CHAPTER 14 : THE SECOND SON
1001 Words
(Olumide POV)
I wake up before my alarm.
Not because I’m disciplined.
Because I’m used to tension.
You can feel it in this house even when everyone is asleep. Like the walls are waiting for something to go wrong.
My room is small compared to my brother’s old one.
His door is still closed down the hallway.
Trophies still inside.
Medals still hanging.
Pictures of him in football jerseys taped neatly to the wall.
Nobody removed them when he left for Spain.
They say it’s “motivation.”
It feels like a shrine.
I sit up slowly.
My phone lights up.
Notifications.
Too many.
I frown and unlock it.
And there it is.
The video.
The park.
The circle.
Dawn.
Me.
Masked. Capped. Hidden.
But not hidden enough.
Views climbing. Comments exploding.
“Who is he?”
“He moves like he’s trained.”
“They’re insane together.”
My stomach tightens.
I scroll.
Someone zoomed in on my shoes.
Someone guessed my height.
Someone said they think they know which school uniform matches my build.
I throw the phone on the bed.
This is bad.
Very bad.
A loud thud downstairs.
My father is awake.
His footsteps are heavy, deliberate.
The kind that announce authority.
I step out of my room and walk toward the dining area.
He’s already seated.
Newspaper open.
Jaw tight.
He doesn’t look at me immediately.
“Morning, sir,” I say.
Silence.
Then—
“Did you finish the practice questions I left on your desk?”
Not good morning.
Not how did you sleep.
Just expectations.
“Yes.”
“Score?”
“Ninety-two.”
The newspaper lowers slowly.
“Ninety-two.”
He exhales sharply.
“Where did the eight marks go?”
I swallow.
“It was one careless—”
“Your brother never scored ninety-two.”
There it is.
Every morning has one.
“At your age, Tobi was juggling training and straight A’s. Do you know how hard that is?”
Yes.
I know.
Because you remind me every day.
My brother is abroad now. Playing professional football. Making a name for himself. Interviews. Highlights. Headlines.
My father used to be a footballer too.
Until the injury.
Knee shattered during a league match.
Career gone in seconds.
And ever since then, he has lived inside the word “almost.”
He doesn’t say it directly.
But I know.
We are his redemption project.
“Tobi carries discipline,” my father continues. “Focus. Drive. You?”
His eyes finally meet mine.
“You float.”
My hands curl into fists under the table.
“I try,” I say quietly.
“Trying is not achievement.”
My mother steps in softly. “He’s doing well—”
“He is average.”
The word lands heavy.
Average.
“You can’t excel in football. Fine. You say it’s not your passion.” He leans forward. “Then education should be simple. Why are you not dominating there?”
Because I’m tired.
Because I’m not him.
Because I don’t want football or medicine or engineering.
Because when music plays, I feel alive.
But I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I nod.
“Yes, sir.”
He stands.
“Be better.”
That’s how the conversation ends.
My mother squeezes my shoulder gently when he leaves.
“Don’t mind him,” she whispers.
But I do mind him.
I always mind him.
School is worse.
The video has spread.
Whispers trail me down the corridor.
“That’s him.”
“I think it’s him.”
“Check the height.”
I keep my cap low.
Mask on.
Head down.
The chaos swirls around Dawn near the entrance. Cameras. Questions. People practically climbing over themselves.
I should feel fear.
Instead, I feel something else.
Distance.
Then I see her.
She looks calm. But I can see the tension in her shoulders.
Yemisi looks like she might set someone on fire.
Aurora is trying to manage the crowd.
And for a second—
I forget about my father.
About ninety-two.
About being second.
Because she spots me.
Across the hallway.
Our eyes meet.
And she smiles.
Not the public one.
The real one.
Like she knows something no one else does.
I turn away quickly.
But it’s too late.
That smile settles somewhere in my chest.
Later.
Practice room.
Empty.
The echo of my own footsteps follows me inside.
I shouldn’t be here.
But I am.
Music hums softly from the speaker.
And she’s already there.
Stretching.
“Thought you’d hide today,” she says without looking at me.
“I thought about it.”
She glances up.
“You scared?”
“Of the internet? Yes.”
She laughs.
“Relax. They’ll find something new tomorrow.”
Easy for her to say.
She steps closer.
“Show me something new,” she challenges.
And just like that—
The weight lifts.
We start slow.
Basic rhythm.
Mirroring.
Then faster.
She spins; I catch her hand instinctively.
She drops low; I follow.
Our movements aren’t for performance now.
They’re messy.
Playful.
We mess up and laugh.
She pushes me lightly.
“Stop thinking.”
“You first.”
She steps close.
“Dance like no one’s grading you.”
That hits deeper than she knows.
So I do.
I let go.
No comparisons.
No shrine at the end of the hallway.
No ninety-two.
Just movement.
Sweat.
Breath.
Music vibrating through the floor.
At one point she bursts into laughter and collapses onto the wooden floor.
I sit beside her.
Breathing hard.
“This,” she says softly, staring at the ceiling, “is my favorite part.”
“What?”
“When it’s just… real.”
I look at her.
And for the first time today—
I don’t feel second.
I don’t feel average.
I don’t feel like someone’s unfinished dream.
I feel seen.
And maybe that’s dangerous.
Because I don’t know how long this escape will last.
But right now?
It’s enough.
- Writer
