CHAPTER SEVEN “WHEN WRONG IS LOUD!”

© Opeyemi Akintunde
As Inspired by the Creative Word

MUM’S POV

I could tell something was wrong from the moment Matthew returned home.

Something was wrong with my son.

It was not loud. It was not dramatic. It was not something anybody else would easily notice, but I was his mother. Mothers know when the wind around their children changes.

Something had shifted in his demeanor. It felt like something had slightly tampered with him.

I wanted to ask him what happened, but I told myself I was too weak to start a serious conversation. My body was still not fully strong, and I did not want to imagine what my heart might have to carry if he told me something troubling.

So I told myself it was just my overprotective motherly instinct.

Did I think something happened to him at the Alabi house?

I was not sure.

Instead of asking, I swept it under the carpet.

Maybe tomorrow, I told myself.

But tomorrow is sometimes the most dangerous word a parent can use.

During dinner, I noticed he was unusually happy. Extremely happy. He cracked jokes out of almost everything.

When I told him to pass me the water, he said, “Yes ma, water is the ministry of hydration.”

Even Mark looked at him once or twice like, Guy, what is doing you?

Still, I did not think much of it.

Maybe he was just happy. Maybe school had gone well. Maybe teenage boys sometimes laughed too much for no reason.

At about 9 p.m., he came to me and asked for my phone.

“Mum, please can I use your phone for a few minutes?”

“What for?” I asked.

“I want to check my social media page,” he said. “Just small.”

I did not give my children phones because I wanted them focused. I knew what phones could do. I knew a phone in the hand of a teenager could become a classroom, a church, a market, a cinema, or a trap.

However, because of their international scholarship applications, Matthew and Mark had social media accounts where they posted their academic wins, competitions, awards, and school projects. It was part of the evidence we were building for their future.

So I gave him the phone.

“Don’t stay long,” I said.

“Yes, Mum,” he replied.

He took the phone gently, but there was something about the way he held it that made my spirit uncomfortable.

I watched him walk away.

Again, I wanted to call him back and ask, “Matthew, are you okay?”

But I did not.

I told myself again, Tomorrow.

****
MATTHEW’S POV

I went online for one reason.

I wanted to see her face….That was the truth, even if I would never have admitted it loudly.

I searched for Sikemi’s popular account. It was not hard to find. Girls like Sikemi did not hide online. They lived there like it was their second mansion.

Her page opened, and I began to scroll.

At first, I told myself I was only looking.

Just looking.

But my eyes knew I was lying.

I scrolled through her pictures, her videos, her travels, her outfits, her life. Everything looked soft, bright, expensive, and far away from my reality.

She had pictures in airports, beside swimming pools, in restaurants where ordinary water probably had an accent. There were photos of her in places I had only seen in movies. London. Dubai. Paris. Places that sounded like English words but also sounded like money.

This was the first time I searched for her online, and I could not help but be drawn in.

Then a message dropped out of the blues.

“Handsome”.

I froze.

Sikemi had chatted me.

Sikemi had called me handsome.

For a few seconds, I did not know how to behave. My chest became hot. My fingers became weak. The room suddenly felt too small.

I quickly stood up and went outside the house.

I was sweating.

What was I supposed to type back?

Before I could decide, another message entered.

“I know you are there. I have been waiting online for you all day.”

All day?

How?

Why?

What was happening?

That day was beginning to feel like three years squeezed into one day.

Mark’s warning came back to me immediately.

Guy, whatever she told you, be careful.

Even Joseph fled when he saw temptation.

I heard the warning, but I still summoned courage and typed.

“Hi.”

It looked too small.

Too dry.

Too church-boyish.

But I sent it anyway.

Her reply came almost immediately.

“Finally!”

Then the next thing I saw was a notification.

Image received.

Something in me told me not to open it.

It was not fear. It was not noise. It was a small, calm knowing. The type that does not shout because it expects you to already know better.

But I did not listen.

I downloaded the image.

It was Sikemi.

She was dressed casually in a Sleeveless, but everything about the picture looked intentional. The lighting. The pose. The confidence. The way she looked into the camera like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Under the image, she wrote:

“Just thought to remind you of what I look like.”

I found myself smiling.

No.

Blushing.

There is a difference.

Smiling is what you do when someone says something funny.

Blushing is what your body does when your sense is about to leave you.

My eyes stayed on the picture longer than they should have. Her skin looked smooth, like something that had never argued with the sun before.

Then another message came in.

Can you remind me of what you look like, handsome? I can’t seem to remember.

My entire being entered panic mode.

I looked around as if someone had caught me doing something illegal.

Then I ran towards our neighbour’s parked vehicle and checked my reflection in the window.

That was when I saw it.

A pimple.

A pimple I never knew existed before that moment.

“Ah,” I whispered. “So you people planned this meeting?”

I wiped my face with my palm. I adjusted my shirt. I tilted my head. I tried smiling, but the first smile looked like I had just swallowed bad medicine.

I tried again.

Better.

I posed and took a picture of myself, making sure I looked as handsome as possible. I shifted slightly until the light was soft. I raised my chin a little, but not too much, so I would not look proud. I took another one.

Then another one.

By the time I finally selected one picture, I had used more strategy than some politicians used during elections.

I sent it.

My heart started beating like I had submitted an exam script I did not fully understand.

Her reply came.

What’s with the round neck? Don’t you want to show me your biceps?

I read it once.

Then twice.

Then maybe a hundred times.

What did she mean?

Was she complimenting me?

Was she teasing me?

Was she asking me to remove the round neck?

My mind started running to places it had no business entering.

No.

No.

The church boy in me woke up.

This was going far.

And it was going fast.

I stared at the phone in my hand.

For the first time that night, Mark’s voice did not sound like disturbance.

It sounded like mercy.

Even Joseph fled when he saw temptation.

I swallowed.

Maybe it was time to apply the brakes.

To be continued…

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

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