NOVPUBKunle was scrolling through his phone, deep in thought, as the Lagos sun blazed mildly overhead. The cool air-conditioned atmosphere of the boutique gave little comfort from the warmth still clinging to their skin after the dusty ride from their bus stop. His phone buzzed once, twice, but he barely noticed. He was lost in his own world, thumbing between bank apps and his call history.
Then he heard it.
"Kunle! Kunle!"
The sharp, accusing tone broke through the silence of his thoughts. He blinked up quickly, slightly startled, his eyes locking with Sandra’s.
She stood there, arms crossed, a few clothing items in her hand, glaring at him with an expression that combined irritation and hurt. She wore a black crop top and high-waisted jeans, a soft-gloss pink on her lips, her wig curled perfectly to frame her slightly frowning face.
Seeing her expression, Kunle quickly dropped his phone onto the small bench beside him and stepped closer, his voice softening.
"Ah ah, sorry babe," he said awkwardly, trying to put on a smile as he reached out, resting a hand gently on the small of her back. "What’s wrong?"
Sandra didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she lowered her gaze to the clothes in her hand—a denim mini skirt and a pair of short jeans. When she finally spoke, her voice carried that classic tone women use when they’re both hurt and trying to remain composed.
"I was asking you about which one I should get," she said. "But you don’t even have my time."
Her words hung in the air like guilt wrapped in perfume. Kunle shook his head lightly and smiled again, this time more convincingly. He pulled her in sideways for a gentle half-hug.
"Sorry baby, sorry," he said, his voice warm. He nudged her playfully, hoping to melt the chill in her tone. "I was just calling someone. You have all my attention now, baby."
Sandra looked up at him, her face softening slightly. "Really?"
"Yes dear," he said, placing a quick peck on her forehead.
She smiled, her mood bouncing back like a rubber band. Her whole energy shifted as she quickly held up both items.
"Okay then, which one do you think I should get? This one," she raised the mini skirt, turning it around a bit, "is cute for when we’re just chilling or going out, you know, like that time we went to see your friend’s gig. But this one," she now held up the short jeans, "is good for casual days and I can wear it with that orange top you like."
Kunle nodded slightly, but his mind drifted again—his bank balance, the unfinished call with Daniel, the pressure of the job hunt, his mother’s next appointment...
"So... which one?" Sandra asked again.
"Pardon?"
Sandra’s face dropped.
"Again?!"
The boutique’s soft music and quiet ambiance seemed to pause.
"Kunle!" she snapped. "You’re not even listening. You said you were going to give me your full attention, but you’re not even here! What is it?!"
She turned, clearly frustrated, and began to walk toward the store entrance, shaking her head as she muttered something under her breath.
Kunle quickly caught up to her, gently grabbing her hand.
"Baby, no vex now. It’s not like that. Please, wait."
"So what is it then?!" she asked, halting and turning to face him. Her voice was high but not loud, just enough to show she was upset.
He looked into her eyes, and for a moment he saw not just anger, but care. She genuinely wanted his attention, his opinion.
He sighed, running a hand through his low-cut hair, then smiled.
"I was just thinking about how good you’d look in those clothes. That’s the truth. I couldn’t even pick because... you’d look mad in either one."
Sandra blinked. Her brows relaxed.
"Really?"
"Yes, na. I swear. In fact... how about I get you both?"
Her eyes lit up like Christmas lights.
"Awnn! Thanks baby!" she squealed, hugging him tightly, the clothes bunched awkwardly between them. She kissed his cheek, her mood completely transformed. "You’re the best."
Kunle gave a small, weary smile, patting her back as he hugged her. His heart was warm, but his mind buzzed with arithmetic.
"That would be forty thousand naira, sir," the clerk at the counter said, a soft, polite voice with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes.
Kunle’s eyes widened slightly. "Forty K?"
He turned his head slightly, as if trying to confirm he heard right. Sandra, standing beside him, leaned in and whispered.
