At 5:17 every morning, before the first buses began filling the roads and before the shops lifted their metal shutters, Malik could hear the city waking up.
There was always a sound.
A distant generator coughing into life.
A motorcycle passing through the narrow street.
Someone calling from one apartment to another.
The slap of a broom against concrete.
The first bus conductor shouting a destination at the top of his voice.
And underneath all of it was the steady hum of a city that never seemed to sleep.
Malik had grown up believing that the city belonged to people who knew how to move quickly.
If you were slow, somebody passed you.
If you hesitated, somebody took your opportunity.
If you complained, the city simply became louder.
He was seventeen and lived with his mother and younger sister, Amara, in a small apartment above a phone-accessories shop. Their building stood at the edge of a neighborhood called East Market, where old houses stood beside new buildings and every street seemed to have a different story.
Malik knew almost everybody.
Mr. Danjuma, who repaired radios under a faded umbrella.
Auntie Rose, who sold rice and stew near the bus stop.
The twins who washed cars outside the mechanic's yard.
The old man who sat every afternoon beside the football field and watched young people play.
And then there was Jay.
Jay was Malik's closest friend.
They had met when they were eleven after Malik accidentally kicked a football through Jay's bedroom window.
Jay had been furious.
Malik had been terrified.
But instead of telling his parents, Jay had simply looked at the broken window, looked at Malik, and said, "You owe me."
Six years later, Malik was still paying.
Not with money.
With friendship.
They shared everything: jokes, school problems, plans, disappointments, and dreams.
Malik wanted to become a filmmaker.
Jay wanted to become a businessman.
Neither of them had much money, but they had something they believed was more important.
A plan.
They wanted to start a small media company that would film music videos, advertisements, weddings, interviews, and short films.
They called it StreetFrame.
They didn't have an office.
They didn't have expensive cameras.
They didn't even have a proper computer.
What they had was Malik's old phone, Jay's secondhand laptop, and enough confidence to believe they could build something from nothing.
Every afternoon after school, they sat behind Mr. Danjuma's repair shop and edited videos.
"One day," Jay would always say, "people will pay us for this."
Malik would laugh.
"One day?"
"Yes."
"You mean when we get good?"
"We're already good."
"You're terrible."
"I'm talented."
"You're terrible."
"Jealousy."
They would laugh until Mr. Danjuma told them to lower their voices.
But one Monday afternoon, Jay didn't laugh.
He arrived late.
Malik noticed immediately.
Jay normally walked into the street like he owned it, greeting everybody along the way.
That day, he kept his head down.
"You okay?" Malik asked.
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I'm just tired."
Malik studied him.
Jay had always been a terrible liar.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Jay."
"Malik."
They stared at each other.
Finally, Jay sighed.
"I need money."
Malik leaned back.
"How much?"
"Enough."
"That's not a number."
"I don't know."
"Then why did you tell me?"
Jay looked toward the road.
"I might have found a way."
Malik immediately became suspicious.
"What kind of way?"
Jay didn't answer.
Before Malik could ask again, a black SUV rolled slowly past the shop.
Jay watched it.
The vehicle stopped near the corner.
A man stepped out.
He was dressed neatly, wearing dark trousers and a white shirt. He looked around forty and carried himself like someone who was accustomed to being obeyed.
Jay's face changed.
Malik noticed.
The man walked toward them.
"Jay."
Jay stood.
"Mr. Kola."
Malik looked between them.
"You know him?"
Jay nodded.
Mr. Kola looked at Malik.
"You're the filmmaker?"
Malik frowned.
"Sometimes."
"I've seen your videos."
Malik was surprised.
"Where?"
"Online."
Mr. Kola smiled.
"You boys have talent."
Jay said nothing.
Mr. Kola reached into his pocket and handed Jay a small envelope.
"Think about what we discussed."
Then he walked back toward the SUV.
Malik watched the vehicle disappear.
"What was that?"
Jay put the envelope into his pocket.
"Nothing."
"You just said you needed money, then a stranger gives you an envelope."
"He's not a stranger."
"Who is he?"
Jay looked away.
"I'll explain later."
"Later when?"
"Tonight."
But that night, Jay never came.
Malik called him.
No answer.
He called again.
Nothing.
At 11:30, Malik sent a message.
Where are you?
No response.
At midnight, he called once more.
The phone rang.
Then someone answered.
It wasn't Jay.
"Hello?"
Malik sat up.
"Who is this?"
Silence.
Then the call ended.
Malik stared at the screen
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