CHAPTER SEVENTEEN WHEN WRONG IS LOUD!

© Opeyemi Akintunde
As Inspired by the Creative Word

I went home that day carrying a secret that was heavier than my school bag.

Outwardly, I was calm. Very calm. Too calm, even for myself.

I greeted Mum normally. I greeted Dad normally. I dropped my bag in the room normally. I even ate dinner normally, making sure I did not over-laugh, over-talk, or over-act like the previous day when the pill had turned me into a motivational comedian.

This time, I was careful.

Nobody must suspect anything.

Mark looked at me once or twice during dinner, but I ignored him. I was not ready for his eyes. His eyes had a way of asking questions his mouth had not yet formed.

Rosie’s words from school tried to come back to me too, but I pushed them aside.

I had something bigger to think about.

Two hundred and fifty thousand naira.

In my account.

My account.

Not my imagination. Not a promise. Not “God will do it one day.” Not “keep applying and believing.” Real money. Sitting there. Breathing there. Waiting there.

I had checked the notification so many times in my mind that I could almost see the amount written on the wall.

₦250,000.

At some point, while Mum was talking about something in the sitting room, I smiled without knowing. Mark looked at me immediately, and I quickly changed my face.

Calm down, Matthew.

Act normal.

But how does a person act normal when two hundred and fifty thousand naira has just entered his life before lunch?

That night, I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. Mark was on his own side of the room, quiet as usual. Maybe he was still angry. Maybe he was praying. Maybe he had finally decided to leave me alone like he said.

I did not disturb him.

My mind was too busy travelling.

I imagined the next delivery. Then the next one. Then the next one. I imagined my account balance rising like testimony in a crusade ground. I imagined paying for exams without begging. I imagined buying Mum something proper. I imagined standing in front of people who thought poverty was my surname and showing them that God had changed my story.

At least, that was what I called it.

God changing my story.

But deep down, something knew I was beginning to confuse open doors with open traps.

I slept late, but by 3 a.m., my eyes opened.

Not because anybody woke me.

Not because I heard a sound.

Expectation woke me.

I lay still for a few minutes, listening to the silence in the house. Dad’s breathing came from his room. Mark was asleep. Mum was quiet. The whole house was resting, but my mind was already standing in front of my inbox.

By 3:30 a.m., I could no longer hold myself.

I rose slowly from the bed, careful not to wake Mark. I walked to the sitting room like a thief who had rehearsed his steps in his dream. Dad’s phone was plugged where it had been the previous morning.

I picked it up gently and unlocked it.

My hands moved fast.

Email.

Login.

Inbox.

Nothing.

I refreshed.

Nothing.

I refreshed again.

Still nothing.

I checked spam.

Nothing.

I checked updates.

Nothing.

I returned to the inbox and refreshed again as if the message was hiding behind stubborn network.

No pickup location.

No delivery address.

No instruction.

No “Dear Matthew.”

Not even the cold, businesslike message from the previous day.

For almost fifteen minutes, I sat there refreshing and refreshing, watching the screen like somebody waiting for a miracle alert.

Nothing came.

My heart started feeling restless.

Maybe it was too early.

Maybe they would send it by 4 a.m.

I waited.

4:00 a.m. came.

Nothing.

4:05.

Nothing.

4:10.

Nothing.

By then, my chest had started feeling tight.

I logged into my social media account and searched for Sikemi. My fingers hesitated for a moment before I typed the message.

Good morning. I was expecting the pickup and delivery details for today. Hope there is nothing wrong? Is there no shoe delivery today? I can’t wait to do another one.

I read the message twice.

It sounded eager.

Too eager.

So I deleted “I can’t wait to do another one.”

Then I typed it again.

Then I deleted it again.

Finally, I sent:

Good morning. I was expecting details for today’s shoe delivery. Is there nothing to pick up today?

I stared at the message after sending it.

Seen?

Not seen.

I waited a little.

Still nothing.

I logged out of Dad’s phone, returned it exactly where I met it, and went back to bed. But sleep did not accept me again.

All through that day, I kept checking for an opportunity to use someone’s phone. I wanted to know if Sikemi had replied. I wanted to know if the supplier had sent another email. I wanted to know if my new life had continued without informing me.

But nothing came.

One day passed.

No message.

The second day passed.

Still no message.

No pickup location.

No delivery.

No Sikemi.

No Martins.

Nothing.

By the morning of the second day, my mind had started misbehaving.

What happened?

Did I do something wrong?

Did the dealer not like me after all?

Was the bonus a farewell gift?

Did Sikemi forget me?

Had they found someone else?

The questions started crowding my head. I kept remembering the money. I kept remembering the feeling. I kept remembering Sikemi’s message.

I am so proud of you.

Love you.

Cheers to Harvard.

But now, there was silence.

And the silence was beginning to feel louder than the money.

By the end of the second day, the silence was no longer just silence.

It had become temptation.

At first, I told myself I was only curious. Then I told myself I was only concerned. Then I told myself I only wanted to know if I had done something wrong.

But the truth was that I wanted another delivery.

I wanted another alert.

I wanted another message from Sikemi telling me she was proud of me.

I wanted that feeling of being useful, wanted, trusted, and suddenly rich.

