CHAPTER FIFTEEN WHEN WRONG IS LOUD!

© Opeyemi Akintunde
As Inspired by the Creative Word

“Courier business?” I asked again, like hearing it twice would make it cleaner.

Martins nodded.

“Yes. Logistics.”

“Logistics?”

“Yes now,” he said. “Moving things from one place to another.”

That sounded normal.

Too normal.

And because I desperately wanted it to be normal, I held on to the word.

Logistics.

Not crime.

Not drugs.

Not strange packages.

Logistics.

“What will we be moving?” I asked.

Martins smiled.

“Shoes.”

I blinked.

“Shoes?”

“Yes,” he said. “Designer shoes.”

For a few seconds, I just stared at him.

Designer shoes?

Was this the big secret?

Was this the rich-people business that needed a car meeting by 6 p.m.?

“Shoes?” I repeated, because my brain was still trying to respect itself.

Martins laughed softly.

“Matthew, not Bata. Not Aba copy. Not the type of shoes you buy and the sole will start evangelism after two weeks.”

Sikemi laughed.

I did not want to laugh, but the image entered my head. My own school shoe had been threatening to open a branch office for months.

Martins continued.

“I am talking about luxury designer shoes. Limited collections. Some are trainers. Some are original leather. Some are custom-made. The type only elite people buy.”

I listened.

“My friend is into it,” he said. “He supplies to rich clients. Politicians’ children. Young celebrities. Big boys. People who don’t repeat outfits on Instagram.”

I looked at Sikemi.

She looked like the explanation made perfect sense.

Martins leaned closer.

“One pair can cost three thousand dollars. Sometimes four thousand dollars. It depends on the collection.”

My mouth opened.

“Dollars?”

“Yes.”

“For shoe?”

“Yes.”

“Just shoe?”

Martins laughed again.

“Matthew, this is why poor people should mingle with rich people sometimes. Your mind needs deliverance from smallness.”

That one entered.

I looked down at my own shoes. They suddenly looked poor, tired, and almost offended that we were having this conversation in their presence.

Four thousand dollars for shoes?

Shoes that would still touch ground?

My mind started converting the money to naira, but I stopped halfway because my brain almost resigned.

Martins continued.

“Because the shoes are expensive, they don’t want normal logistics people handling them. You can’t just give a random dispatch rider a four-thousand-dollar package and say, ‘Please deliver.’ What if he disappears? What if he damages it? What if he does not know how to handle elite clients?”

I nodded slowly.

That made sense.

At least, it sounded like it made sense.

“So they prefer people they know,” Martins said. “People who look responsible. People who can be trusted. People like you.”

People like you.

Those three words landed on my head like a crown.

For a boy who had been called the cleaner’s son in his own mind too many times, hearing Martins say “people like you” felt like promotion.

“So what exactly will I be doing?” I asked.

“Simple,” Martins said. “You pick up the package. You deliver it to the client. You collect confirmation. That is all.”

“That is all?”

“That is all.”

“And how much?” I asked, trying not to sound too interested.

Martins smiled like he had been waiting for that question.

“For each delivery, you can make two hundred thousand.”

I stared at him.

“Per day?”

“No,” he said, laughing. “Per package.”

My body sat still, but my mind stood up.

“Two hundred thousand per package?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Transport fare is inside the two hundred thousand?”

Martins laughed like I had just asked if the moon was battery-operated.

“No now. Transport is separate.”

Sikemi smiled. “Your own is two hundred thousand per package.”

I leaned back in the seat.

For a moment, the air in the car changed.

Two hundred thousand naira.

For carrying shoes.

Just shoes.

I imagined two hundred thousand in my hand. Then I imagined it twice. Then three times. Then I imagined five packages.

Martins did not let my imagination suffer for long.

“Sometimes, they deliver up to five packages in a day,” he said. “If you are available and you can handle five, that is one million.”

“One million?” I asked.

The words came out like a prayer point.

“One million naira?”

“Yes,” Martins said casually. “In one day.”

I almost laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because it sounded like fraud.

Not the criminal kind.

The impossible kind.

“How can somebody make one million naira from just delivering goods?” I asked.

Martins shook his head slowly.

“Matthew, when rich people are talking, poor people always think they are joking.”

I became quiet.

He continued.

“When you start moving with rich people, you will begin to ask yourself, ‘Is this real? Is this real?’ Yes, it is real. My father talks business in trillions when he is with his friends. Trillions. If you are around them and you are not used to that world, your head will be turning.”

I swallowed.

Trillions?

I had only seen that kind of money in national budget news.

Martins leaned back, enjoying the effect his words were having on me.

“This is how rich people roll,” he said. “There are businesses rich people know about that poor people don’t know and will never know. And let me be honest, the rich don’t always want them to know.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because the moment everybody knows where money is moving, everybody will enter.”

That made sense.

Too much sense.

Dangerously too much sense.

He continued like a motivational speaker wearing designer perfume.

“Poor people work hard and still suffer because they are not positioned close to opportunity. Rich people don’t just work hard; they work around information. Information is money. Exposure is money. Connection is money.”

My head was opening.

Or maybe it was being opened wrongly.

“So you are saying I will just be delivering shoes?” I asked again.

