THE ILLUSION OF PERFECTION 16

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.

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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 like a dream from a past life. Here, he was just another man waiting for a miracle in a place where miracles were expensive. 

His body shook—not from the cold, but from the weight of the humiliation which felt like a physical load on his back. The shame cut deeper than the fear of being discarded for a crime he did not commit. Tayo's shoulders slumped and the tears finally broke through his defenses, quiet but heavy.

“Na him!”

The voice was rough, laced with menace. Tayo’s head snapped up. His ears strained. He turned slowly and realization hit him with lethal force—he was in the same cell with the area boys.

 Tayo's heart picked up speed, hammering against his rib as if it was eager to jump out of his chest. The cell suddenly shrank and the growing darkness gathered teeth. Shadows shifted against the cracked walls as other eyes sharp with hunger and hatred glared at him. 

One of them, a man with a jagged scar running down his cheek like a dried-up riverbed slowly rose from his position at the far end of the cell. His scar caught the weak light leaking from the corridor bulb and recognition lit his face like firewood catching flame, his eyes narrowed.

“Na him.” The man said, his voice a low, predatory growl. “Na that guy wey dey form big man that night. Wey no buy us drinks.”

Tayo’s heart kicked against his ribs. “No—no sir,” he said quickly, shaking his head, his voice thin. “You dey mistake me with someone else. No be me.”

But the others were already circling, muttering, nodding, feeding off the accusation.