BEHIND THE LIFE FRIEND LIES AND REVENGE

Chapter 1: The Hustle I was twenty-one when I learned that life does not ask before it teaches. But that day, I did not know that yet. That day, I was just a boy with a dream too big for his pocket. My name is Paul. Paul Adeyemi. Twenty-one years old, living in a small room in Surulere, Lagos, with a mattress on the floor, a plastic chair, and a dream that kept me awake at night. The dream was simple. I wanted money. Not to show off. Not to buy expensive things. I wanted to be financially able. I wanted to wake up in the morning and not calculate how much garri was left in the bag. I wanted to send money to Mama without checking my balance twice. I wanted to look at my life and say, I built this. But wanting is not the same as having. That morning, I sat on my plastic chair with a notebook open on my lap. On the page, I had written four words in capital letters: PAUL CLOTHING BRAND. Under it, I had drawn designs. T-shirts. Hoodies. Caps. Simple things, but clean. I had a eye for style—everyone said so. In secondary school, boys used to beg me to design their birthday shirts. In university, I dropped out in my second year because there was no money, but even then, I was the one who designed the department's end-of-year shirts. I could not sew. I could not afford a factory. But I could design, and I could hustle. So I started small. Three T-shirts. My cousin's printer. A table outside my room. That was my business. --- The first week, I sold zero. The second week, I sold one—to my neighbour's son, and only because his mother felt sorry for me. The third week, I sold three. Not because of pity this time, but because a girl in the compound wore one of my shirts to a party, and two of her friends wanted the same design. Small wins. That is what kept me alive. I would wake up at five, clean the table, arrange the shirts, and sit there until nightfall. Some days I made nothing. Some days I made two thousand naira. But every night, I wrote in my notebook. Not just sales. Lessons. Lesson: People buy the story, not just the cloth. Lesson: Do not price too low. Cheap things look cheap. Lesson: Smile. Even when nobody is buying. That notebook became my teacher. Life was talking to me, and I was listening. --- Then David came. David Okon. My best friend since JSS1. The kind of friend who knows your secrets, your fears, your dreams. The kind of friend you call brother. We grew up on the same street. We shared food when one of us had none. We fought boys together. We laughed together. When my father died, David sat with me for three days. He did not say much. He just sat there. That is the kind of friend he was. That evening, he came to my table. He looked at the shirts. He touched the fabric. He smiled. "Paul," he said. "You dey waste your talent for this small table." I laughed. "My brother, na the table wey I get." "No." He sat down beside me. "Listen. You get eye. You get style. But you no get money, and you no get connection. Me? I get both." That was true. David's uncle owned a shop in Balogun Market. David knew people. He moved differently. He always had small money—not because he worked, but because he knew how to talk to people. "What are you saying?" I asked. He looked me in the eye. "Let us do this together. You design. I sell. I bring customers. We split the profit. Fifty-fifty." I should have thought about it. I should have asked questions. But this was David. My brother. "Fifty-fifty?" I said. He nodded. "Fifty-fifty." I shook his hand. That night, I could not sleep. But this time, it was not worry. It was hope. --- I did not know then that the same hand I shook that night would one day empty my account. But life was not done teaching me. It had only just begun. --- End of Chapter 1