“Yes.”

“Shoes?”

“Shoes,” Martins replied. “Some are trainers. Some are original leather. Some are collector’s items. The clients are people who can spend four thousand dollars on one pair and not check their account balance.”

Sikemi added, “They don’t mind paying someone well if the package gets to them safely.”

Martins nodded. “Exactly. If one shoe costs four thousand dollars, paying you the equivalent of something small from that money is nothing to them. Rich people pay for trust.”

Trust.

That word wrapped the whole thing in respectability.

It made me feel like this was not greed.

It was trust.

It was responsibility.

It was opportunity.

“It makes sense,” I said quietly.

And shamefully, it did.

Or maybe hunger was helping it make sense.

“When can I start?” I asked.

Martins smiled.

“If you are ready, I will call the guy. I will let him know. You will be told where to pick up the shoes and how to deliver them. We will also arrange it in a way that will not affect school.”

At the mention of school, my conscience relaxed a little.

At least, they were thinking about my education.

At least, this was not supposed to destroy my life.

At least, that was what I wanted to believe.

My mind began to run calculations.

Two hundred thousand per package.

Five packages, one million.

Even if I did only one package in a day, that was still two hundred thousand.

In one week, I could make what some people did not make in months.

My Harvard dream suddenly stood up from where poverty had been trying to bury it.

My scholarship application.

My exam fees.

My international dreams.

My mother’s stress.

Our house.

Our life.

Everything began to look possible.

I turned to Sikemi, and before I knew it, my mouth was saying thank you.

“Thank you,” I said.

Sikemi raised her eyebrow. “For what?”

“For this,” I said. “For thinking of me.”

She smiled softly.

I shook my head, almost laughing from excitement.

“No, you don’t understand. This Harvard dream is going to come to pass. I will make money. I will help myself. I will help my family.”

Sikemi smiled in a way that made my chest feel warm.

“That’s the Matthew I like,” she said.

And foolishly, that made the dream look even more possible.

Martins clapped once.

“That is the spirit,” he said. “Dreams need money. Faith is good, but fees must be paid.”

I nodded.

That sounded like wisdom.

But not every sentence that sounds wise is from wisdom.

Sometimes, the devil knows how to arrange words too.

While we continued talking, something else began to happen inside me.

Something I did not want to admit.

I wanted to ask for the pill.

The thought came quietly at first.

Then it became clearer.

I wanted the pill.

I wanted that feeling again.

The excitement.

The boldness.

The fake joy.

The way my ordinary life had felt too small after one strange taste.

I pressed my lips together.

No.

I would not ask.

I was not that kind of person.

I was Matthew.

Church boy.

Scholarship boy.

Mummy’s son.

Mark’s brother.

Rosie’s friend.

I would not ask for drugs.

But it was as if the devil was listening to my mind.

Martins suddenly opened one of the compartments in the car and brought out a small container.

My eyes moved before I could discipline them.

He opened it and picked one of the exact pills.

The exact one.

The one that had made my day loud.

The one that had made me laugh too much.

The one that had made Rosie look at me like I had broken something sacred.

Martins put it in his mouth and swallowed it with a drink.

I watched him.

I tried not to watch him, but I watched him.

Sikemi noticed.

Of course, she noticed.

She always noticed the weak part before I could hide it.

“You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to,” she said softly.

I looked away.

“I don’t want it,” I said.

But my voice betrayed me.

It sounded like a door that was closed but not locked.

Sikemi leaned back.

“I am not trying to force you,” she said. “I just don’t like how people make drugs look like once you touch it, you will become mad on the street.”

I said nothing.

She continued.

“That is what people want you to believe. But some people just don’t know how to control themselves.”

Control.

That word came in like a responsible adult.

“It helps me,” she said. “It makes me forget a lot of sorrows. It makes me calm. It makes me feel clear. I am not crazy on the streets, am I?”

She looked at me.

I shook my head slowly.

“No.”

“One pill per day will not kill anybody,” she said. “It just makes you have more clarity. More lightness. More happiness. But again, you don’t have to take it.”

She paused.

Then she added softly, “Unless you want it.”

Unless you want it.

This time, nobody was forcing me.

This time, nobody was holding my mouth.

This time, nobody was locking lips to make me swallow.

This time, the wrong thing stood before me like a choice.

I heard Mark’s voice somewhere far inside me.

*Do what pleases you.*

I heard Rosie’s voice too.

*I thought I had found a friend who was different.*

Then I heard Sikemi’s voice.

*Unless you want it.*

And the worst part was that I wanted it.

“I don’t mind,” I said quietly. “If I can get one.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Martins smiled.

Sikemi smiled too.

And something inside me became afraid of how happy they looked.

Martins picked one pill from the container and stretched it towards me.

My hand moved slowly.

I collected it.

The pill sat in my palm, small and quiet.

Too small to look like a problem.

Too quiet to look like a chain.

I stared at it.

Just one, I told myself.

Just today.

Just to feel that excitement again.

Just to know if I could control it.

Just to prove I was not weak.

But deep down, I knew the truth.

The first time, it had been forced into my mouth.

This time, I was about to open my mouth by myself.

And that was how chains begin to look like choices.

To be continued…

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

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