In my twenties, friendship was a full-blown carnival.
Noise. Movement. BBM broadcasts.
If your birthday didn’t look like a Nollywood wedding, were you even relevant?

I collected friends like Ankara — plenty, loud, and sometimes itchy.
We posed, we partied, we promised forever.
But forever, it turns out, has a short shelf life once rent, heartbreak, and adulting enter the chat.

Then came my thirties — the decade of edits.
Some friends relocated. Some got married. Some got weird.
And some just disappeared, like socks in a washing machine.

By my forties? The carnival had packed up.
I wasn’t in the “collect friends” era anymore.
I was in the “please don’t talk to me unless you bring peace, laughter, or decent snacks” era.

The friends who stayed? They’re my luxury silk.
They don’t shrink. They don’t fade.
They make me feel like my best self.

This year’s birthday was supposed to be quiet.
Maybe a solo dinner. Maybe Netflix and moisturiser.

But Jennie — my new chaos agent turned luxury silk — had other plans.
“Ada,” she said, “forget this hermit life. You’re coming out. Stop hiding in your house, inhaling WhiffWonders like incense.”

She kept calling, not because I was sulking (my home is my sanctuary), but because she refused to let me be alone.
And true to form, she got me there before midnight.

At the entrance? Chaos.
Jennie had gathered a handful — or maybe more than a few — area boys, told them it was my birthday, and insisted they sing and dance for me.
These strangers, off-key and grinning, made me feel seen. They did a good job too — loud, joyful, unfiltered Lagos energy.

As if that wasn’t enough, the moment I walked inside, Jennie started announcing to everyone that it was my birthday in less than 45 minutes.

At first, I wanted to disappear. Why was she telling strangers?
But by midnight, those strangers became sisters. They sang, they hugged, they clinked glasses.
It was chaotic joy — and I loved it.

The next day, she dragged me out again — this time to a party for one alumna’s mum. I obliged her because Jennie always shows up for me, and I didn’t want to disappoint her.

Meanwhile, my other luxury silk started showing up too.
Funmi, with her steady love.
Oseyemi with iya Jesu rice and turkey.
Pepper soup arrived like a birthday gift from the gods.
And of course, my guy friends — a lot more guys than ladies — rolled in saying, “Haba Ada, na lie, we dey show. It’s ya birthday!”

We ate. We laughed. We argued about Nigeria like we had the power to fix it by dessert.
My house smelled like WhiffWonders — Obi clashing with Sugha, The Eden Wedding wrestling with G5.
But together? Pure luxury.

One friend inhaled deeply and said, “Ada, this house is too suspiciously peaceful. Now I can’t go back to normal air.”

The last guest left at 2:30 a.m. And for the first time in years, I was still awake… still smiling.

That’s the difference now.

In my twenties, I judged birthdays by how many cakes I got.
Five cakes meant you were loved — until you realised no one ever finishes red velvet, and now you’re hustling to dash cake like it’s election season.

In my forties, I judge birthdays by how warm the room feels after the laughter dies down.
No balloons. No overpriced cakes. Just presence.

Here’s the plot twist no one tells you: in your forties, you don’t just keep old friends — you attract new ones.
But this time, they come aligned. Emotionally intelligent. No performance. Just vibes, jollof, and loyalty.

So yes, I still love wine.
But these days? Friendship tastes like pepper soup at 2 a.m., laughter echoing off walls that smell like WhiffWonders, Kenny G playing faintly in the background, and the peace of knowing the people around me didn’t come for the photo op — they came for me.

Because in your forties, friendship isn’t loud.
It’s the quiet that feels like home.
And baby, that quiet? Golden.

Ada Obiajunwa
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Ada Obiajunwa writes from Lagos about the big truths tucked inside ordinary moments — friendship, self-discovery, and the quiet revolutions of everyday life. She believes in the power of presence, good banter, and decoding the unsaid. Through her fragrance studio, WhiffWonders, she also crafts scents that weave memory and emotion into experiences that feel like home.