"If it’s too much, I can go drop one, babe."
Kunle turned to her immediately, shaking his head.
"No no, it’s fine."
He pulled out his phone, the battered, cracked iPhone 6 he’d been using since university. The screen had a faint green line running down the middle, and the home button worked only if pressed just right.
He opened his bank app.
Balance: ₦435,728.00
It had been five months since that lucrative real estate deal that brought in a rare windfall: two million naira.
The first thing he did with it? Paid his landlord all the rent he owed, plus an advance for the next five months. The relief had been immediate. No more hiding, no more sneaking out the back gate.
Next, he took his mother to the hospital for her quarterly check-up. She had really needed it. Tests, medication, transport... it all added up. Nearly a million gone just like that.
Since then, the remaining money had been trickling away on upkeep: feeding, transport, airtime, the occasional dinner and dates like this. And now, forty thousand more.
He tapped the "Send" button. Transaction successful.
They packed the clothes, the boutique assistant folding them into a fancy paper bag as Kunle took it from her hands. They stepped outside together, the city breeze brushing lightly against their skin.
Sandra stretched slightly, then threw her arms around Kunle, kissing him again.
"Thank you so much, baby. This is really nice of you."
Kunle smiled, a bit more naturally this time, though his thoughts were far from the warmth of her kiss.
"Just wait here," Sandra said cheerfully. "Let me go call the bike."
She started walking ahead, calling out toward the nearby road.
"Also, that your phone is not good. It would be good to change it. Maybe something like an iPhone 12 or 13," she added, her voice fading as she walked further away.
Kunle stood still, clutching the boutique bag in one hand.
His mind was blank for a few seconds. Then came the weight again.
I can’t keep going like this, he thought.
Any time soon, the money would run out. He needed that job. Badly. The part-time real estate deals were drying up
The sun had started its lazy descent behind the crowded roofs of the Lagos slum, casting a warm golden hue over the uneven row of zinc-topped rooms that lined the narrow alleyways of the face-me-I-face-you compound. The sounds of children playing, radios blaring from inside rooms, and the occasional hiss of someone cooking with kerosene filled the air.
Kunle and Sandra alighted from the bike at the entrance of the compound. Kunle reached into his back pocket, pulling out a few crumpled naira notes and handing them to the bike man with a nod of gratitude. Sandra adjusted her sling bag and smiled, stretching her arms like someone returning to their comfort zone.
Just as they started walking in, a familiar voice rang out from the left side of the corridor where a wooden bench sat permanently rooted to the ground. Seated comfortably on the bench, with one leg crossed over the other and a walking stick leaned casually beside him, was the landlord—a wiry, old man with mischievous eyes and a half-toothless grin.
"Ah-ah! Latest couple in town! Daddy and mommy! My president and first lady have returned oh!" he said, his laughter crackling like dry firewood.
Sandra covered her face, chuckling shyly. Kunle just shook his head with a grin. "Good evening, sir."
The old man waved dismissively, still teasing. "Evening, how? You two are looking fresh like people that went to sign an ambassadorial deal. Kunle, Sandra, you both look too good together!"
As they made their way further in, three children ran towards them with the excitement of puppies spotting their owner. Two of them were toddlers with round faces and dust-covered legs, their clothes hanging loosely. The third was an older boy, perhaps around ten, wearing a torn Chelsea jersey and slippers that had seen better days.
Kunle squatted slightly, reaching into the nylon bag he was holding. He brought out three packs of biscuits and handed them to each child with a warm smile.
"Here, take these. Make sure you share properly," he said, his voice kind.
The children’s faces lit up like Christmas morning.
"Thank you, Uncle Kunle! Thank you, Aunty Sandra!" they chorused as they skipped away joyfully, two of them already tearing into the biscuits like treasure.
Kunle stood up and turned to the older boy. "Seun, how is my mother?"
Seun stood at attention, proud like a soldier delivering a report.
