CHAPTER EIGHTEEN “WHEN WRONG IS LOUD!”

© Opeyemi Akintunde
As Inspired by the Creative Word

“It is not really about shoes.”

The room became quiet.

“What do you mean?” I asked, though somewhere inside me, a part of me already knew.

“The shoes are just the cover,” Martins said.

I stared at him.

“The package is not the shoe. The real thing is what is inside.”

My mouth opened slightly.

“What is inside?”

Martins did not blink.

“The pills.”

For a moment, I did not hear anything else.

Not the air conditioner.

Not the sound of something playing faintly from his phone.

Not even my own breathing.

“The pills?” I repeated.

“Yes.”

“You made me courier pills?”

“Matthew—”

“You made me deliver drugs?”

He sighed like I was the one being dramatic.

“Guy, relax.”

“Relax?” My voice rose before I could stop it. “You made me carry drugs?”

“Keep your voice down,” he said sharply.

I looked towards the door, then lowered my voice, but my heart was shouting.

“You told me it was designer shoes.”

“It was designer shoes,” he said. “The shoes were there, abi?”

I stared at him.

He smiled.

“See? That is why I say you are too tense. The shoes are premium. The clients are premium. The job is clean.”

“Clean?”

“Yes, clean. You went, you delivered, you got paid, and nothing happened.”

“Something could have happened.”

“But nothing happened.”

“That does not make it right.”

Martins leaned forward, his voice becoming smoother, more serious.

“Matthew, listen to me. I only wanted you to see that it is a clean job. You will not be caught if you follow instructions. You will not be exposed if you don’t act suspicious. Everything is packaged. Everything is arranged. The people involved know what they are doing.”

I shook my head slowly.

“This is dangerous.”

“Everything that brings serious money is dangerous in one way or another,” Martins replied. “Do you think rich people get richer by selling akara and kuli-kuli by the roadside?”

I frowned.

“Don’t insult people’s hustle.”

“I am not insulting anybody,” he said quickly. “I am just telling you reality. The rich don’t keep getting richer because they are selling what everybody can see. They get richer because they understand hidden systems. They know where money moves. They know what the poor don’t know.”

There it was again.

That rich-people sermon.

The same tone.

The same confidence.

The same dangerous motivational speech that made evil sound like intelligence.

I wanted to reject it.

I really wanted to.

But somewhere in my mind, ₦250,000 stood up and cleared its throat.

Martins continued, “You think your leaders are clean? You think the big men you see donating in church, building schools, entering newspapers, are all clean? My guy, calm down. The world is not as simple as your Sunday school teacher made it sound.”

That one hit differently.

I did not want it to, but it did.

Because I had seen wicked people honoured.

I had seen questionable people respected.

I had seen money cover shame like expensive bedsheet.

“But it is still dangerous for people,” I said. “These things destroy lives.”

Martins shrugged.

“People destroy their own lives.”

I stared at him.

He continued, “Nobody forces anybody. People want escape. People want excitement. People want calm. We provide what they already want.”

“That is not true,” I said, though my own voice sounded unsure.

“Matthew, you took it yourself the second time.”

The sentence slapped me.

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

No defence came.

He smiled, not cruelly, but knowingly.

“You see? People choose.”

I looked away.

My chest felt tight.

I hated that he had used my own weakness as an argument.

“But you people did not tell me the truth,” I said.

“Would you have agreed if I told you?”

“No.”

“Exactly,” he said. “That is why exposure must come gradually.”

Exposure.

I was beginning to hate that word.

Or maybe I was beginning to fear how much I still liked it.

Martins stood up and walked towards me.

“Matthew, you are smart. You are not like all these street boys who will carry package and start shaking. You are clean. You are a good student. Nobody will suspect you. That is your advantage.”

“My advantage?” I repeated.

“Yes. You look innocent.”

I did not know why, but that made me feel dirty.

He continued, “And you need money. Let us not pretend. Harvard will not pay for itself. Application fees will not pay themselves. Your family needs money. You need exposure. You need a chance.”

I swallowed.

He was using my dream like a rope.

And the painful part was that I was holding the other end.

“Think about it,” he said. “One delivery gave you ₦250,000. That was small. If you become steady, you will be making real money.”

I looked at him.

“How much is real money?”

Martins smiled.

And just like that, the room became quiet again.

Because the question that should have been “How do I leave this?” had become “How much can I make?”

To be continued…

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

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