CHAPTER FOURTEEN “WHEN WRONG IS LOUD!”

© Opeyemi Akintunde
As Inspired by the Creative Word

We concluded that she would come that evening after school by 6 p.m.

The moment we agreed on the time, my excitement rose, but another problem stood up immediately.

How was I going to get there without Mark or my mum knowing?

I returned Tunde’s phone after I logged out of my account.

“Thank you,” I said.

Tunde collected the phone from me and kept looking at me like he was watching a movie he did not pay for.

“Apostle Matthew,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “This life ehn.”

I did not answer him.

My mind had already left the classroom.

My body was in school, but my spirit was already standing in front of Chairman Restaurant by 6 p.m.

When school closed, I walked home with Mark and Rosie.

The silence between us was so thick it could be sliced with a knife.

Rosie tried to pick small talk once or twice.

“So, did you understand Chemistry today?”

I shrugged. “A little.”

She tried again. “Are you going for the debate practice tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.”

Finally, I told her I had a headache.

That ended the small talk.

Mark said nothing. He just walked beside us like a disappointed prophet who had decided to conserve his anointing.

I did not care one bit.

My mind was fixed on 6 p.m.

When we got home, Mum was around, but to my shock, Dad was also home.

My father was usually away because of work. He was a fuel tanker driver, so he could be away for weeks and only come home once in a while. Sometimes, he came home once a month. Sometimes, his coming home felt like a public holiday because everybody adjusted.

But that day, his early return was not a public holiday to me.

It was a big problem.

A very big problem.

I greeted him, and he smiled.

“Matthew, how school?”

“Fine, sir.”

He looked at me for a few seconds. “You look tired.”

“I have a headache,” I said quickly.

That was not even part of the plan, but lies were now coming to me like old friends.

“Go and rest,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

I went inside, but I could not rest.

The time kept ticking.

5:10 p.m.

5:20 p.m.

5:35 p.m.

Every minute sounded loud.

It dawned on me that I had to find a way out.

Several sinful ideas I never thought I would ever think of began to pop up in my mind. I thought of pretending to sleep and arranging pillows under the blanket like I had seen in movies. I thought of sneaking out through the back. I thought of lying.

The strange thing was not that the thoughts came.

The strange thing was that they came with confidence.

Before Sikemi, I used to fear wrong thoughts.

Now I was interviewing them.

By 5:45 p.m., I was sweating.

Obviously, Mum noticed.

“Matthew, are you okay?” she asked.

I held my head gently like a person in a home video.

“I think I am feeling feverish.”

She sat up. “Feverish?”

“Yes, Mum. My head is hot.”

That was when the idea came fully.

It was 5:50 p.m.

“Mum,” I said, “let me quickly get to the pharmacy and buy drugs.”

“Now?” she asked.

“Yes. I don’t want it to get worse.”

Dad looked up from where he was sitting. “Should I go for you?”

My heart almost collapsed.

“No, sir,” I said quickly. “It is not far. I know what to buy.”

Mum studied my face. I tried to look sick, but not too sick. Weak, but still responsible. Feverish, but still trustworthy.

She bought the lie.

She gave me some money and told me to be fast.

“Yes, Mum.”

As I turned to leave, I saw Mark looking at me.

He did not say anything, but his expression said everything.

He knew.

Or at least, he knew I was not being truthful.

I looked away before his eyes could start preaching again.

Then I left the house.

I ran to Chairman Restaurant like my life depended on it.

By the time I got there, my chest was rising and falling. Sweat had gathered on my face and under my arms. I tried to wipe myself with my handkerchief, but the handkerchief looked like it also needed help.

Then I saw it.

One of the Alabis’ vehicles was already parked there.

It was not an ordinary car. It was the kind of vehicle that looked like it belonged in a music video or a foreign action film. Cyber truck kind of thing. The type my generation could dream of owning, but only after praying, fasting, marrying well, investing wisely, and maybe still needing grace.

I thought I would meet them inside the restaurant.

But of course, I should have known better.

Chairman Restaurant was probably not on their level.

They were waiting in the car.

