Chapter 3
2331 Words
Paul stepped into the house, his face still flushed from the heat outside. He dropped his keys on the shelf and kicked off his dusty shoes.
“Can you imagine?” he said, shaking his head. “The taxi driver dropped me halfway down the road. Said his fuel was almost finished. I had to walk the rest.”
Before Mercy could reply, the front door flew open.
Finn walked in, breath slightly uneven, like he hadn’t stopped moving since he left the party.
Mercy looked up quickly. “Is everything okay?”
He nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Sure.”
She stood, wiping her hands on the apron tied around her waist. “So, how did the party go?”
Finn let his bag slide from his shoulder as he moved toward his room. “It was going well… then people started losing their phones. Things got strange. Real fast.”
Mercy laughed. “That’s a party for you. There’s always wahala.”
Paul chuckled too. “My love, do you remember that day—five years ago—when I first opened my mechanic shop?”
But Finn wasn’t listening.
He stood there, halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, his eyes fixed on nothing. The room around him blurred as the memory crashed in like a wave: the guy at the party slipping something shiny—maybe a gun—into his back pocket. Elias giving that strange nod.
His parents' voices faded into a background hum. Their mouths moved, but he couldn’t hear them. He only saw them. Smiling. Laughing. Talking about a story from another lifetime.
Then Mercy’s voice pierced through.
“So where’s the money from the drawing?”
Finn blinked, snapping back to the present. He turned, still gripping his shirt collar. “Mom, I haven’t even taken off my clothes yet. And you’re already asking me that?”
Mercy’s face twisted in disbelief. “Jesus Christ… Is he talking to me like that? Are you mad?!”
Paul stood up slowly from the chair. “Mercy, take it easy,” he said calmly. “Let him change first. He’ll bring the money when he’s ready.”
Finn didn’t say anything else. He picked up his bag and walked to his room, jaw tight, the echo of his mother’s voice still ringing in his ears.
--------
Peter groaned from the corner of the room, one eye swollen, his voice shaky.
“Ha… he’s crying. My whole body dey pain me, oh.”
Boss Man sat back in his chair, a cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling around his head like a crown. His eyes were sharp, cold. He spoke slowly, like someone used to being listened to.
“You see all of you,” he said, exhaling smoke. “I’ve been thinking. All this small-time rubbish—pickpocketing, grabbing phones—it’s nonsense. It doesn’t bring in money. Serious money.”
Peter coughed and winced.
Boss Man leaned forward. “We’re moving to real business. Drugs. That’s the next level.”
His voice turned darker.
“This business? You all must work. Peter, Elias—both of you are the youngest here. If not for the fact that you stole from me, you wouldn't be in this mess.”
He pointed, the red tip of his cigarette glowing.
“You think I didn’t see it? I was walking on the road. Talking to Elias. And you, Peter, you were in the back, collecting my own money.”
He scoffed.
“Stone—didn’t I catch them with my own two eyes? Put them in the car boot like meat. These boys?” He chuckled low. “They’ll work for me until they die.”
Boss Man stood, pacing now.
“You people think you can run to your parents?” He laughed again, this time louder, bitter. “Your parents don’t even know where you are. You think you can report me? You think you can kill me?”
He pointed at himself.
“I am the law in this community. I am the federal.”
---
Back at home, Finn sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the ₦10,000 in his hand.
“That money… I wanted to use it to buy a shirt. Just one thing for myself.” He hissed through his teeth and dropped his head into his hands.
Finn sank onto the edge of his bed, the faint scent of the party still lingering on his clothes, mixing with the evening’s silence. His body ached, but his mind wandered back to that strange moment — the way Arlo had held his hand, the soft, hesitant voice asking for friendship, and the glint in his eyes that seemed to mean more than words.
His phone buzzed against the wooden table, vibrating softly. He glanced at the screen but didn’t reach for it immediately.
"It must be him... that boy," Finn whispered to himself, staring at the ceiling as if it held the answers. "What am I even supposed to say?"
The phone stopped ringing for a moment, only to light up again almost instantly. Finn let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head, as if caught between amusement and uncertainty.
"Barely enough," he muttered. "And here I am, wondering about a stranger's call like it’s more important than this."
The phone rang again, its persistence pulling at him in a way money never did.
"Maybe... I should just pick up," he thought, his thumb hovering over the green icon, heart pounding a little faster than it should.
A knock on the door.
He didn’t answer.
“Finn, it’s me—your mother.”
He stood slowly and walked to the door. Opened it. Without a word, he placed the money in her outstretched hand. She turned and walked away without saying thank you.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Finn stared at the empty space, jaw tight.
“s**t. f**k!”
He slammed his palm against the table, the echo ringing in the room.
The phone rang again. He exhaled slowly and finally swiped to answer.
“Hey... what’s wrong with you? Are you okay?” Arlo's voice came through, soft but laced with genuine concern.
Finn swallowed hard, his voice quieter than usual. “I’m not feeling okay... not emotionally. I had an argument with my mother. I don’t even know when I’ll be free.”
A brief silence hung between them before Arlo's voice softened further. “I’m sorry you're going through that. So... when are we going to have time for each other?”
Finn leaned against the wall, his mind spinning. He almost didn’t notice the question before answering, “Where do you stay?”
“Close to the hotel,” Arlo replied, his tone suddenly eager. “You know what? I’ll come and pick you up.”
Finn blinked in surprise. “Pick me up? You have a car?”
“Not really,” Arlo chuckled lightly, as if embarrassed, “but I’ll figure something out.”
Another moment passed, and then Arlo added, “You know what... if it’s about money — I can give you some, just give it to your mother. Maybe it’ll help sort things out.”
