CHAPTER SIXTEEN WHEN WRONG IS LOUD!

© Opeyemi Akintunde
As Inspired by the Creative Word

Martins called the so-called supplier of shoes right there in the car. He placed the phone on speaker and said, “Guy, I have someone for you.” There was a short pause on the other end before the person asked, “Who?” Martins looked at me with a smile and replied, “Matthew. Good school boy. Very responsible. He needs extra cash.”

Good school boy. Responsible. Needs extra cash. Those words should have made me proud, but for some reason, they made me feel like I was being described as a product. The voice on the phone asked a few questions, and Martins answered for me like he had known me all my life. “He is smart. He is clean. He is not troublesome. He will follow instructions. He is not greedy.” At that last one, Sikemi looked at me and smiled. I smiled back foolishly, because the pill was already doing what it knew how to do. My mind felt light. My confidence was rising. My fear was reducing in a way that should have frightened me, but instead, I felt ready. Ready for money. Ready for opportunity. Ready for my Harvard dream to finally stop looking like a testimony that had delayed for too long.

Martins ended the call and turned to me. “When do you want to deliver your first parcel?”

“Tomorrow,” I said immediately. I did not even think. The answer jumped out of my mouth like it had been waiting at the door.

Martins laughed. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Tomorrow is good.”

Sikemi smiled. “You are serious.”

“I am very serious.”

Martins nodded. “Okay. You will pick up one shoe delivery in the morning and drop it off on your way to school.”

“One?” I asked, leaning forward. “I can do two in the morning and maybe two in the evening.”

Martins and Sikemi burst into laughter. I frowned because I did not see what was funny. “What?”

“Calm down, Harvard,” Martins said, still laughing. “You have to prove yourself first.”

“Prove myself?”

“Yes,” he said. “If you deliver one well, the supplier will trust you with two. Then three. Later, you can even become a dealer yourself.”

Dealer.

The word fell out of his mouth and landed in the car like something that was not supposed to be heard. For a split second, the air changed. My eyes moved from Martins to Sikemi.

Sikemi quickly leaned in, smiling like she had caught a glass cup before it fell. “He means dealer of the shoes,” she said quickly. “Like you can buy directly from the manufacturers and then get other students to do logistics for you.”

Martins snapped his fingers. “Exactly.”

“That way,” Sikemi continued, “you will not only be making money for yourself. You will be empowering other young boys too.”

Empowering.

That word rescued everything. Dealer suddenly became entrepreneur. Package suddenly became opportunity. Logistics suddenly became vision. I nodded slowly and said, “That makes sense.” And again, shamefully, it did. Or maybe my sense had gone on break.

For the next thirty minutes, Martins and Sikemi spoke to me like they were redirecting my life. They spoke about rich people, exposure, networks, information, money, trust, and opportunity. They made poverty sound like a disease that could be cured by one bold decision. They made caution sound like fear. They made greed sound like ambition. And because my hunger had become louder than my discernment, I swallowed everything.

By the time I left them, I could not wait for morning. Martins told me the pickup and delivery details would be sent to my inbox around 4 a.m. Four a.m. Who sent shoe delivery details at 4 a.m.? The question came, but the excitement swallowed it. I got home that evening with my head full of calculations. Two hundred thousand. Maybe more. One delivery. Then two. Then three. Then one million. Then Harvard. Then a better life. Then people who had looked down on me would hear my name and adjust their chairs.

I slept, but not deeply. Every small sound woke me. The wall clock sounded too loud. Mark’s breathing sounded too loud. Even the silence sounded loud. By 3:30 a.m., my eyes opened. By 3:45 a.m., I was pretending to still be asleep. By 4:00 a.m., I could not pretend anymore. Dad’s phone was plugged in the living room, so I crept out of the room carefully. The house was dark and quiet. Everybody was asleep. My heart was beating like a thief’s own, which was funny because thieves were probably calmer than me at that moment.

I picked Dad’s phone and signed in to my email. The message was already there. Pickup details. Delivery details. No long explanation. No greetings. No “Dear Matthew.” Just instructions. My chest tightened, but my excitement was stronger than my suspicion. I logged out, returned the phone exactly the way I met it, and went to have my bath.

By 5:30 a.m., I was ready to leave the house. Mark woke up just as I was adjusting my school bag, and he looked at me with that his questioning look. Not a normal look. A judging look. The kind of look that already had conclusions before evidence arrived. I knew what he was thinking. He thought I was going to Sikemi’s place. Maybe I was not. Maybe I was. At that point, everything connected to Sikemi had become one big road, and I was walking on it willingly.

I did not owe Mark any explanation. That was what I told myself.

I went to Mum’s room and called her softly. “Mum.”

She turned. “Matthew?”

“I am going early to school,” I said. “I want to read before assembly.”

She looked surprised. It was a first, but it was not suspicious because I was a good boy. Good boys could wake up early to read. Good boys could leave home before everyone. Good boys could carry packages without being questioned. Good boys could lie and still be believed because their past obedience had become a credit facility.

Mum smiled faintly. “That is good. God will help you.”

“Amen.”

