Chapter 5 – The Exclusion
1438 Words
Darkness inside Elian's home was no longer nothing; it was a heavy, clammy thing. Since the dinner at the courtroom, there had descended a savage new silence. Adeshewa only replied in monosyllables when absolutely necessary to do so, her comings and goings violently contrasted to the violent realities. Tobe made an effort to avoid him, hanging out in his room or with other friends he hadn't introduced Elian to. Only Zola still pestered him, but even she made tentative advances, her little hand on his arm a question she didn't dare ask.
He lived like a ghost in his own existence, a presence that was tolerated but not perceived. He commuted to work, endured the sabotage and the scorn, and returned to this silent home, the routine grinding him down to powder. He lived in this state of numbed dissolution when the invitation, or rather the non-invitation, arrived.
It was a Tuesday night. He scrolled through his phone, a budget, slow device that reminded him constantly of his place, going through the motions to see if there were any work emails to command his dwindling attention. A pop-up appeared on a social media site he barely used, a throwback to a more optimistic time. It was a tag from Uche, a person he used to regard as his best friend.
His heart did a feeble, unreliable leap. Uche? They hadn't talked in over a year, not since Elian had refused to invest in a "can't-lose" import venture Uche had been trying to sell him on, a venture that smelled of fake customs documents and paid officials. Uche had called him a "coward" and a "fool." The friendship had cooled, then hardened.
With trembling hands, Elian pressed the alert. Not to a personal message. It led him to a public event page.
"VICTORIA ISLAND VIBES: Uche's Reunion Bash!"
The photo had been a professionally taken shot of glinting skyscrapers against the backdrop of a dying sun. The details were a sucker punch: This Saturday. 8 PM until Dawn. Exclusive Guestlist. Valet Parking Available. The location was a penthouse loft in one of Victoria Island's priciest towers, a world of mirrored glass and money that seemed as distant as the moon.
He wasn't invited. No private note, no invitation, no guest of honor. Only this public page, and Uche had personally tagged him. Why? A mistake? A joke gone sour?
He tapped the growing list of guests. Name after name rolled past, a virtual roll call of his past. There was Kemi, whom he'd championed through her divorce; now she owned a successful boutique. There was Segun, his grizzled university roommate turned mid-tier politician who wore only designer agbadas. There was Bola, Chidi, Ngozi… all the people he had grown up with, shared dreams with, all of whom were now conveniently patronized on Uche's "exclusive" list. They had all taken the raft and swum on the calm, thriving waters as he perished in his cathedral of rock.
The treachery was a sharp, cold needle, piercing the numbing shell he had constructed around his heart. This was not the rough, professional sabotage of Bello and Adekunle. This was personal, precise, and calculated to cause maximum shame.
Saturday night arrived. Elian was at home, trying to fix a leaky kitchen faucet with a rusty wrench. Adeshewa was at the market, filling in late shifts for Mrs. Chukwu. Tobe was away. Zola was flipping through a cartoon on a tiny, grainy tablet. The banality of the scene was a lie. His entire presence focused on the phone on the counter, an immobile, malignant seer.
9 PM, the first photo. A group shot, Uche in the center, his arm thrown over smiling Segun. They were standing on a large patio, the Lagos cityscape glittering behind them like a bed of jewels. Both men wore the same, absurdly expensive-looking gold watches.
Elian's thumb lingered on the phone screen. Part of him screamed to put the phone away, to safeguard himself from the pain. But there was another, more brutal part, the one that must see the intensity of his devastation, that compelled him to scroll.
The dam broke. Image after image, clip after clip, poured into the feed, a live-action movie of his loneliness.
Kemi: "The mood is right! Good music, good people! #UchesBash #VictoriaIslandLife" – a video of a DJ playing on a deck overlooking the sea, amidst smiling, dancing silhouettes.
Chidi: "When the squad is reunited! Love only." – a photo of ten guys, all of whom Elian had known, hoisting glasses of champagne. In the background, a shiny, silver grille of a new Mercedes was seen.
Bola: "Wow, this view though! Lagos is quite lovely from up here." – a panoramic view shot of the penthouse, which Elian had only ever seen in movies.
He scrolled through each of them, his face a granite mask, but his heart flayed alive. He saw the effortless caresses, the laughter, the shared history playing out without him. He saw the proof of their victory in the fit of their clothes, the shine of their jewelry, the simple, unadulterated extravagance of their surroundings. They had not so much left him behind as they were celebrating the distance.
And then he caught sight of it. A video by Uche himself. It was a rowdy, tipsy clip. Uche was filming, panning across a room full of people lying on white leather couches.
"Look at us!" Uche exclaimed in a joyful slur. "We did it! We are the ones who said yes to life!" The camera panned, and for a brief moment, it stopped on a framed photo on a bedside table. It was an old, grainy university reunion one. A younger, hopeful Elian was in the center of the group, arm around Uche. They both laughed.
Uche’s voice came back, sharp and clear. “Look! Remember him? Elian Athen? The holy man! The one too pure for our little schemes.” The crowd around him erupted in laughter. Someone shouted, “The fallen professional!”
The camera panned in on the old photo, on Elian's pure, smiling face. "He sits in his run-down apartment in Bariga right now, counting his morals!" Uche bragged. "We invited the real ones tonight. The ones who understand the way the world works. To succeed! To those who dare take it!
The video had ended. Elian sat on the kitchen floor, the wrench still grasped in his hand. The silence in his modest home was now deafening, intensified by the lingering echoes of their laughter from a distant world. Each giggle, each cheer, each clinking glass from those videos was an infinitesimal, precise scalpel, eroding shavings of his soul.
This treachery was not the same kind of flame. Starvation was a physical, base ache. Poverty was a grinding, chronic concern. But this? This was a h*******t of the soul. This was a conscious removal of his humanity, his belonging to the human family. They weren't just excluding him; they were making his absence, his struggle, his unyielding stance the joke, the cement for their new successful society. His honesty was the foil to which their depravity was all the more vivid.
He saw a comment on Uche's video by Segun, the politician: "Don't be so hard on him, Uche. The world has to have fools. They make everyone else good."
The phone slipped from Elian's grasp, ringing on the cement ground. He didn't pick it up. He curled his knees up to his chest, there on the cold kitchen floor, and rested his forehead against them. He didn't cry. The pain was too deep for crying. It was a parched, barren grief, an ash heap of bone and ash.
The flicker in his mind, the existence of the System, which had been a nagging throb, now became a cold, commanding pressure. The ghostly green text, which had been transient and indistinct, now burned with an abrupt, harsh precision behind closed eyes.
Social Betrayal Noted: Circle of Trust. Severity: Maximum.
Integrity Noted: In The Face Of Complete Ostracization. Purity: Absolute.
Catalyst Threshold Reached.
System of Moral Equilibrium… Online.
The words hung in the blackness of his mind, no longer a mysterious message but a final statement. The burning betrayal in his heart did not cease, but now augmented by something else: an icy, vast, and terrifying sense of purpose. Exclusion was complete. The last bridge was burned. And as he sat on the ground, utterly alone, Elian Athen finally understood. He was no longer the fellow pleading for a place at the table. He was the fellow that would turn the table over.
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- Writer
