CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO “WHEN WRONG IS LOUD!”

© Opeyemi Akintunde
As Inspired by the Creative Word

For a few seconds, nobody spoke.
Mum stood in front of us, breathing heavily, her eyes wet with anger, fear, and pain. Mark sat beside me, still looking at me as if he was trying to decide whether to pity me or shake sense into my head.

I wanted to defend myself. I wanted to explain. I wanted to say I was not a bad person. I wanted to say I did not plan to become anybody’s supplier. I wanted to say Sikemi liked me, Martins trusted me, and the money was supposed to help me. But all those explanations suddenly sounded stupid in my head. They sounded like the kind of things a trapped person said when he had not yet accepted that the door had been locked from outside.

Then something inside me broke.

“Mum…” I whispered.

My voice shook.

“Mum, I didn’t know this about them,” I said, and before I could control it, tears entered my eyes. “I honestly thought it was supplement. I thought it was brain booster. I thought…” My words scattered. “I thought they were helping me.”

The moment I said that, the tears came properly.

Not the kind of tears you push out because you want pity. Not the kind that comes when you are caught and you want punishment reduced. These ones came from somewhere deeper. They came from shame, fear, confusion, and the painful discovery that I had not been loved the way I thought I was loved.

“Mummy, I didn’t know,” I cried. “I didn’t know they were using me. I didn’t know it was like that.”

Mum’s face softened a little, but the fear in her eyes did not leave.

“Matthew,” she said quietly, “ignorance can still destroy a person.”

“I know,” I said quickly, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “I know, Mum. I am sorry. I am very sorry. I will never go there again. I promise. I will never go to their house again.”

Mark shifted beside me, but he did not speak.

I turned fully to Mum. “Mum, please help me ask God for forgiveness. Please. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to become a bad person. I don’t want to destroy people. I don’t want God to leave me.”

At that, Mum’s own tears fell.

She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me into her arms. For the first time in days, I did not behave like a boy trying to be a man. I entered my mother’s arms like the child I had always been, the child who had wandered too close to fire and suddenly realized that fire did not care whether you were innocent or curious before it burned you.

Mum held me tightly.

“God has not left you,” she said, her voice breaking. “But you must not harden your heart. You must not defend sin. You must not romance danger and call it opportunity.”

“I won’t, Mum,” I cried. “I won’t.”

She placed one hand on my head and lifted the other hand slightly.

“Lord Jesus,” she began, “I bring my son back to You.”

The room became very quiet.

Even Mark stopped shifting.

“Lord, have mercy on Matthew. Whatever door he opened in ignorance, by pride, by greed, by youthful lust, by wrong association, Father, let mercy close it today. Every appetite that has been planted in him through those pills, every craving, every strange excitement, every desire for what will destroy him, Father, uproot it now in the name of Jesus.”

“Amen,” Mark said quietly.

I was crying too much to speak, but inside me, I said amen with everything that still wanted to live.

Mum continued, “I rededicate this boy to You. He belongs to Jesus. His mind belongs to Jesus. His body belongs to Jesus. His future belongs to Jesus. His Harvard dream, his education, his gifts, his destiny, everything about him belongs to Jesus. The devil will not use his hunger against him. The devil will not use poverty to recruit him. The devil will not use false love to trap him.”

“Amen,” I whispered.

“Lord, give him hatred for sin again. Give him love for righteousness again. Let his conscience become alive again. Let wrong become bitter in his mouth, even when it comes with money. Let him hear Your voice louder than the voice of temptation.”

By then, my face was buried in her dress, and I was crying like somebody who had seen the edge of a pit and realized his foot had already been hanging over it.

Mum prayed for a long time. She prayed in English. She prayed in Yoruba. She prayed in tongues under her breath. She prayed like a mother who knew she was not only correcting a child but dragging him back from something that wanted to swallow him.

When she finished, she held my face in her hands.

“Matthew, look at me.”

I looked at her.

“You will not go there again.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“You will not collect anything from them again.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“You will not share anything with your classmates.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“You will delete every access to them.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“You will stay away from Sikemi.”

That one entered differently.

I nodded, but maybe the nod was not as fast as the others, because Mark looked at me sharply.

Mum saw it too, but she did not push. She only said, “Matthew, any relationship that is pulling you away from God is not love. It is a weapon.”

I swallowed.

“Yes, Mum.”

After the prayer, Mum told us to prepare for school. Mark stood up first. He did not look satisfied. In fact, his face looked like somebody who had attended a powerful deliverance service but still wanted to check whether the demon had packed its load completely.

As we got ready, he kept glancing at me.

I ignored him.

On the way to school, I did not speak to him. Normally, Mark would have spoken first, or at least said something annoying enough to force me to respond, but that morning, even he was quiet. We walked beside each other like two strangers who had once shared the same mother.

My mind was not with him anyway.

My mind was replaying everything.

Sikemi’s smile.

Martins’ “good school boy.”

The first package.

The Airbnb.

The ₦250,000.

The silence.

The offer.

The playbook.

I could not believe I had been played so easily. I could not believe I had been another lab rat to them. Another experiment. Another poor boy selected, warmed up, flattered, used, paid, starved, and prepared for the next level.

The thought humiliated me.

It made me angry in a way that felt different from repentance.

Then another voice rose inside me, soft and stubborn.

Maybe they were still trying to help you.

I frowned as we walked.

The voice continued.

Maybe your mother misunderstood. Maybe Martins only explained the ugly part badly. Maybe Sikemi actually cares. Maybe she deleted that warning message because she was scared for you. Maybe she is trapped too. Maybe you should hear from her first.

I hated that the voice sounded reasonable.

I hated that after all Mum had said, after all she had prayed, after all I had cried, a part of me was still trying to protect Sikemi from the truth.

By the time we got near the school gate, I had made up my mind.

I was going to confront them.

Not to collect pills.

Not to join them.

Not to continue.

I told myself that several times.

I was only going to ask questions.

I was going to look Martins in the face and ask why he lied to me. I was going to ask Sikemi if I was truly just a bait. I was going to ask if any part of what she said to me was real. I was going to tell them I was done, and maybe after that, my mind would finally rest.

That sounded responsible.

It sounded like closure.

But sometimes what we call closure is only temptation wearing office clothes.

At break time, I would leave school.

That was the plan.

I would need help to get out, because the school gate would not just open for students anyhow during break. But Tunde knew everybody. Tunde could talk to anybody. Tunde could arrange almost anything if he believed there was enough gist or benefit inside.

I looked across the compound and saw him laughing with some boys.

Tunde.

Yesterday, he had been waiting for brain booster.

Today, I needed him for escape.

My chest tightened.

Mum’s prayer was still fresh on my head.

Mark’s silence was still walking beside me.

God’s warning was still echoing somewhere inside me.

But my anger was louder.

My humiliation was louder.

And the question Sikemi had deleted was still burning in my mind.

‘Have you thought about this? Do you really want to do this? There is no turning back.’

I told myself I was turning back.

I told myself going there was how I would turn back properly.

But as I entered the school gate that morning, a small voice whispered from a place I did not want to acknowledge.

If you are truly turning back, why are you still walking toward them….

To be continued…

DEEP THOUGHTS NOVELS
Written by Opeyemi Akintunde
As Inspired by the Creative Word