Obinna thought of his safe domestic evenings putting the children to bed, watching a film, or reading until he fell asleep with the glow of his iPad’s screen still on. This suggestion, of going out, at night, without Amara, felt like something deliciously forbidden.

“I can’t leave the children alone at night.”

“The children will be asleep, and safe, not just with your houseboy but with those crazy high gates you have outside and that angry-looking guard there.”

Obinna laughed and then laughed a little bit more. “But my driver doesn’t work late. She’s gone home.”

“We’ll take a taxi. We’ll hire it and have it wait for us.”

“I don’t know any clubs.”

“I’ll find a good one online.”

And so they went. The cigarette smoke, the dim room, the loud music felt at first almost frightening to Obinna, and he stood awkwardly while Eze ordered their drinks. A woman in a glittery jacket sent drinks to their table. Another sent more drinks, her phone number scrawled on a paper napkin. Eze was laughing, telling Obinna how hot he was, how they had to leave early otherwise the women interested in him would start fighting and scratching one another. Soon they were dancing in a crush of bodies, Obinna at first self-conscious at the stiffness of his limbs, but soon he felt himself loosen and lighten, spinning to the music. On their way home, their taxi was stopped at a police checkpoint. Two policewomen and one policeman, all three waving their guns in the air. Obinna handed the taxi driver some money and mumbled, “Give it to them quickly, so that they let us pass.”

But the policewoman who seemed to be the boss shined her flashlight into the car.

“Good evening, madam,” Obinna said very politely; these people could take offense at the slightest thing.

“Where are you coming from?”

“We went out to a club to celebrate our friend’s birthday,” Obinna said.

The policewomen looked them over and then gestured to Eze in his tank top and fitted shorts.

“Is that why you are dressed like a prostitute?”

“What?” Eze said.

Obinna hushed Eze with a nudge. “Please, madam, my wife is waiting for us at home.”

“You are married?” The policewoman reared back slightly.

“Yes, madam.”

“Both of you?”

“Yes, madam, but my friend’s wife is in Abuja. He just came to Lagos for the birthday party today.”

“You don’t look married,” the policewoman said to Eze. “If I had known you were somebody’s husband, I would at least show you some respect, even if you are dressed like a prostitute.”

She waved them past.

“What the hell was that?” Eze said, angry. “What is her damned business? And why the story of the birthday?”

“If we are men who go to a club to celebrate a birthday, it’s more respectable than just being men who go to a club to have fun.”