Stale from the lingering Café Patron of Saturday night, I thought brewing a new batch would be the way to send out the old with the new. Wishful thinking. I snuck out to the kitchen and put on the kettle before searching through the cabinet’s surprises in search of anything resembling a coffee tin. As I found the tiny Nescafe tin hiding up in the corner, I turned around to see the kettle, plugged in, sitting in a pool of water. Not sure if this was a scene from Final Destination 6, I decided to take my chances and lifted the electrified metal pot out of the pool, its contents continuing it dribble out of its bottom. Brilliant. Guess I’m going to have to ride on fumes from that 4am orange slice dipped in Nescafe, instead.

If I thought I was in bad shape, we probably should have hospitalized some other members of our party. “Hangover” was a few steps before whatever this was. Brunch was the only option. So we hobbled into the car and let Sayo speed us to the Radisson where we tornadoed the buffet line in our sunglasses. Tenderloin medallions? Puffed pineapple cake? We’ll take it. Spiced rice? Pesto linguine? Savory Sausage? I’ll have seconds. Pickled prawn? Bring it on. We were a force to be reckoned with.

Until we weren’t. Anjarae forced down her $17 Bloody Mary as Sayo just plain gave up. And he lives here. “I’ll be in the car. I can't wait. I need a quick nap,” he said, as he handed his credit card over to Anjarae. We asked for the bill after another heaping plate of pineapple and waited…waited…waited.

Anjarae’s bbm buzzes. “Did you guys get a bloody room in there? I thought I was taking a ten minute nap!” Judging by the sallow complexions across the table, that probably would have been a good idea. A three hour brunch later, we got back in the car with a well-rested Sayo. We had a little more than an hour before the Man U game was on – our non-negotiable deadline to return to the couch to watch the game with Sayo and his two best friends from home (named Sayo and ... Sayo. The Three Sayos).

In the meantime, “Our” Sayo indulged my whining for a “real market,” and swung by an ATM to let me get cash on the way. Whipping down speed limit-less streets gaping with potholes, we pull up to the lone red booth next to a dilapidated wall painted with the insightful travel tip: DO NOT GIVE PASSPORTS OR MONEY TO STRANGERS PRETENDING TO BE HELPFUL. You’re kidding, Lagos!

“Go ahead, get out.” Wide eyed and reluctant, I burst out of the door running, eager to get the hell back behind something bulletproof. CARD IS NOT SMART. Crap. I fumble through my purse to find the other one, without looking away from the Strangers all around me. TYPE IN YOUR SECRET NUMBER. With my adrenaline pumping and this posh accent coming out of this machine, I feel like I’m in Skyfall rather than in front of an ATM. When the Naira denominations pop up, I freak out. Top? Bottom? Left? Right? Bottom right! Go, go go! 10,000. Ten thousand what?! What’s the exchange rate again? I can’t even pay my $112 Amazon Prime bill this month.

“Sayo! I don’t know what I’ve done! I don’t even have this much money to my name! I just cleared out my entire bank account! I’m such an idiot! Such an IDIOT!”

“Will you quit with the drama, McKee? No one’s shooting at you, man. And I can see it in your hand. You barely even took out fifty dollars.”

And back to the ATM I go for scene two of Skyfall. By the time I have braved the streets of Lagos to get the 20,000 Naira I have in my in hand and have trekked across the entire city to get to the "real market," I can’t even remember what I wanted to buy, other the Indomie (Top Ramen of Nigeria) I promised to bring back for my students. Gotta get rid of my currency though, right? South African Police is going to lock me up for importing MSG at this rate.