La Campagne, Lagos, lived up to its billing on Saturday night when it hosted one of the best nightclub parties in this region.
It was close to midnight. But nobody was sleeping. The guests had imagined a nightclub with four walls, loud speakers, a dark room sweating with perfume and gin.
La Campagne said, “No. Not here. We do it our own way.”
It was outdoors. Under the sky. Beside the Atlantic. By the world’s longest ever swimming pool with a palmwine bar. With an open-air cathedral of lights, with the ocean as the backdrop and the wind as an extra guest. However, the lights did not stay on all night (wink) as the party got hot into the early hours of the morning.
Exotic food, good music with a live DJ who rocked the mic all night. The drinks flowed like a river. Local and foreign.
The mood was ecstatic. A setting for good conversation, ranging from travel to good life, fun, business, enjoyment, and whatever. The men arrived first. Bowler hats cocked to the side. Vintage shirts. Loose kaftans with embroidery that caught the light. Loafers without socks. They walked like men who had closed big deals in the afternoon and now wanted to forget them.
The ladies had the kind of beauty that makes you pause mid-sentence. They complemented the men in size, fashion, and style. Some wore skirts that slit everywhere, with body shapes that blew a siren, screaming for urgent affection and attention!
Sorry, no cameras were allowed (laugh). Anyway, who does that? (Laugh). Who brings a camera into a clubhouse at midnight? For what? (Laugh). True, some nights are not for the lens. They are for the soul.
The wind blew, occasionally lifting hair, lifting dresses, and carrying laughter deeper into the forest. It was all fun!
Even nature was envious of the beauty that paraded the shores of the Atlantic Ocean last night. The waves intensified their strength as if asking if they could partake in the party fun. The wind blew as if it joined in the groove and supported the merry noise of the dancers. And the DJ played and danced as if he was the celebrant at the party. It was the height of merriment, exclusive fun, and enjoyment.
Some of the ladies showed much love to Chapman in tall glasses sweating with ice. The men swam in Scotch whiskey, Hennessy, sipping as slowly as they could. Cocktails the color of sunset for the ladies. And no, no, no, it was not a night for palm wine in calabashes. It was a classy night that held promises and fulfilled them all.
Bare feet on soft sand. Music that made your heart beat in time. The barbecued goat meat arrived, and it melted hearts.
A lady laughed so hard and loud that she had to hold her friend’s shoulder.
“This is better than any club in Victoria Island!” She shouted to anyone who cared to hear. The men laughed in husky voices, while the DJ intensified the music.
“Because this is not a club.” Replied her friend, drinking next to her. “This is La Campagne, Lagos!”
At about 4 am, couples started to retire. Not because the flow of drinks stopped. The bar was still full. Not because the music stopped. The DJ was still dancing like he was the celebrant.
But because dawn was here already, some had flights to catch to London, Abuja, Accra, and Houston. And so on. Different bases. Different lives. One night that tied them all together.
Couples walked slowly to their chalets, holding hands, slippers in hand, and sand on their feet. But who cared? Some of them had not enjoyed such fun in years. But now have loads of memories for now and the future.