A New Name
1842 Words
The glass doors of First Commercial Bank didn’t open like regular doors. They didn’t creak or squeal or hesitate. They glided-polished, soundless, confident. The kind of doors that opened for people who belonged.
Samuel didn’t feel like one of those people.
He stood in front of them longer than he should have, adjusting his collar for the fifth time, pressing down invisible creases. His shirt was new clean but too stiff at the sleeves. His fingers fidgeted with the edges of the folder in his hand, the one carrying his ID, his invitation letter, and a CV he had rewritten over twenty times.
He exhaled into his palm. Checked his breath. Again. Then stepped forward.
The security guard barely acknowledged him as he passed through the metal detector. No greeting. No smile. Just a glance, and then the quiet hum of clearance.
Inside, everything was too white. Too still. The air smelled like success-polished marble, filtered chill, and invisible rules. His feet didn’t echo when he walked, but he felt the sound in his bones.
He found the reception desk after making one wrong turn. The woman behind it looked up briefly, then down at his folder like it didn’t belong on her table.
“You’re with the new intakes?” she asked, already typing.
“Yes. Samuel Akachukwu.”
She didn’t smile. Just gestured toward the elevator. “Second floor. HR will meet you there.”
And that was it.
No fanfare. No “welcome aboard.” Just protocol. Glass and protocol.
The elevator was fast, and too smooth, like it was swallowing gravity. Samuel stood near the back, trying not to sweat through his shirt. His reflection in the metallic wall stared back nervously.
When the doors slid open, a tall woman in a charcoal skirt suit stood waiting.
“I’m Miss Tobi,” she said. “Settle down, orientation starts now. No phones please. Let’s go.”
They followed her in silence. Six of them. Young. Dressed well. Groomed and sharp. Samuel noticed their shoes first—leather, confident, designer labels. His own were just decent. A gift from David, who had spent two nights fighting to afford them.
The session dragged. Company values. Structure. Branding. Mission statements read like commandments. Samuel nodded when the others nodded. Laughed when they did. Took notes even when he didn’t understand the point.
He didn’t want to be noticed.
Not yet.
He wasn’t here to impress anyone. He was here to survive.
That evening, back in Bariga, the air always smelled like pepper and survival.
David was already home by the time Samuel returned. He sat out on the small balcony with one leg on the railing, the other shaking restlessly. His lip was split again, knuckles taped. His hoodie was damp with sweat and dried blood.
Samuel dropped his bag and sighed.
“You fight or dance today?” he asked, jokingly.
David grinned. “Fought. Didn’t dance. Still won.”
They settled on the balcony, the sun melting into purple across the rooftops. The heat was finally retreating. Samuel stretched his legs out and groaned.
“You look like someone who just signed a million-dollar deal,” David teased.
“I look like someone who just sat through a TED Talk on company rules.”
They both laughed.
“You've eaten?” David asked.
“Not really.”
David disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a small pot of jollof rice. Just enough for two. Burnt slightly at the bottom.
They ate straight from the pot, passing the spoon back and forth, avoiding the charred parts.
It wasn’t a feast. But it felt like one.
Next morning, At FCB, Samuel was assigned to a tech pod. A team.
No one really welcomed him. Just a nod from a bespectacled man who barely looked up from his screen.
“Follow instructions,” the man said. “Don’t break anything.”
They were working on a small backend tool for a payment platform. Nothing revolutionary, but precise work. Samuel fumbled the first few hours. Missed a line of code. Pushed a bad update. Heart in his throat, he apologized quickly, then fixed it before anyone else noticed.
Nobody praised him.
But nobody yelled either.
By the time the office lights dimmed and screens began to shut down, he was the last one there. He sat quietly at his desk, the glow of his monitor reflecting on the glass.
When he finally left, he paused in front of the giant doors again. Stared at his own reflection, distorted, faint, and whispered under his breath:
“You belong here. Even if they don’t know it yet.”
Then came Thursday.
He was stepping out of the server room, holding an empty coffee cup when he saw her.
Lara.
She walked past in heels that didn’t make a sound. A navy dress. A brown leather bag. Her braids pulled back neatly. She didn’t see him. But others did.
“Good evening, Miss Lara,” someone muttered.
She responded with the kind of smile that was both polite and distant. The kind taught by finishing schools and housekeepers.
She walked like someone who had never known dust. Like someone born into ACs and chauffeur doors.
Samuel watched her for just a moment. Then he turned back to his desk.
Meanwhile, David had begun to stir dust.
Not loudly. Not recklessly. Just carefully.
He visited people from their past. Quiet people. Forgotten people. People who remembered.
He found Aunty Nene first, the woman who once braided hair outside the old church.
