Tayo jerked awake, his singlet soaked through with sweat that smelled of salt and the lingering scent of the police cell—he had fallen asleep on the bed without a shower. Chest heaving, he scrambled to sit up, eyes wide with terror until they landed on the two sagging wooden chairs in the corner. They were relics of a better time, but today Tayo stared at them with relief as they pulled him back from the nightmare of that cold dark cell.  Shielding his eyes from the harsh and unapologetic morning light filtering through the dusty louvers of his Lagos apartment, Tayo took deep steadying breaths to calm his racing pulse before falling back onto the mattress.  Wondering what time it was, he turned to his side and frowned as the hollow stillness of the apartment suddenly felt suffocating. It was the kind of silence that only existed when you had no family, no friends, no phone, no data, no credit, and no way of connecting with the world. It gnawed at him and worsened his mounting ...

The street lights formed streaks of color across the car window as they sped towards home, away from the nightmare of the police station. U nlike normal Lagos taxis, the car smelled of new leather while the mild fragrance of an air freshener  clung to the air the way fear still clung to Tayo’s skin. Tayo sat rigid, his shoulders pressed back against the seat  like someone had poured cement down his spine .  His hands were clenched in his lap, fingers locked so tightly he could feel his pulse.  He didn’t trust his hands. They were still shaking after the shock of the arrest, and the horror of being locked up in the dark cell with the area boys. His mind drifted to his call earlier that night —the one he never thought he’d make.  In that desperate moment,  pride had been forgotten as he reached out like a drowning man  to the one person he had disappointed, ignored and even walked away from — Nadia. 

Tayo pressed the phone to his ear, breath held as his heart thudded against his chest like a fist hammering on a locked door. One ring.   Two.   Three. Four. Then the line clicked into a dead empty silence that felt more violent than a hang-up. Tayo pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at the bright screen as if it had betrayed him. Then he frantically dialed again. And again. Each ring stretched longer than the last, a rhythmic taunt, dragging his hope to the limit.  "Deji, pick your call…  abeg ," he whispered, his voice quivering with desperation. 

  “Guy, na you,” the man insisted, stepping closer, his breath smelling of bitter herbs and hunger. “Fine suit. Big boy life. You dey ride that black jeep like say na your papa own this Lagos. You don pay your tax?”  Tayo backed into the cold iron, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The walls of the cell seemed to shrink further, the heat of their bodies pressing in on him. He could feel the violence brewing, gathering strength, the beating waiting to be born. His ribs still ached from the rough-handling of the arrest and the earlier fall, so Tayo knew he wouldn’t survive a beating from men who had nothing left to lose.  The clang of metal against metal startled the men and their eyes darted toward the cell door which instantly flew open. The harsh, yellow glare of the lone bulb on the corridor flooded the darkness as a young officer stepped inside, his shadow cutting through the tension. His voice cracked the air. “Wetin dey happen here?” The men straightened, h...

Deji shed the silk robe, letting it pool at his feet like a discarded skin. He hastily pulled on a sleek black designer tracksuit — the quiet armor of a man who handled dirt without ever staining his hands. He was a practitioner of violence by proxy, a man who slept soundly while others bled on his behalf. He didn't bother with the mirror this time. He didn’t need to see his reflection to know the expression he wore: the look of a man who could smell a trap before it snapped, who anticipated the noose before it even tightened. "You don't just vanish, Tayo,"  he hissed, his voice low and vibrating with barely restrained fury.  "Not when I’ve already spent the commission in my head and certainly not when the payment was about to hit." He strode to a hidden mini-safe tucked into the corner of the walk-in closet. After keying in a quick sequence of codes, the door clicked open. Reaching past stacks of bundled cash, he retrieved the "burner"— a phon...

Tayo watched helplessly as his designer suit, the last veneer of his carefully curated life, a life which commanded respect and admiration from his many online fans, was tossed aside like a useless rag. He was left bare, shivering in nothing but his boxers.  The jagged floor pierced into his barefeet as he was marched toward the iron mouth of the cell like a goat to slaughter. The moment he stepped in, the iron door slammed shut, its echo ringing like a funeral gong. For the first time since he learned how to stand tall in Lagos, the fire of his pride went cold and fear found him. The cell breathed decay. Sweat clung to the air, the smell of cheap tobacco scratched his throat as he gasped trying not to inhale the sour, sharp sting of urine stench that sat heavy in the air like a curse.  Tayo gripped the cold bars, like a man drowning, reaching for a branch. He tried to recall the  "Tayo brand," the popularity and ultimate wealth he'd craved like redemption but it felt...