She reached under her pillow and gave me a little cash for transport. Ordinarily, that little cash would have felt like a billion naira in my hands. I would have thanked her with my whole chest. I might even have prostrated in my heart. But that morning, the money felt small. Too small. Almost like an insult to what I believed I was about to make. I hated that thought as soon as it came, but it came. I still collected the money with a humble face and said, “Thank you, Mum.” Then I left the house.

I got to the pickup location around 6:15 a.m. It was a quiet street with big houses and gates that looked like they had security guards even when nobody was standing there. I checked the address again, and then I saw a girl. She looked like a secondary school student. Clean uniform. Neat hair. Polished shoes. The kind of girl whose school bag probably cost more than my entire school term feeding plan. She came out of one of the rich houses holding a package.

The package looked premium. Very premium. Clean wrap. Designer bag. Firm box. It looked exactly like something expensive people would use to send expensive things to other expensive people. She handed it to me without greeting, without explanation, without even looking like this was strange. I was a novice, so I tried to ask, “Is there any other information I should—” but before I could finish, she had already turned and gone back into the house. The gate closed behind her.

I stood there with many questions. Was she the designer? Was she the supplier? Was she just another student like me? Was she also doing logistics? Or was she part of something I did not understand? I looked at the package again. It looked innocent. Too innocent. So I carried it and left.

The delivery location was not too far, but by the time I got there, something in me began to feel uncomfortable. It was an Airbnb. Not a shop. Not an office. Not a boutique. An Airbnb. That was where things began to look suspicious. I checked the address again.

Correct.

I stood in front of the door for a few seconds, wondering if I should turn back. Then I knocked.

Once.

Twice.

The door opened almost immediately, as if someone had been waiting behind it.

“You are the delivery boy?” the guy at the door asked.

I nodded.

“Come in,” he said.

I hesitated.

Then I entered.

The living room looked like a different world. A worse version of the Alabi house. There were bottles everywhere. Smoke hung in the air like a tired spirit. Loud music was playing, but somehow, the people inside still looked empty. Some boys were laughing too loudly. Some girls were lying on the floor and couches like daughters whose parents were somewhere praying for them to come back home whole.

The sight entered my chest and sat there. These were people’s children. Somebody’s daughter. Somebody’s son. All wasted in a room that probably looked beautiful on the Airbnb app.

A young man who looked like he was hosting the whole madness came towards me. “You brought it?” he asked.

I nodded and handed him the package. He opened it in front of me, and truly, the shoes looked premium. Beautiful. Expensive. The kind of shoes that could make a poor boy feel like apologizing to his own footwear. But then he did something that made my eyes sharpen. He picked up one of the shoes and looked inside it carefully. Very carefully. Not like someone checking size. Not like someone admiring leather. More like someone confirming something. Then he nodded. Just once. A small nod. But I saw it.

“Thank you,” he said.

I swallowed. “Okay.”

“Your delivery fee has been paid to your dealer,” he added.

Dealer.

There it was again.

I stood there for a second, then reminded myself, dealer of shoes. Dealer of shoes. I left the apartment, but the nod followed me. What did that nod mean? Was he checking if the shoes were in good condition? Was he checking if the package was complete? Was there something inside the shoe? No. I rejected the thought. Not everything had to be dark. Maybe rich people checked expensive shoes differently. Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe Mark had infected me with suspicion.

By the time I got to school, I was earlier than Mark. That made things easier. No one noticed the missing time in between. No one knew I had already entered another world before morning assembly. Classes started, but my mind was not in class. All through the morning, I kept thinking about my logistics fee. Two hundred thousand. Maybe exactly two hundred. Maybe transport removed. Maybe delayed. Maybe fake. Maybe real.

By break time, I could not take it anymore. I went to Tunde and asked, “Guy, please, can I use your phone?”

Tunde looked at me. “Again?”

“Just small.”

He gave me the phone, but his eyes stayed on me longer than normal. I logged into my email quickly. My hands were sweating. Then I saw it.

A bank notification.

My eyes ran to the amount.

₦250,000.

I blinked. Then I blinked again.

Two hundred and fifty thousand naira. Not two hundred. Two hundred and fifty.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to jump. I wanted to run round the whole school field and announce that the Lord had done it, but I maintained composure. At least, I tried to. Inside me, a choir had started singing.

I quickly checked my social media for any message from Sikemi, and there it was.

**I am so proud of you. The dealer likes your delivery. He added a bonus. I will keep you posted on any new deliveries. Love you. Cheers to Harvard.**

Love you.

Cheers to Harvard.

I read it again. Then again. Then again.

My heart swelled.

The warning signs were there. Dealer. Airbnb. The nod. The strange room. The early morning pickup. The money that was too much for one delivery. But the money was loud. Sikemi’s message was louder. And my dream was now shouting louder than my conscience.

I logged out of Tunde’s phone and handed it back.

“Thank you,” I said.

Tunde stared at me. “Apostle Matthew, this your smiling is becoming suspicious.”

I tried to arrange my face. “Nothing.”

But something had happened. Something dangerous.

The first payment had entered.

And once wrong pays you well, it becomes harder to call it wrong.

To be continued…

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

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