The next morning carried the kind of quiet that never really lasts in a house like this.
Breakfast was already underway when the first movement of departure began, plates half-finished, chairs pushed back slightly as people kept delaying the inevitable. The night before had stretched late, laughter still hanging in the corners of the mansion like it refused to leave with the guests. Now everything felt softer, slower, like the house was trying to hold on for a few extra minutes.
Nigerian artists were the first to start saying their goodbyes, moving in small groups, collecting phones, bags, and last-minute souvenirs from the party as they drifted toward the entrance. There were hugs that lasted longer than necessary, jokes thrown in to hide the fact that nobody really wanted to leave yet.