"She’s fine, sir. My mummy is with her now. She gave her the afternoon medicine and also made her pap."
Kunle nodded slowly, visibly relieved. "Okay then. You can go play. Just be careful."
"Yes, sir!" Seun said before disappearing down the corridor after his friends.
The landlord, who had been observing everything with an amused grin, tapped his cane twice on the concrete.
"You bought snacks for the children, but the elders are here too. I also have a sweet tooth, you know?"
Kunle laughed lightly. The old man had changed. Ever since Kunle paid not only the current rent but also the next five months in advance, the man had transformed from the cranky, loud-mouthed watchdog of the compound to a smiling, teasing neighbor. Gone were the constant shouts of "Who left the light on?!", "Sandra! Close that door!", and "Kunle! Your visitor is talking too loud!". Now, he complimented them, even called Sandra "our wife".
Kunle turned toward him, eyes twinkling. "Ah landlord, it’s just for the kids. Another time, sir."
"Hmm. No problem. I’m watching you though," the old man replied, waving them off with a smile.
As they stepped closer to their room—the second on the left in the long line of single rooms facing each other—three shirtless young men leaned casually against the wall, a half-filled bowl of soaked garri resting beside them. Each one of them looked like a caricature of Lagos hustle: lean, with mischief brimming in their eyes and the kind of permanent smirk that could either mean friendliness or trouble.
One of them had dyed his hair blond in patches; the other had his trousers hanging dangerously low. The third, Samuel, the unofficial leader of the trio, was balancing a spoon in one hand and his phone in the other.
"Ah! Sandra is back! Wifey of the year!" Samuel called out with exaggerated glee.
The one with blond hair added, "Look at how Kunle is guarding her like she’s a diamond being smuggled."
Sandra rolled her eyes. "Your mouth will be the death of you, Samuel. You haven’t even bathed today and you’re talking."
Samuel dropped his spoon dramatically. "Ah! You’ve wounded me! What did I do again now? I’m your neighbor, Sandra baby!"
Kunle chuckled, clearly used to the exchange. The boys were never mean-spirited—their banter was part of the compound’s daily rhythm.
The second guy, whose nickname was Flex, chimed in, "Don’t be upset, Sandra, we’re only joking. You shine like the morning sun—we’re just admiring from a distance."
"Admire your useless destiny," Sandra shot back, walking past them with sass. "You’ll admire until your neck starts hurting. Nonsense boys."
They all burst into laughter.
Kunle, still laughing, held Sandra’s arm gently. "Ignore them, babe, let’s go inside."
As they reached their door, Samuel stood up, suddenly serious.
"Kunle wait. Before you go, let’s enter our room. I want to tell you something."
Kunle narrowed his eyes slightly. "Okay, no problem."
He turned to Sandra, who was already fumbling with the key.
"Babe, I’ll be right back. Let me hear what they want to say."
Sandra pouted dramatically, her tone playful. "Ah-ah, you’re leaving me already? I just started missing you."
Kunle grinned and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "I’ll be back soon."
The boys hooted.
"Wow! Kunle is in love oh! Look at them doing Netflix and lips," Flex shouted.
"Exactly! He’ll soon take her to Shoprite to buy a ring," Samuel added, laughing.
Sandra turned back with a smirk. "Keep talking. One day you people will grow some sense."
With that, she slipped into their room and slammed the door playfully.
Kunle shook his head, still smiling as he turned to the guys. "Alright, what’s going on?"
As he took a step towards their own room—three doors down from his—a loud voice interrupted.
"Kunle! Kunle, I beg you in the name of God, don’t start following those boys who have no direction! Don’t let them ruin your future!"
It was the landlord again.
The three guys burst into mock protests.
"Ah-ah landlord! Is that how you’re painting us? We’re respectable young men!" Flex shouted.
"We’re hustling o! We’re freelancers and content creators," the blond guy added, making Kunle laugh.
