King Sunny Ade blares from mounted speakers at the mouth of the street. The foot traffic is immense, women in bubble sleeved blouses, tucked lazily into tripled wrappers in aso-ebi shuffle to the hypnotic guitars that serenade the guests. The party is several canopies thick, perfumed by the gentle hint of wood smoked party jollof. People weave through the chairs, stopping for several minutes to greet aunties and grandmas whose gold costume jewellery and towering geles demand obeisance.