“I no dey near anything church again o,” she said, sweeping dust off her front steps. “Since that case, everybody keep mouth shut.”
David didn’t push. Just picked up a broom and swept with her. Dried mango leaves. Bottle caps. Silence.
Eventually, she spoke.
“Lawrence,” she said, barely louder than the wind. “He was around. Your father tried to chase him out. But he always came back.”
David’s hands paused. “Where is he now?”
She shook her head. “Disappeared. Like the devil.”
On Sunday night, the rain tapped gently on the roof.
Samuel sat cross-legged on the floor, debugging a side project. David was lying beside him with a notebook filled with scribbled names and crossed-out lines.
They spoke in fragments. Like always.
“You ever imagine what life would’ve been like if Dad didn’t... you know,” Samuel asked.
David didn’t look up. “Every damn day.”
Samuel rubbed his eyes. “You ever think we’re doing all this just to prove something?”
David chuckled. “Of course. But that’s the point, isn’t it?”
The next week, Samuel woke before dawn. Showered in the dark. Dressed quietly so he wouldn’t wake David.
The bus was packed as usual. Smelled of sweat and dreams.
By 7:15 a.m., he was already seated at FCB. Alone. Early.
He used the silence to work on last week’s bugs. Solved a loop issue before anyone else clocked in.
No one said anything.
But his team lead, walking past, gave him a brief nod.
That was enough.
Later, a girl with red braids, Aisha, leaned over.
“You fixed the Git loop?”
He nodded.
She smiled slightly. “Not bad.”
Samuel sat in the corner of the break room, poking half-heartedly at a meat-pie that tasted like it had lived too long in the glass. His phone was open to a code snippet he couldn’t focus on, his brain already fried from hours of staring at back-end errors.
The door swung open with a casual push, and Jide walked in like he always did, bottle of malt in one hand, black-framed glasses perched low on his nose, a quiet swagger in his step.
He spotted Samuel and grinned.
“Guy, you're always alone like say dem send you,” Jide said, heading straight for the microwave. “You dey dodge us?”
Samuel chuckled. “No be like that. I just like peace before the next bug shows up.”
“Peace keh? You go tire. This place go show you pepper. First two months here, I dey dream in JavaScript,” Jide replied, popping his malt open and dropping into the seat beside him.
“You still dey dream now?” Samuel asked, smiling.
“Now na SQL nightmares,” Jide said with a dramatic sigh. “You go reach that level soon. No worry.”
They both laughed. The tension in Samuel’s shoulders eased a bit.
“For real though,” Jide added, taking a swig of malt. “You sabi code sha. That API delay fix you pull last week? Solid. Even Aisha surprise. And that girl, nothing dey surprise her for here.”
“I just dey try survive,” Samuel replied. “Still dey learn.”
“We all dey learn,” Jide said, nodding. “Just don’t let this place swallow you. E get as e be.”
They sat in silence for a few seconds, watching two interns argue by the printer. The usual hum of office noise filled the space, keyboards clicking, footsteps overhead, a phone ringing somewhere far away.
“You from Bariga, right?” Jide asked.
“Yeah,” Samuel answered, glancing up.
“Me? Abule-Egba, born and raised. But Bariga people no dey carry last. I respect una hustle.”
Samuel gave a small smile. That kind of thing still felt strange, being recognized, even casually.
Jide leaned back, finishing off his malt.
“Anyway sha, anytime you need gist, come find me. Life no suppose too hard.”
Samuel nodded. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
Jide stood, stretching. “Na we dey here. Just no go break system, oh.”
Samuel laughed. “Only bend am small.”
That evening, Samuel got home before David.
He tried to cook, boiled yam and egg sauce. Managed not to burn it.
When David walked in, exhausted, he stared at the plate.
“You’re turning into a houseboy.”
Samuel shrugged. “You want to eat or talk?”
They ate slowly on the floor. TV humming low. Comfort thick in the room.
“You ever feel like this life is borrowed?” David asked suddenly. “Like… it can vanish any second?”
Samuel nodded. “Every day. But I hold it anyway.”
David looked at him.
“Good,” he said softly. “Hold it tight.”
On Sunday, they visited the old football field. Laughed. Remembered. Watched the neighborhood kids play with barefoot joy.
The silence on the walk home was golden. Not heavy.
But evening came.
And with it, a face from hell.
David spotted him near a patrol SUV. older, thicker, but still unmistakable.
Lawrence.
Grey in the beard now. But it was him.
David watched from behind a danfo, eyes fixed, body still.
And when the man vanished into a black jeep and pulled off into the fading light,
David whispered, “He’s here.”
- Writer
