CHAPTER NINETEEN “WHEN WRONG IS LOUD!”

© Opeyemi Akintunde
As Inspired by the Creative Word

“How much is real money?” I asked.

Martins smiled.

It was not the kind of smile someone gave when they wanted to answer a simple question. It was the kind of smile someone gave when they knew they had found the door into your mind.

He walked back to his bed, sat down, and leaned forward like a business consultant about to make a presentation that could change my entire bloodline.

“Matthew,” he said slowly, “the real money is not in delivery.”

I frowned. “But two hundred and fifty thousand from one delivery is not small money.”

“It is not small money to you,” he replied. “That is the difference.”

I did not like the way he said *to you*, but I kept quiet.

“To the person above you, it is transport fare,” Martins said. “To the person above that person, it is pure change. Delivery money is children’s money compared to what is at the top.”

“At the top of what?” I asked.

Martins held my eyes.

“The pill chain.”

The words came out softly, but they landed heavily.

Pill chain.

I should have stood up.

I should have said, “God forbid,” the way I said it the first time he stretched the pill towards me.

I should have remembered my mother’s prayers, Mark’s warnings, Rosie’s disappointment, and my own fear in front of that Airbnb.

But I did not stand up.

I only sat there.

Listening.

Martins noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I am not saying you should become some roadside criminal. I am talking about structure. Business. Positioning.”

“Business?” I repeated.

“Yes. Business,” he said firmly. “Everything is business when you understand supply and demand.”

I swallowed.

That sentence sounded like something from Economics class.

That was what made it dangerous.

He continued, “You don’t even need to start with your own money. I can loan you what you need to start.”

Loan.

The word entered my ear with dignity.

Loan sounded official. Loan sounded clean. Loan sounded like bank. Loan sounded like opportunity.

Martins stood up and began pacing slowly in the room.

“You start small,” he said. “You let people taste the sample for free. Not everybody. Just the right people. The ones who influence others. The ones who are always tired, always sad, always looking for confidence, always looking for something to make them feel better.”

My heart began to beat faster.

“Once they feel it,” Martins continued, “they will ask for it again. And when they ask for it again, that is where money starts.”

I looked away.

The words were ugly, but he was dressing them well.

He was not saying destroy lives.

He was saying supply demand.

He was not saying addiction.

He was saying repeat customers.

He was not saying trap people.

He was saying business growth.

That was the scary thing about wrong.

It knew how to change clothes.

Martins stopped pacing and looked at me.

“Your school is a fertile ground.”

I blinked. “My school?”

“Yes. How many students are in your school?”

I hesitated.

“About one thousand two hundred in total,” I said.

His eyes brightened.

“One thousand two hundred?”

“Yes.”

He laughed softly and shook his head like I had just told him I was sitting on a gold mine and using it as a bench.

“Matthew, that is a lot of money.”

I did not answer.

He continued, “Do you know what can happen if even a portion of those students become regular buyers? Do you know what can happen if they start introducing their friends from home, their cousins, their neighbours, their lesson classmates?”

I swallowed.

My mind started calculating before I gave it permission.

One thousand two hundred students.

If only a few bought.

If those few brought others.

If the thing grew.

Money.

Lots of money.

Too much money.

My brain started arranging figures like Mathematics had suddenly become a demon with a calculator.

Martins saw my face changing.

He smiled.

“Now you are thinking.”

I shook my head quickly. “No, I am not.”

“Yes, you are,” he said. “And you should. You are too brilliant to be poor because of fear.”

That line entered.

Too brilliant to be poor because of fear.

Was I afraid?

Was Mark’s holiness actually fear?

Was Rosie’s disappointment just small-mindedness?

Was Mum’s suffering proof that goodness without money could still leave a person tired on a bed?

Martins went on.

“For boys, it can be sold as focus. Confidence. Energy. You know how boys like to feel sharp. For girls, it can be sold as mood booster, weight control, stress relief. People like labels. Give them the label that matches their pain.”

I felt something cold move inside me.

“That sounds wrong,” I said.

Martins shrugged. “People already want those things.”

“That doesn’t mean we should give them pills.”

“Matthew, you are not their parent.”

I became quiet.

He moved closer again, lowering his voice like someone telling me a secret the world had hidden from me.

“Listen, you can keep pretending that poverty is holy, but poverty is not holiness. You can keep acting like having big dreams without money is faith, but sometimes it is just lack of information.”

I looked at him.

He was touching every wound.

Harvard.

Mum.

School fees.

Transport money.

My smallness.

My hunger to become more.

Everything.

“You can make millions in a week if you are serious,” Martins said. “Not by running around doing delivery like a houseboy. But by being positioned. By controlling a small chain. By letting money answer to you.”

Millions.

In a week.

The words moved around the room like perfume.

I hated that I liked the smell.

I imagined my account balance again.

I imagined buying Mum a proper bed.

I imagined paying for international exams without waiting for miracles.

I imagined Mark looking at me and realizing I was not foolish after all.

I imagined Rosie hearing that I had money and maybe regretting the way she walked away from me.

Then another thought came.

If I had enough money, nobody would call me the cleaner’s son in their mind again.

I hated that thought.

But I loved it too.

That was how I knew something was wrong with me.

“Matthew,” Martins said, “you already have the perfect image. Clean boy. Brilliant boy. Church boy. Nobody will suspect you. That is branding.”

Branding.

He called my innocence branding.

For the first time, I felt as if someone had taken the white shirt of my life and was showing me how profitable the colour could be in darkness.

I stood up.

Not because I was leaving.

I stood because the room was becoming too small for the battle inside me.

“This thing destroys people,” I said, but my voice was not as strong as I wanted.

Martins sat down calmly.

“People destroy themselves when they don’t have self-control.”

“That is not true.”

“It is partly true,” he replied. “The world is not black and white, Matthew. There are people who take things and still function. There are people who drink and still run companies. There are people who smoke and still build empires. Stop acting like one pill automatically turns everybody into a mad person under the bridge.”

I remembered the Airbnb.

The girls on the floor.

The boys laughing too loudly.

The emptiness in the room.

Somebody’s daughter.

Somebody’s son.

All wasted.

I wanted to say it, but Martins spoke before me.

“And before you start thinking about the worst cases, remember your own case. Did you not go to school? Did you not attend class? Did you not come back home? Are you mad?”

I closed my eyes briefly.

He was twisting everything.

But the problem was that twisted things can still look straight when your own desire is helping the twisting.

“I need to think,” I said.

Martins smiled.

“That is fair. Think.”

I nodded.

Then he added, “But don’t think too long. Opportunities don’t wait forever.”

I looked at him.

He stretched his hand towards me, not with a pill this time, not with a package, but with a future that smelled like danger and money mixed together.

“I believe in you, Matthew,” he said. “You can be more than a delivery boy.”

More than a delivery boy.

That was the sentence that followed me out of Martins’ room.

Not this is dangerous.

Not people will be destroyed.

Not Mark was right.

Not Rosie saw something.

Not even God is watching.

What followed me down the stairs was Martins’ voice.

*You can be more than a delivery boy.*

By the time I got back to the living room and picked up the cleaning rag again, my hands were moving, but my mind was already calculating.

And that was the frightening part.

I had not said yes.

But something inside me had stopped saying no.

To be continued…

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

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