Finn’s heart ached a little at the offer, but his pride wouldn’t let him accept it so easily. “I can’t just take free things from a stranger. If I’m going to take anything... I must work for it.”
There was a pause before Arlo's voice dropped into a softer, almost playful tone. “But what are friends for? Let’s say the time you spend with me... that’ll be your work.”
Finn hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek, unsure whether to smile or worry. “You stay alone?” he finally asked, his voice curious but cautious.
-----
In the living room, Mercy folded the money into her purse.
“That boy must understand,” she said, almost to herself. “We’ve done a lot for him. Raised him. Fed him. Till this age. He should be grateful.”
The day began to fade. The house grew quieter.
Finn picked up a worn storybook from his desk. He lay on his bed, flipping pages slowly, letting the words blur his thoughts until night swallowed the room. Eventually, sleep came—heavy, dreamless.
---
The next morning, sunlight cut through the curtains. Paul was already dressed, keys in hand.
“I’m heading to the shop. Take care of yourself.”
He paused by the door.
“Oh—and I heard Tammy’s coming back from your sister’s place today.”
Mercy’s face turned.
“And you agreed to that? He should have stayed. We barely have enough food.”
Paul frowned. “You talk like you don’t love these children.”
She rolled her eyes. “Even Finn—”
“Mercy,” he cut in, voice low. “Don’t let your frustration turn to hate. They’re still our kids.”
Mercy fell silent.
Her eyes lost focus, drifting to a corner of the room. For a brief moment, everything around her faded—Paul’s voice, the noise outside, even her own breath. And in that quiet, something old returned.
A memory.
White walls. The smell of antiseptic. Her legs trembling as she sat on the hospital bed.
Doctor: “You’ve done multiple abortions. Honestly, if you keep on doing this, you won't be able to conceive again.”
His words were blunt, final.
Mercy: crying, her hands clenched in her lap. Her voice barely escaped her lips.
The memory shifted.
She was pregnant again.
But she had a miscarriage, and she aborted Tammy
Then Finn came.
She wanted to keep him, but the shame was heavier than her body could carry. So she hid. Stayed at a friend’s house for weeks, barely speaking to anyone. Avoided Paul. Avoided herself. And when the pain passed, and the child came… she returned home, holding a baby in her arms like nothing had happened.
It happened again.
Twice.
She never told anyone.
Not even Paul.
The memory snapped shut like a door slamming. She blinked, eyes watery but empty.
---
Paul was grabbing his keys.
“I should be going,” he said. “I’ll be late.”
He left, the door closing softly behind him.
---
Elsewhere...
Arlo sat at the far edge of the sofa, arms folded, legs stretched out in front of him.
“You know when I told you that if I want something—I can get it?”
Sandra barely looked up from her phone. “Okay… what’s this about this time?”
He leaned in a little. “Back at the party—when you ditched me to dance with your boyfriend—I walked up to him. Just wanted to talk. Nothing heavy. But it happened... just like I imagined.”
He smiled, small and real.
“But the worst part is—”
The words stopped mid-sentence.
The door burst open.
Ben walked in like he owned the space. Tall, confident, eyes fixed on Sandra.
Sandra gasped. “Ha! My love! You’re here!”
Before Arlo could say a word, she was already up, arms wrapped around Ben, pulling him toward the couch.
Ben laughed and dropped into the chair, and she sat on his lap like it was home.
“I got you this,” Ben said, pulling out a sleek new phone. “You’ve been complaining you can barely call me.”
Sandra giggled, kissing him hard, fully, right there in front of Arlo—forgetting anyone else existed.
Arlo sat frozen, breath shallow.
Not a word left his lips.
-----
“Hey! Bring me the screwdriver—fast!” Paul called out, his voice echoing beneath the raised car.
His back was flat on the cold concrete floor of the workshop, only his legs visible from under the vehicle. A few greasy tools lay scattered beside him.
The boy he was working with rushed over, handing him the tool.
Just then, Paul paused.
Voices.
Raised. Heated.
Three young men just outside the compound gate. They were arguing—sharp, loud, angry. Paul could hear every word, and it didn’t sound good.
He slid out from under the car, wiping sweat from his face. He recognized one of the boys—his apprentice. The other two were in his face, shoving him, shouting.
“Hey!” Paul shouted. “What’s wrong with you boys? What are you doing with my boy?”
One of them turned sharply. “Oga, that one no concern you. Stay out of it.”
Before Paul could respond, a fist flew.
Crack.
His boy stumbled back, clutching his face. His left eye swelled instantly, red and puffy.
The boy tried to defend himself, swinging back, but he was outnumbered. The two boys circled him, pushing and hitting. He fought back, but it was messy, desperate—he was losing ground fast.
“I said stop that! Are you mad?!”
Paul stormed forward, grabbing one of the attackers by the wrist mid-swing and shoving him to the ground. The boy landed hard, groaning.
The other one lunged at Paul. They clashed—fists flying, grunts filling the air. Paul held his own, but age and exhaustion weighed on his arms.
Then, behind them—
One of the attackers darted to the side. His eyes locked on the screwdriver lying on the floor—the same one Paul had just used.
He picked it up.
And without hesitation, drove it straight into his chest.
A sickening thud. A gasp.
Blood gushed out, dark and fast.
The boy stumbled back, eyes wide, mouth opening as if to speak—but no sound came.
Unmoving.
The attacker froze. The other boy panicked.
In seconds, they grabbed the bloodied screwdriver and shoved it into the hand of the unconscious apprentice, then fled the scene—leaving chaos in their wake.
- Writer
