I Didn’t Mean to Ruin the Cake

A rooftop clash of old rivals, secrets, and cake. One night can change everything.

I didn’t plan to show up drunk.

Well. Not drunk drunk. Just the kind of drunk that softens shame and sharpens wit. Birthday-appropriate, really. That twilight space between confidence and recklessness, where you feel interesting instead of unbearable. Where memory loses its corners and ego becomes elastic.

Tobi’s party was on a rooftop in Ikoyi. Not just any rooftop. The kind with imported LED floor panels and glass walls that reflected back a version of yourself that looked... manageable. Polished. The kind of rooftop that belonged in movies. Or on Pinterest boards labeled "aspirational." I wore a black dress that wasn’t mine and lipstick that screamed, "I’m not here to beg. I’m here to haunt."

I hadn’t seen Tobi in four years. My rival. My mirror. My ghost.

It began in secondary school. We were those kids who ran toward achievement like it was oxygen. Tobi had the brains. I had the grit. He had the jawline. I had the narrative. He wrote poems that made girls fall in love. I turned heartbreak into sarcasm and monologues. We competed for everything: best speech, best grades, best eye-rolls during chapel. He was the hero. I was the wildcard.

Then life happened. I stumbled. He soared. I zigzagged. He glided. Somewhere between university and unemployment, I became an anecdote in someone else’s success story.

So when I heard he was throwing a birthday party, a huge one, and everyone from our former lives would be there, I knew I wouldn’t get an invitation. And I didn’t.

But that’s the thing about bitterness. It doesn’t need an invitation. It just requires an outfit and a reason.

I stood at the edge of the rooftop, watching the city shimmer beneath my heels. Lagos pulsed below like a living thing, all horns and neon and promise. Behind me, laughter swirled through the crowd like confetti. Jazz music spilled from hidden speakers. Waiters floated by with trays of champagne and canapés I couldn’t pronounce.

I took a deep breath and stepped into the party.

No one stopped me. That was the first disappointment. I wanted a scene. I wanted someone to gasp and say, "You? Here?" But Lagos doesn’t care about your personal drama. The city has its own.

I wandered through the crowd, dodging memories and mutual acquaintances. A former classmate smiled at me like she wasn’t sure whether I was a hallucination or a headline. I smiled back. A man in a velvet jacket asked if I was a performance artist. I told him, "Sometimes."

And then I saw him.

Tobi.

Taller, somehow. More sculpted, like life had trimmed all his awkward edges. He stood in a circle of laughter, wearing a navy suit and the kind of watch that comes with its own insurance policy. People orbited him like satellites. He smiled like he belonged. Because he did.

He saw me.

The smile faltered, just slightly. The laugh paused. Our eyes locked.

I braced for coldness. Or anger. Or that sickly sweet brand of politeness we save for enemies we can’t afford to hate out loud.

But he walked toward me.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here," he said.

I shrugged. "Yeah. Me neither. But I missed ruining things."

He chuckled. It was cautious. Measured. As if he were trying to decide whether I was a threat or a memory.

"You look... well," he offered.

"You look expensive," I replied.

A pause. Then a smile, real this time. "So. Still sharp."

"Blunt things don’t survive in this city."

We stood there, surrounded by the hum of celebration. People buzzed around us, oblivious to the emotional landmines being navigated in our silence. I sipped from a glass someone had placed in my hand. Tobi looked at me like he was waiting for something; an apology, a punchline, a breakdown. Maybe all three.

"You writing again?" he asked.

"Trying to," I said. "You still optimizing humanity one app at a time?"

"Something like that."

Another pause. This one heavier. Thicker.

Then he said, quietly, "I was always afraid of you."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Back in school. You burned so brightly. You didn’t care who liked you. You failed big, and then you got back up. I never knew how to do that."

I didn’t have a response. My tongue, so used to striking first, stumbled.

He continued. "I wanted to win. You wanted to *matter*. That scared me."

Something broke in me. Not in a painful way. In the way, a dam breaks when it’s held too much for too long.

We stood there in silence.

Then someone called his name. The music swelled. It was time for the toast.

He hesitated. "Stay. Don’t disappear."

"Depends on the speech," I said.

He walked to the front. Lights dimmed. A spotlight. He raised his glass.

"To old friends. To new beginnings. And to worthy rivals who remind us who we were and who we still might become."

Applause. Smiles. Glasses clinking.

And then it happened.

I turned. Someone bumped into me. My elbow hit the cake table.

Three tiers. Buttercream and fondant and ambition.

It collapsed in slow motion. A sugary avalanche.

Silence. Again.

I stood frozen, mortified.

Then I laughed.

Loud. Honest. A laugh that rose from somewhere in my spine.

Tobi looked at me. And then he laughed too.

And just like that, the tension cracked.

People chuckled. Someone clapped. The moment dissolved into something lighter, stranger, warmer.

He walked over and handed me a fork.

"Want the first bite?"

I nodded. "Only if you get the second."

We stood there, cake on our hands, old ghosts at our feet, and something unspoken settling between us.

Sometimes you crash a party to win.

Sometimes, you crash it just to remember you’re still alive.

And sometimes, you ruin the cake, just to see who’ll laugh with you when it falls.