Kunle turned back to the old man, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Don’t worry sir, we just want to talk a bit. I hear you."
"Hmm. Make sure it’s just talk. Those boys don’t have a future plan," the landlord muttered, shaking his head as he retreated to his bench.
Kunle turned back to his guys, his expression curious now. "Alright, let’s go inside. What’s going on?"
The room was dimly lit by a single bulb hanging loosely from the ceiling, casting warm shadows against the faded blue walls. An old ceiling fan creaked overhead, barely keeping the heat at bay. Laughter bounced off the walls as the boys gathered around a dusty plasma TV, shouting over each other as a fierce match of FIFA 20 played out.
The PlayStation 3 console hummed like it had seen better days, and two controllers were tightly gripped—one by Kunle, who sat cross-legged on a threadbare rug, and the other by Bello, a tall, dark-skinned Hausa boy with quick fingers and quicker wit.
"Goal! Ha!" Bello jumped to his feet, spinning dramatically. "Did you see that? That finesse shot? You should retire, Kunle!"
Kunle groaned, dropping the controller. "This game is rigged, I swear."
The others burst into laughter.
Samuel, the chubby Yoruba boy with a perpetually wide grin, leaned back into a plastic chair and chuckled. "No, Kunle, it’s not rigged. You’re just terrible."
Kunle shot him a dirty look. "I will slap you."
Chijioke, lean and quick-tongued with dreadlocks that bounced when he laughed, was sipping a sachet of water. "Forget the game abeg. Kunle, what’s really going on with you and that Sandra girl?"
The room buzzed with fresh interest.
"Abi o!" Samuel said. "I’ve been meaning to ask. Are you even happy with her? You don’t talk about her much."
Kunle hesitated, then smirked. "She’s... fun."
"Fun?" Bello echoed, snorting. "What does that even mean?"
Chijioke leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "Wait, how did this even start? You people were not even talking like that before. Then suddenly... relationship?"
Kunle shrugged, avoiding their gazes, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Honestly, I don’t even know how it started."
Samuel cackled. "I know how it started."
Everyone turned.
Kunle rolled his eyes. "Here we go."
"It started when Kunle got that money. All of a sudden—bam!—Sandra started noticing him."
Bello laughed so hard he fell sideways. "That’s it! Money is the love language!"
"Facts," Chijioke added, pointing. "You got soft, bro. Sandra saw you eating chicken wings at Chicken Republic and she said, ’God, when?’"
They all howled. Kunle buried his face in his palm, smiling reluctantly.
"If it were me," Chijioke said, recovering from laughter, "and I had money? I swear I wouldn’t blame myself either. I’d move to Sandra too."
Samuel clutched his stomach. "With that her shape? My brother..."
"Her backside is not normal," Bello added, grinning like a devil. "Guy, Kunle... be honest. How is it?"
Kunle looked up, pretending to be confused. "How is what?"
Bello raised his eyebrows and mimicked an exaggerated curve with his hands. "You know exactly what I mean. Don’t dull. How is the sex?"
The room erupted again.
"You’re mad!" Kunle shouted, throwing a throw pillow at him.
Bello ducked, laughing. "Answer us, now! We are your brothers!"
"God punish all of you!" Kunle said, chuckling. "Let a man enjoy his relationship in peace!"
Chijioke was wiping tears from his eyes. "This is not peace. This is war! You can’t be eating and not share stories."
The teasing went on, full of laughter, slaps on the back, and side comments. It was the kind of evening that reminded them they still had youth on their side, that laughter—despite the poverty—was free and in abundance.
But after a while, as the game reset and Bello handed the controller to Samuel, the mood slowly shifted. The volume on the TV lowered.
"You know this scamming thing doesn’t really pay, right?" Chijioke muttered, almost too quietly.
The room went quiet for a moment.
Samuel nodded slowly. "It’s true. You make money fast, yes. But you spend it fast too. You live on edge. And then one day... boom."