The silence was doing something to me. It was making the ₦250,000 look like a door that had opened briefly and then shut in my face.

By the third day, I could not take it anymore.

“Mum,” I said after morning Devotion, trying to sound casual, “do you want me to help you at the Alabis’ house today?”

Mum looked at me.

“Why?”

The question came too quickly.

I adjusted my face. “Nothing. I just feel like cleaning.”

“You feel like cleaning?” Mum repeated.

“Yes, ma,” I said, nodding. “I need to clear my head. Whenever I clean, it helps me think. I just feel like doing something with my hands.”

Mum looked at me for a few seconds.

I kept my face innocent.

That was another terrible thing that had started happening to me. I was learning how to arrange my face to match my lies.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes, Mum. I will just go early, help you do some work, then come back.”

She sighed. “Okay. But don’t stay long.”

“I won’t.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Mark looking at me.

That look again.

The look of someone who had already read the conclusion of a book you were still trying to hide under your pillow.

He pressed his lips together like he had locked words inside his mouth.

I knew what he wanted to say.

I knew the sermon was ready.
I knew he wanted to tell me the Morning Devotion Sermon about Contentment was something I should take seriously…
I knew the scripture had probably loaded.

But he had promised himself he would not fight me again over the Alabis, so he said nothing.

He only gave me that kind of look that said, I pity you. You don’t even know what you are doing with your life.

That look annoyed me more than words.

But I ignored him.

I collected what I needed and left the house.

By the time I got to the Alabi residence, Uncle Nureni opened the gate and smiled at me.

“Ah, Matthew. You again?”

I forced a smile. “Good morning, sir.”

“You have been coming here frequently o,” he said, opening the gate wider. “Your mum told me she was strong now. I even saw her yesterday; she looked better. So what happened?”

“Nothing, sir,” I replied quickly. “I just said I should come and help her today.”

Uncle Nureni looked at me.

Not like Mark.

His own look was different. Older. Slower. Like a man who had seen many young people walk into places they should have avoided.

“Matthew,” he said, lowering his voice a little, “I hope you are not getting too familiar with these children.”

My heart kicked.

“No, sir.”

“You don’t need to be familiar with them,” he said. “Do your mother’s work and go.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied quickly. “That is what I came to do.”

He nodded, but his eyes still stayed on me.

I walked into the compound, carrying my bag and my lies.

Chief Alabi was not around, as usual. Their mother was not around either. Even their other brother was nowhere to be seen. The house felt quieter than normal, like it was waiting to see what I would do.

When I entered the living room, nobody was there.

No Martins.

No Sikemi.

Just expensive chairs, polished floors, cold air, and the kind of silence that made you hear your own conscience if you were still willing to listen.

I started cleaning.

At least, that was the excuse I came with, so I had to honour it.

I swept the living room. I wiped surfaces that were already cleaner than some people’s plates. I arranged throw pillows that did not need arranging. I cleaned the centre table, then cleaned it again because my eyes kept going to the stairs.

Every little sound made me look up.

A door creaked upstairs; I paused.

Nothing.

Footsteps sounded somewhere; I froze.

Still nothing.

I moved to the kitchen and cleaned there too. I washed cups. I wiped counters. I rinsed things that probably had already been rinsed by someone else. All the while, my mind was not on the work.

My mind was upstairs.

Where was Sikemi?

Where was Martins?

Why had nobody come down?

After some time, I told myself I would just go upstairs to check if there were rooms to clean. That was all.

Just rooms.

Just cleaning.

The lie was getting weaker, but I was still using it.

I climbed the stairs slowly, listening for any sound. I got to the corridor and stood for a moment. My heart was beating faster now, not because I was afraid of being caught, but because I wanted to be found.

That was how bad it had become.

I went to Martins’ room first and knocked.

“Come in,” he said from inside.

I opened the door.

Martins was lying on his bed, scrolling through his phone like the world had been created mainly for his entertainment. He looked up and smiled.

“Hey, bro,” he said. “How are you doing?”

Bro.

From Pastor Matthew to bro.

I did not know whether that was promotion or demotion.

“I’m fine,” I said.

He sat up slightly. “You came to clean?”

“Yes,” I replied, then quickly added, “I just wanted to know if your room needs cleaning.”

He smiled in a way that made me know he did not believe me.

“Matthew,” he said, “you can ask what you came to ask.”

My throat went dry.

I stepped further into the room.

“I don’t know if this is out of line,” I began, trying to sound mature, “but I just wanted to ask about the delivery.”

Martins’ smile widened.

“I mean,” I continued, “I didn’t get any message after the first one. I checked. I refreshed. I thought maybe I did something wrong or maybe the client complained. I just wanted to know if everything was okay.”

“Calm down,” Martins said, laughing softly. “Guy, calm down.”

I did not like the way he laughed.

It was not mocking exactly, but it was close.

“You did well,” he said. “The delivery was perfect.”

“So why no other delivery?”

He leaned back against his pillow and studied me for a few seconds.

“I think this is the time I tell you the truth about the whole shoe thing.”

My body became still.

“The truth?”

“Yes.”

“What truth?”

Martins sat up properly now.

“It is not really about shoes.”

To be continued…

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

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