CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE “WHEN WRONG IS LOUD!”

© Opeyemi Akintunde
As Inspired by the Creative Word

I woke up very early the next morning, hoping I would find a way to go to the Alabis’ house under the guise of helping Mum. That was the plan. I would tell her I wanted to help her clean again, then I would use that opportunity to pick up the pills from Sikemi or Martins before school.

But when my eyes opened, I did not see the ceiling.

I saw my mother.

She was standing over me, staring down at me like someone who had been awake for hours, waiting for me to return from a place I had not yet gone physically.

I jumped back in fear.

“Mummy!” I screamed.

Mark woke up at the sound of my voice. Instead of asking what happened, he screamed, “Jesus!”

“Sit up, both of you,” Mum said.

Mark and I exchanged looks immediately, because we knew that whenever Mum woke us up for a conversation, something had gone wrong. This was not morning devotion. This was not “wake up and sweep.” This was not “why are your uniforms not ironed?”

This was a spiritual emergency.

We sat up.

I looked at Mark with eyes that said, ‘I hope you have not gone to run your mouth like a broken tap.’

He gave no response.

Mum sat in front of us in a simple house dress, her face serious, her eyes heavy with something more than anger.

Then she opened her mouth and quoted Scripture.

“Hebrews 3:7-8 says, ‘That is why the Holy Spirit says, Today when you hear His voice, don’t harden your hearts as Israel did when they rebelled, when they tested Me in the wilderness.’”

She paused and looked from Mark to me.

“Matthew. Mark. My spirit has been unsettled for days. What are you doing against the Lord?”

My heart dropped.

Mum continued, “Do not harden your heart if you have started rebelling. There is only one end the devil has for sponsoring rebellion: hell and destruction. Listen to me carefully. Rebellion may look good. It may look sweet, fascinating, and satisfying. It is like a feel-good pill that gets you high, but over time, it leads to destruction.”

At the mention of pill, my body froze.

Mark looked at me.

We both knew our mother so well. She probably had God’s personal phone number. Her spiritual Wi-Fi signal was very strong. She always received secrets from God. I was almost sure that Scripture, “I will show you secret things you do not know,” was my mother’s daily declaration.

I gave Mark another look.

This one was clearer.

‘Keep your mouth shut.’

But Mark brushed it aside like my warning was a mosquito.

“Mom,” he said, “I think this conversation is for Matthew, not me.”

My blood went cold.

“He is the one about to share brain booster pills to our classmates,” Mark continued, “the ones he claims someone brought from abroad for him.”

I turned to him in disbelief.

Traitor.

That was the only word that came to my mind.

But when I saw Mum’s face, even the word disappeared. Confusion and instant fear crossed her face at the same time. She did not have to ask me many questions. All she did was turn towards me with a questioning look.

And I started spilling immediately.

“It is Martins and Sikemi that gave me the pills,” I said quickly. “They said it helps the brain, and when I started using it, it helped my memory.”

I tried to package the truth in a way that would not reveal the whole truth. I did not mention the forced pill. I did not mention the kiss. I did not mention the Airbnb. I did not mention the ₦250,000. I did not mention that I had already asked for fifty to one hundred pills for my classmates.

I only gave her the part of the truth that made me look foolish, not wicked.

Mum rose slowly.

She was shaking.

She started pacing the room without saying anything, and that silence scared me more than shouting would have done. I watched her move from one end of the room to the other, her hand on her chest as if she was trying to calm down a pain inside her.

Eventually, she stopped and looked at me.

“How many of these pills have you taken?”

My throat tightened.

“Two,” I said.

That was the truth.

“Where are the rest?”

“I don’t have them,” I said quickly. “I was hoping I would go to their house today to pick up some for my classmates.”

Mum placed her hand on her head.

“Ha! Matthew has killed me.”

“Mummy…”

“Matthew,” she said, cutting me off, “do you realize those pills are drugs? Substances?”

She asked the question like she was hoping I was still her innocent son. Like she was praying I would say, “No, Mummy, I did not know,” and somehow, that would reduce the wound.

I did not want her looking more hurt than she already looked.

So I acted naive.

“No, Mummy. They are just supplements. Brain boosters.”

The slap landed before I could prepare for it.

A true African mother’s slap.

The kind that was not only meant to punish your cheek, but to reset your brain.

“Don’t be stupid!” she said, her voice breaking. “Martins and Sikemi are drug peddlers. They take and sell drugs.”

The room became still.

I stared at her.

Mark stared at her too.

Mum continued, her voice trembling with anger and fear. “I know how they run their business. I have overheard them several times when I am cleaning the rooms. They are very business-minded about it. They know what they are doing.”

My heart started beating in my ears.

“They start with one student at a time,” Mum said. “They lure in a less privileged boy or girl and make the person feel special. They become the person’s friend. The person sees it as a privilege. Then they introduce the person to the drugs. After that, they encourage the person to start doing drug logistics.”

I stopped breathing.

Mum was not guessing.

She was narrating my life.

“After one errand,” she continued, “where the person receives an unbelievable amount of money, they withdraw. They keep quiet. They wait. Then the person’s greed and desperation begin to speak. The person reaches out by himself or herself. That is when they encourage the person to become a mini dealer too.”

I could not move.

“They give the person free samples to share with friends, classmates, and even family members,” Mum said. “That way, when those ones get addicted, the person becomes their supplier.”

My hands became cold.

“Sikemi is usually the bait for boys,” Mum said. “Martins is usually the bait for girls. They pretend they are in love. They pretend they are helping. They pretend they see something special in you.”

The room blurred for a second.

I sat still in shock as my mother reeled out my life in the past few weeks as if she had been reading from a script.

Sikemi liking me.

Martins calling me responsible.

The package.

The money.

The silence after the first delivery.

My own desperation.

The offer to become more than a delivery boy.

The “brain booster” lie in class.

Everything.

It dawned on me slowly, painfully, shamefully.

I was not special.

I was not chosen.

I was not loved.

I was not the brilliant boy they believed in.

I was just another actor in their playbook.

And I had been playing my part very well.

To be continued…

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

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