Kunle picked at the hem of his shorts. "I’ve been thinking about that too."
"Me too," Bello admitted. "It’s exhausting pretending to be someone else online. And the paranoia..."
Silence.
Kunle finally spoke up. "I met someone, actually. A rich guy. Daniel. I saw his car—G-Wagon. He said I should send my CV, that there was an opening in his friend’s company. I sent it for months now, but..."
"He didn’t get back?" Chijioke asked.
Kunle shook his head. "Nothing. I’ve called. Sent texts. He doesn’t even respond anymore."
Samuel leaned forward. "Maybe he just forgot, man. Rich people are like that. They’re always busy. Try calling again."
Bello nodded. "Yes. Sometimes they don’t remember until you remind them. You never know. That one call might be the one that clicks."
Kunle stared at them for a second, as if weighing their advice. Then he stood, dusting his shorts. "You people are right."
"Of course we are," Samuel said. "We’re wise men."
Kunle smiled faintly and passed the controller to Chijioke. "Take, continue the match. Let me try calling him again."
"Who are you calling?" Bello asked as he picked up a bottle of malt from the table.
"Is it not you people that said I should call him?" Kunle replied, unlocking his phone. "Daniel."
He pressed the call icon, bracing himself for another round of disappointment.
The phone rang once. Twice.
Then—it connected.
"Ah!" Kunle gasped, eyes widening.
Everyone froze. Samuel quickly lowered the volume on the TV.
Chijioke whispered, "He picked?"
Kunle nodded, flustered. "Shh..."
Kunle cleared his throat. "Good afternoon, Daniel. This is Kunle... Kunle Adedayo. After last time at the estate about the job I sent you, my CV... I don’t know if you remember—"
"Ah, Kunle!" Daniel’s voice came through, surprised. "I’m so sorry. My goodness. I completely forgot. I’ve been overwhelmed. I’m really sorry."
"No, no, it’s okay," Kunle said quickly. "I completely understand. I figured you’ve been very busy."
Daniel sighed. "You said you’re still looking, right?"
"Yes,. I’m very interested."
"Alright," Daniel said. "Can you send me your home address?"
Kunle blinked. "My address?"
Daniel chuckled. "Yes. Don’t worry. I’m just thinking of something. Might need it for logistics. Just trust me."
Kunle hesitated, then said, "Okay, then"
"I’ll see what I can do, Kunle," Daniel added. "Just wait. I promise I’ll find you something."
"Thank you so much, sir," Kunle said, breathless with gratitude. "Thank you, thank you. I really appreciate this."
"No problem at all. Take care."
As the call ended, Kunle was visibly vibrating with joy.
"He said he’ll find something!" he exclaimed.
The boys jumped up, shouting and clapping.
"Guy!" Samuel shouted. "Na like this e dey happen!"
Kunle laughed, practically bouncing. "And you! You’ve allowed that guy to score me!"
He snatched the controller from Chijioke mid-celebration, the excitement still running through him.
They went back to playing, loud and cheerful, victory dancing and yelling. The TV blared once more. But just as the mood settled into playful chaos—
KNOCK KNOCK.
A firm, commanding knock came from the front door.
They all paused.
Samuel called out, "Who is it?"
Silence.
Another knock.
"Enter!" Chijioke shouted, still focused on the game.
The door creaked open.
Two middle-aged men stepped in, dressed in plain clothing—jeans, button-down shirts, and sandals. They didn’t look like visitors or neighbors.
The game paused. The boys looked up, confusion on their faces.
Kunle stood slowly. "Good evening..."
One of the men spoke, calm but firm. "We’re looking for a Kunle Adedayo."
The room went completely still.
Samuel’s face hardened. "Why?"
The men exchanged a look. Then one of them pulled out an ID badge and flipped it briefly.
"We’re from the Nigeria Police Force," the man said coolly. "We’re here to arrest him."