I walked close to it, still trying to arrange my breathing, and before I could say Jack Robinson, Sikemi ran out of the vehicle and hugged me tightly.

My body froze.

The smell of her perfume wrapped around me immediately, and at once, I became aware of how I must have been smelling.

Sweat.

Pharmacy lie.

Teenage confusion.

All mixed together.

She pulled back slightly and smiled at me like I was the only person she had wanted to see all day.

“You came,” she said.

“I came,” I replied, sounding like a person who had just answered an altar call to foolishness.

She pulled me into the back seat, where she joined me.

Martins was in front.

“Matthew,” he said, turning slightly. “My guy. Thank you for helping with the package.”

I swallowed.

“It is okay,” I said.

He nodded. “And about Sikemi giving you the pill, sorry about that. She can be dramatic.”

“It is okay,” I repeated.

I should not have said that.

Because Martins seized the moment immediately.

“Okay?” he asked, smiling. “That means you can see it is not as bad as you exaggerated it.”

I opened my mouth, but no strong reply came out.

He continued, “You made it sound like the thing was going to kill you instantly.”

I looked away.

Sikemi touched my arm softly. “You were scared.”

I did not know whether she was apologizing or reminding me.

Martins changed the topic before I could think too deeply.

“So, Matthew, what is this your Harvard or Yale dream I heard about?”

I sat up a little.

“I am pushing,” I said. “By God’s grace.”

“Pushing how?” Martins asked.

“Applications. Competitions. Academic records. Scholarship opportunities.”

He nodded slowly, then asked the question that landed like a real blow.

“Who is sponsoring you?”

I became quiet.

That question had no quick answer.

Because the truth was simple.

Nobody.

Or maybe hope.

Or maybe God.

Or maybe scholarship.

Before I could respond, Sikemi answered like a queen coming to rescue her subject.

“Matthew is smart,” she said. “His mum said he is depending on scholarship.”

Martins looked at me like I had committed a crime.

“Scholarship?”

“Yes,” I said, but my voice was not as strong as before.

“Who depends on scholarship anymore?” he asked.

I frowned.

He leaned back in his seat. “Matthew, wake up. We are talking about thousands of dollars. Thousands. Do you know what that means in naira?”

I knew.

That was the problem.

“My guy,” Martins continued, “find another route to pay your fees yourself. There are ways to make this money.”

My ears opened.

Not normal opening.

Spiritual opening, but in the wrong direction.

I thought he was about to say something about grants, international sponsors, investors, or one hidden opportunity rich people knew about that poor people did not know.

“What ways?” I asked innocently, but also desperately.

Sikemi interrupted before Martins answered.

“Martins, Matthew does not have the heart to do it.”

That statement did something to me.

It challenged me.

It made me feel small.

It made me feel like she was protecting me and insulting me at the same time.

Martins laughed lightly.

“Don’t say that,” he said. “He has dreams. I am sure he will do anything to achieve them.”

At that point, an alarm started ringing in my head.

Do anything?

That phrase did not sound clean.

But instead of getting afraid, I smiled.

“I can do anything,” I said, “as long as I am not taking a life.”

“God forbid,” Martins said quickly, raising his hand. “We are not killers.”

Sikemi smiled.

Martins continued, “We do it to maintain our lifestyle. Our parents only pay tuition and major bills, but every other thing we do, we fund ourselves.”

That impressed me in a foolish way.

I looked at them.

If they were doing it, then it must not be that bad.

That was the lie my mind quickly manufactured.

Rich children could not be doing dirty things like common criminals.

At least, that was what I wanted to believe.

“What is it?” I asked.

Martins looked at me for a few seconds, then smiled.

“It is a courier business.”

The words sounded harmless.

Courier business.

Like delivery.

Like logistics.

Like moving things from one place to another.

But something inside me knew that if a business needed to be introduced inside a parked car, in a hushed tone, by people who had already sent me to collect a strange package, then it was not ordinary courier business.

Still, I sat there.

Listening.

Because wrong does not always enter your life shouting.

Sometimes, it comes dressed as opportunity.

And when your hunger is louder than your discernment, even danger can sound like breakthrough.

To be continued…

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