Draining his glass, Deji returned to the bottle for the final dregs. He crossed to the full-length mirror and paused, studying himself.  The hustler staring back was formed by the rough streets of Lagos; sharpened by hunger, educated by desperation. 

Steam still rose from Deji’s skin as he stepped from the mahogany-rimmed jacuzzi. He caught his reflection in the steamed-up mirror and flexed. Briefly working a plush towel over his frame with lazy, practiced movements, he tossed it toward a laundry basket in the corner, narrowly missing the rim. Snagging a fresh one, he knotted it low on his hips and strode into the bedroom. The room was bathed in the cool, electronic glow of his open laptop as he approached his custom design desk with a sleek glass surface. The laptop screen was blinking, with notifications popping like gunfire. A closer look confirmed his suspicion—the upload was complete and the web was already ablaze, a chaotic rhythm of likes, stars, and comments surging in like unhinged tidal waves. Deji let out a sharp, jagged laugh. Unable to subdue his desire to celebrate, he reached for the wine bottle sweating on the glass table, tilting it until his glass nearly overflowed with the liquid gold. He swirled the drink, watch...

Tayo was yanked from the van, the force nearly making him stumble. He staggered into the dimly lit courtyard. The faded blue, yellow and green paint on the wall confirmed they were at a police station.  As they were lined up against the wall, his gaze swept over the building and the officers, darting frantically, searching for an opportunity, a familiar face—anything.  I have to get out of here. I have to make a call. I have to reach out to Deji.  This was just a terrible mix-up and there was no way he was spending the night there.

The van lurched forward, Tayo's head slammed against the cold, corrugated metal side. The impact sent a fresh spike of nausea through his already spinning head.  He was crammed tight; his designers suit a mockery of luxury pressed against the rough clothes of the men who had been fighting—the area boys he’d dismissed as insignificant and had so desperately tried to avoid. Their earlier aggression had dissolved into a sullen, simmering silence, punctuated only by heavy breathing and occasional low curses. The cold, grimy reality of the police van felt like a cruel unfunny joke. The thick stench of unwashed bodies, stale sweat, a hint of fear, and the metallic tang of something he could not place its source.

Tayo hesitated on the threshold of the compact, makeshift business center. The air inside was hot, tainted with gasoline fumes. A handful of rough-looking men dominated the space and their chatter was loud and sharp almost laced with agressive energy. They paused, their eyes briefly flicking over his expensive dark blue designer suit before returning to their intense conversation. Area boys, he concluded, a disgusted frown creasing his brow. Since embracing fame, he had surgically extract ed himself from this strata of society ensuring he had no reason to cross paths with these kinds of people. They were beneath his status. "But this is different" , he rationalized internally, his gaze shifting to the dead iPhone in his hand,  "all I need is Just a five-minute charge, enough to buy units online for my prepaid meter." Keeping his head down, he stepped inside and placed his phone on the counter. The sense of prickling unease in his chest was immediate but ...

Nadia stared at her reflection, nodding in approval at the simple ankara-trim knee-length gown she had chosen for the night. Singing a low tune, a recent hit track under her breath, she headed for the dining area. Her apartment, an inheritance from her late uncle, was usually a haven of quiet comfort, but tonight, the silence was replaced by the measured flow of  Sade’s  music filtering in from the concealed stereo speakers. She had earlier dressed her table, not just with care, but with the quiet ceremony of expectation. Two plates—one, the chipped ceramic she’d kept from her mother, bearing the weight of history; the other, a smooth new piece bought just hours ago on her way back from delivering client orders. They stood guard around a small vase of artificial flowers with deep red petals, a desperate splash of color.  A casual glance at the wall clock—a noisy, brass-framed relic that marked time with a distinct, sometimes annoying, klak-kl...