Chapter 4 – Under the Neem Tree
758 Words
Dayo
The workshop smells of clay, dust, and sweat, three things I’ve learned to love. They’re the scent of work that matters.
Under the neem tree behind our compound, ten kids crouch over rough tables, shaping small figures out of red earth. Their laughter competes with the buzz of motorbikes on the street outside the fence.
“Gently, Musa,” I call out. “You don’t fight the clay. You guide it.”
He grins, a gap where his front tooth used to be. “Like you guide us, oga?”
“Exactly,” I say, smiling despite myself.
A year ago, this place was an abandoned lot. Now it’s the headquarters of Adebayo Initiative, half an art studio, half a community center, all ambition. We teach craft, business basics, and self-worth. The goal is simple: make sure no one from this neighborhood feels invisible again.
My phone buzzes with a reminder. Meeting with Nuhu Holdings, 10 a.m.
I stare at the screen.
That name.
That empire.
Nuhu Holdings represents everything I’ve spent my adult life rejecting: old money, old men, old corruption. But their CSR division just approved a partnership proposal with us, and my board insists I handle it personally.
If we get their funding, we can build five new centers across the North, so I can’t say no.
Still, my stomach tightens. Deals with the powerful come with invisible costs.
A sudden gust sends clay dust swirling. I brush it from my arms and glance toward the road. A sleek black car slows near the gate, its engine too smooth for this street. Even from here, it looks out of place, like a diamond dropped in mud.
Tunde, my assistant, jogs over. “They’ve arrived early, sir.”
“Of course they have,” I mutter, wiping my hands on a rag. “Make sure the kids clear the tables. And no one calls me ‘sir’ in front of them, understood?”
He nods, grinning. “Yes, Dayo.”
By the time the car doors open, I’ve straightened my shirt and wiped the worst of the dust from my jeans. Two Nuhu staff step out first, all polished smiles. Then she emerges.
Rukayat Nuhu.
I recognize her instantly. She was at that London conference last year, the one where I accused the elite of playing god with charity money. She’d sat in the front row, chin high, eyes cool enough to freeze a room.
Now she’s standing on my soil, in a cream blouse that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. The sunlight hits the gold at her wrist and sends a shard of light straight into my eyes.
“Mr. Adebayo?” she says, offering a polite smile.
“Dayo,” I correct, shaking her hand. Her palm is soft, her grip controlled. “Welcome to the Initiative.”
Her gaze sweeps the compound's cracked walls, handmade benches, and children giggling as they hide their clay figures. “It’s… humble,” she says carefully.
“It’s real,” I reply.
A flicker passes through her eyes, too quick to name.
We move under the neem tree where I’ve set up chairs and bottled water. The shade filters sunlight into green-gold patches. I give my presentation on our programs, our numbers, and the impact we’re making. She listens, head tilted slightly, expression unreadable.
When I finish, she sets her tablet down. “You’re doing good work,” she says. “But good work still needs structure. Accountability. Brand alignment.”
“Structure?” I lean forward. “These kids have structure, Rukayat. It’s called survival. What they need is opportunity.”
Something sharp flashes in her eyes, offense, or maybe recognition. “Opportunity comes with responsibility. And investors prefer order.”
“Investors,” I echo. “Right. Because image is everything.”
Her smile tightens. “For people in my world, yes.”
We stare at each other across the table, the air thick with heat and challenge. The kids peek from behind the wall, whispering. Tunde coughs nervously.
Finally, she stands, smoothing her blouse. “We’ll review your proposal further. Thank you for your time.”
“Anytime,” I say, even though I mean the opposite.
Her perfume lingers after she leaves something elegant, foreign, impossible to ignore.
Tunde whistles. “She’s beautiful.”
“Beautiful,” I mutter, picking up a lump of clay, “and dangerous.”
I press my thumb into the clay, shaping it until the hard edges yield.
Maybe beauty isn’t supposed to be safe.
- Writer
