard.”
Njure turned down the heat. “Everything is expensive. Even garri is now showing attitude. I went to market yesterday and the seller was pricing like she wanted to sell to Dangote.”
“Mama forget that one,” Amaka said, sitting down. “The economy is in the mud.”
“As in deep mud,” Njure added, shaking her head. “Government is not helping anybody. They should just kuku tell us to start planting cassava in our living room.”
“Mama!” Amaka burst into laughter.
But as the laughter faded, something sparkled in her mind.
The advert.
That life-changing, destiny-shifting advert.
“Mama,” she said suddenly.
“Hm?”
“You won’t believe what I saw today.”
Njure folded her arms dramatically. “What did you see again? Another who-stole-my-phone group chat?”
“No now,” Amaka scoffed. “It’s something serious. This morning, I saw an advert for a show—The Real Lagos Baddie. They’re picking girls to stay in a house, compete, and the winner gets—Mama wait for it—five hundred million naira!”
Njure froze. Squinting. Processing.
Then—
“EH?! Five hundred what?!”
“Million, Mama. Not thousand. Million.”
Amaka watched her mother’s expression shift from confusion to interest to full-blown ambition.
“Amaka…” Njure said slowly, “you must enter that show.”
“Mama!” Amaka laughed.
“I’m serious!” Njure clapped her hands. “Is it not the same you that fought thief this morning? You have strength. You have mouth. You have wahala. You will win!”
Amaka shook her head. “Mama, it’s not fight they are going to fight.”
“It’s everything!” Njure insisted. “Those rich Lagos girls, you will show them. You will go there and—”
“Mama please,” Amaka said, but she couldn’t hide her smile. “I actually like the idea. I want something different. I’m tired of this life.”
Njure sat beside her. “Then go for it. If not for anything, go because you deserve better. And because honestly… that money will change our life.”
Amaka nodded slowly.
“Were you pleased with the advert?” Njure asked.
“Yes,” Amaka whispered. “Too pleased. I feel like… maybe it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time to chase something bigger.”
Njure held her daughter’s hand. “Then go. I support you. The whole of Apapa will support you. If they don’t pick you, me I will go there myself.”
“Mama!” Amaka laughed so hard tears formed.
But inside her chest, something burned.
Hope.
Possibility.
Escape.
Far from Apapa, in her spacious bedroom with cream curtains and gold accents, Chineye tried on the Iluoma gown. It hugged her curves in all the right places. Her reflection smiled back at her, confident and bold.
Her phone buzzed.
Derah posted a new story:
“Some girls think they’re the only baddies in Lagos. See you at the auditions.”
Chineye rolled her eyes.
“She thinks this is competition,” she muttered. “Cute.”
She opened her own Instagram, posted a mirror selfie in the gown with the caption:
“If beauty is a battlefield, I came armed.”
In minutes, comments poured in:
“Chichi you’re too fine!”
“You’re joining the Real Lagos Baddie show???”
“Give them hot!”
“Derah can’t breathe.”
Chineye smirked. Let the games begin.
Night fell quietly. Amaka lay on her bed, scrolling through the show’s official page. She read the rules. The format. The audition dates. The challenges. The prize.
Her heart tightened.
Could she—Amaka from Apapa—really enter a show full of Lagos big girls?
Her phone vibrated.
Mama:
Have you applied?
Don’t sleep until you apply.
Do it now.
Amaka laughed softly.
“Okay Mama,” she whispered.
She clicked the link.
Filled her details.
Stopped.
Looked at her reflection in the cracked mirror.
“Why not?” she whispered. “I fit try.”
She submitted the form.
A message popped up:
APPLICATION RECEIVED. GOOD LUCK.
She exhaled deeply.
This was it.
Her escape route.
Derah wasn’t sleeping. She sat with her laptop open, ring light shining on her face as she recorded a soft glow video.
“Hi loves,” she said sweetly. “I know you’ve been asking… and yes, I applied for The Real Lagos Baddie. Let’s see how it goes.”
She posted it.
Within two minutes, 34,000 views.
She smiled.
“Chineye can fight all she wants,” she whispered. “Lagos will always love me more.”
FIVE GIRLS. ONE SHOW.
Uche and Chioma were plotting in Surulere.
Chineye was preparing her wardrobe in Ikoyi.
Derah was sharpening her claws online.
Amaka was dreaming in Apapa.
And it was about to begin.
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