They used to say the street raised them, but in truth, it was each other.
Once upon a time. On Alafia Street, Surulere, where the road was forever dusty and the drainage half-covered with broken slabs, four boys grew into men under the same sun. The street had watched them run barefoot after footballs, fight over meat in jollof rice, and swear oaths of loyalty they didn’t fully understand yet.
Tunde was the unofficial leader. Tall, broad, with a voice that could silence a room, he had always believed confidence was power. He hated being overlooked—by employers, by society, by life itself.
Ibrahim was the thinker. Quiet eyes, careful words. He learned early that information was currency, and he collected it patiently.
Kola wanted more—better clothes, better phones, better life. He smiled easily but carried envy like a second heartbeat.
And Seyi—the most disciplined of them all—believed in process. He woke early, worked late, and trusted that honesty would one day reward him.
They gathered every evening by Mama Risi’s kiosk, plastic chairs arranged in a crooked circle, the hum of generators filling the air. Danfo buses honked impatiently nearby. The city never truly slept, and neither did their worries.
“See as NEPA takes light again,” Tunde scoffed, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“Na normal thing,” Ibrahim replied, sipping his drink.
Kola kicked a stone across the road. “Normal is the problem. How long do we have to manage life?”
Seyi leaned back, eyes fixed on the fading sky.
“Everybody get their time,” he said quietly.
Tunde laughed. “Seyi, you too die calm. Hunger no dey respect patience.”
They joked, teased, and argued the way brothers do. But beneath the laughter was pressure—rent due, parents calling, dreams delayed. Lagos had a way of making ambition feel urgent and suffocating at the same time.
Kola checked his phone again, scrolling through pictures of people his age showing off cars and vacations online. “Some people do not pass us for school,” he muttered. “But see where dem dey.”
Ibrahim noticed the bitterness but said nothing.
Tunde’s jaw tightened.
As the night deepened, talk shifted—from complaints to possibilities. Tunde spoke of “connections.” Ibrahim hinted at people who knew people. Kola listened too eagerly. Only Seyi stayed quiet, uneasy with the direction of the conversation.
“Relax,” Tunde said when he noticed Seyi’s silence.
“Na just talk.”
But talk had weight.
They eventually stood to leave, each heading home to different corners of the same struggle. Before parting, Tunde pulled them into a quick huddle.
“No matter what happens,” he said firmly, “we dey together.”
“Together,” Ibrahim echoed.
“Till we blow,” Kola added.
Seyi hesitated for half a second, then nodded.
“Together.”
As Seyi walked home, he didn’t see the look Kola and Tunde exchanged behind him—or the thoughtful silence that settled over Ibrahim.
That night, the street slept peacefully.
Unaware that the bond it had nurtured for years was about to be twisted into something darker— where friendship would become a weapon, and loyalty would choose sides.
The idea didn’t come as a shout.
It came as a whisper.
Two nights after their usual hangout, Tunde, Ibrahim, and Kola found themselves in a dim bar tucked behind a mechanic workshop in Ojuelegba. The signboard flickered weakly, half the letters dead, like it had given up trying to warn anyone.
The place smelled of alcohol, sweat, and desperation.
Seyi wasn’t there.
Tunde chose the table farthest from the door, his back against the wall. Ibrahim sat beside him, eyes scanning the room out of habit. Kola kept tapping his foot, excitement and fear battling in his chest.
“You sure say this thing is clean?” Kola asked, lowering his voice.
Ibrahim took a slow sip from his bottle. “As clean as Lagos gets.”
Tunde leaned forward. “Listen. This is a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Warehouse. Imported electronics. No guns. No violence. Just in and out.”
Kola’s eyes lit up. “How much are we talking about?”
“Enough to breathe,” Tunde replied. “Enough to stop begging for life.”
Silence followed. Not the comfortable kind.
Ibrahim finally spoke. “Security dey, but the night shift na one man. Old guy. The cameras are not too sharp.”
Kola swallowed. “And… Seyi?”
Tunde waved a dismissive hand. “Guy, forget me. You know say Seyi no go agree. He talks in long sentences about hard work and destiny.”
“He’s our guy,” Kola said weakly.
“He’s our guy,” Tunde agreed, voice firm, “that’s why we are not involved. If wahala enters, his hand is clean.”
Ibrahim nodded slowly. “The less people know, the better.”
The music in the bar changed to a slow, heavy beat.
Somewhere near the counter, a man laughed too loudly. The world outside continued like nothing important was being decided.
Kola hesitated. “What if something goes wrong?”
Tunde smiled—a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Nothing goes wrong. And if we try, we handle it.”
That sentence settled uneasily in the air.
That same night, Seyi sat on his bed at home, going through his accounts. Numbers stared back at him—small, discouraging. His phone buzzed. A message from Tunde.
Guy, how do you work?
Seyi replied almost instantly. We thank God. One step at a time.
He didn’t know his name had already been removed from a decision that would change his life forever.
Back at the bar, Ibrahim leaned closer. “This thing happened Friday night. Rain forecast. Less movement.”
Kola exhaled slowly. “After this… everything will change.”
Before they know what happened, police have surrounded the bar and arrested the people and this is how Tunde was saved among others.
Thanks for reading.
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