Chapter Five – The Snake in the Grass
The city never slept. Lagos breathed in chaos, breathed out noise. Yellow buses groaned at the curbs, hawkers darted between traffic with plastic bags of pure water, and the air was thick with frying oil, sweat, and dust. Students in rumpled uniforms and cheap slippers shouldered one another for space on the sidewalk, laughter and curses rising above the drone of car horns.
Dele moved through it all as though the noise belonged to another world. His steps were slow, deliberate, his gaze detached. He saw not the chaos of today but the battlefield of tomorrow. They think they are living, he thought, his lips tightening. But all I see are bodies waiting to rot when the surge comes.
Kunle hurried at his side, weaving to keep up. His eyes darted at the crowd, wary, restless, his fists clenching whenever someone brushed him. Dele noticed the twitch of muscle, the instinctive urge to swing. It made him sigh.
"You're still too quick to fight," Dele said quietly, his voice cutting under the din.
Kunle blinked, startled. "Eh? No be fight o. Na just—man no fit dull for street, you sabi?"
Dele stopped at a food stall, the aroma of beans and fried plantain wafting around them. His gaze swept the queue: a tall boy with patched trousers, eyes fixed hungrily on the food; a shorter one, laughing too loudly, slapping his friend's back; a girl standing stiff, her money clenched in her hand.
"Look," Dele said, pointing subtly. "Which one of them will betray his brother for a plate of rice? Which one will starve and keep his pride?"
Kunle frowned. "The tall one. Hunger dey finish am. And maybe the girl—she stubborn."
Dele shook his head. "Wrong. The loud one. He laughs to cover fear. That's the kind who sells his blood just to survive. The tall one—his hunger has already burned past shame. He'll endure, because he has nothing else left to lose."
Kunle shifted uneasily. "So… you just dey look, and you know them finish?"
"I see patterns," Dele said, his voice calm, cold. "And you must learn to see them too. Fists win you a fight today. But eyes, Kunle… eyes win you the war tomorrow."
Something changed in Kunle's gaze. For the first time, he wasn't just listening—he was absorbing, fear and awe creeping in.
---
The Loyal One
That evening, at the hostel, voices rose in cruel laughter. A boy stood cornered, his accent heavy, his Hausa soft against the hard Yoruba mocking him.
"Musa goat!" someone jeered. "Go back your village! Na Lagos dey teach you English?"
The boy flinched as a shoe was thrown, his books scattering. The crowd roared.
Dele stepped into the circle. His eyes swept the bullies, unhurried, and his voice cut clean: "Funny. You mock the boy for his tongue, but I hear only cowards hiding their ignorance."
The laughter faltered. One of the bullies spat. "Who you be?"
Dele's gaze was like ice. "The one who sees you. And believe me… you don't want me to keep looking."
The words sank heavy. The crowd dispersed, muttering. Musa bent, trembling as he gathered his books. He looked up at Dele, eyes wide, not with fear but something deeper.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Dele knelt, helping him pick up a torn notebook. "Remember this, Musa. Loyalty is worth more than gold. You gave me yours today without words. In return, you'll never stand alone again."
Musa swallowed hard. From that moment, his loyalty was sealed.
---
The Ambitious Mouthpiece
Two days later, in the lecture hall, a sharp female voice rang above the drone of the lecturer.
"Sir, your maths no balance! Check your own board again!"
Laughter exploded. The lecturer sputtered with anger. At the center of it was a slim girl, arms crossed, chin high—Chika. Her mouth was a blade, and she wielded it with fearless arrogance.
When class ended, the other students avoided her. Trouble, they whispered. But Dele approached.
"Sharp tongue," he said.
Chika's eyes narrowed. "What about it? You want insult too?"
Dele shook his head. "No. I admire it. Most people waste words. You turn them into daggers. That's rare."
Her suspicion wavered, replaced by a flicker of pride. "You see it?"
"I see it," Dele said. "And I know how to use it."
Chika studied him, as if weighing whether this quiet boy was mocking her. But his eyes—cold, unflinching—made her pause. For the first time, someone didn't see her as noise, but as power.
That night, she couldn't stop thinking of his words.
---
The Risk-Taker
A week later, the courtyard roared with voices. Boys gathered around a dice game, coins clinking, fists slamming. At the center stood Tunde, laughing loud, his grin wide as he pocketed another handful of naira. His energy pulled people like moths to flame.
Dele slipped through the crowd, watching.
"Who next? Who wan try luck?" Tunde boomed.
"I will," Dele said softly.
The dice rolled. The crowd leaned in.
"Six!" Tunde shouted. "You no fit beat that!"
Dele crouched, his gaze on the dice, then on the smug face of the boy who had thrown them. He smiled faintly. "It will be four."
The dice clattered. Four.
The crowd gasped. The cheater's face drained. Tunde froze, his grin faltering. Then, slowly, he laughed, slapping Dele's back.
"Ah! My guy dey see spirit o!"
"No spirit," Dele said. "Just eyes."
Tunde studied him with new respect. Uneasy respect.
---
The Rival
But where one circle formed, another tightened in resentment. Bala, scarred cheeks carved deep with tribal marks, watched Dele with burning eyes.
One afternoon, he stepped into Dele's path. "You dey form king abi? Who you be wey everybody dey follow?"
Dele's expression didn't flicker. "Funny. I thought you were already following me. After all, you're watching me more than yourself."
The boys around them burst into laughter. Bala's face darkened, rage flaring. He lunged, but his friends pulled him back, hissing warnings.
Dele walked past, calm as ever. But inside, his mind sharpened. Bala is a blade with no sheath. All I need is patience. He will cut himself, and I will guide the hand.
---
The Circle
That night, under the broken lights of the hostel corridor, Dele gathered them—Kunle, Musa, Chika, Tunde. Four faces, different, unsure, yet drawn by something they couldn't name.
Dele stood before them, his shadow long. His voice was low, but every word coiled like a serpent.
"The world will break," he said. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon, the sky will bleed and the ground will open. Those who hesitate will drown in the flood."
Their eyes fixed on him, breath held.
"But us?" Dele's gaze hardened. "We will already be standing on higher ground. Because while they chase scraps, we take the throne."
A silence followed, heavy, electric. Kunle's fists clenched in excitement. Musa's eyes shone with fierce devotion. Chika smirked, hungry for the promise of influence. Tunde leaned back, whistling low, but he didn't walk away.
The snake had coiled. The grass hid its form. But its strike was inevitable.
And when it came, the world would bleed.