Soon after, my craving for cigarettes started to fade. The smoke no longer ruled me, and I could breathe without that itch in my throat. I told Ma I wanted to resume work. She suggested I work with her, so she could supervise me. Not gonna lie, it felt like a prison sentence. Who wants their own mama watching their every move? Definitely not me. But I needed money, so I pretended to agree.
The next day, Ma introduced me to her boss, a tall woman who looked like she could smell lies from two streets away. But thankfully—lucky me—the job was already taken. Inside, I celebrated. Hallelujah! Who on earth wants their mama standing over them like an extra shadow? That's intrusion, plain and simple. I knew you wouldn't like it either.
So I went back to my old workplace. Mr. Anikulapo, my former boss, listened to me beg with a poker face before saying someone else already had the position. Just like that. I walked out angry—angry at Ma for locking me in for months, angry at myself for smoking in the first place, angry at life for pushing me like a pawn.
I decided to search every bar in the hood until my legs gave up. Finally, luck winked at me. One bar offered a position—but only if I could entertain customers with singing. Work hours were brutal: 6 p.m. to 3 a.m. Pay? Five thousand naira. That was all I needed to hear. I accepted on the spot.
When the clock hit six, I was handed a microphone, a stand, and some instruments by the manager, Mr. Akinbiyi. He was a short man with eyes sharp enough to slice bread. "No mistakes, boy. You flop, you're out," he warned.
"Ok, sir," I muttered, clutching the guitar like my life depended on it.
What was I even going to sing? My head was full of question marks. Igbo? Yoruba? English? Pidgin? Not everyone understood Igbo or Yoruba, so I decided to mix all four. Talk about risky.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," I greeted, my voice shaking just a little.
I strummed the first notes, signaled to the boys behind me to join in, and then opened my mouth. What came out shocked even me. My voice carried, strong and golden. For a moment, the whole place froze. Customers stared at me like I'd just descended from the skies. Then it happened—smiles spread, bodies swayed, and before I knew it, people began spraying money. My chest swelled with pride. Adejoke, the superstar.
The chorus hit, and soon the crowd was singing with me. Women danced, men clapped, and even the stone-faced guard cracked a grin. I felt alive—like I belonged. For once, I wasn't the boy who got beaten at home, or the addict in the corner. I was someone.
When my shift ended, I was exhausted but glowing. I carefully packed the microphone and stand, stored them in the back room, and went to meet Mr. Akinbiyi. He slapped my shoulder with approval.
"Boy, I'm proud of you. Here's your pay. Be back tomorrow."
Five crisp thousand naira notes landed in my palm. I thanked him, bowed slightly like a proper Yoruba boy, and stepped out into the midnight air.
The streets were a different beast at 3:30 a.m. Shadows moved like hunters. I slipped the money into my socks, my heart pounding. Every face I passed looked like it carried a question: What's a small boy doing here at this hour? I walked faster. On the roadside, I saw couples tangled in "weird" activities—gross, shameless things that made me wrinkle my nose in disgust. I wanted to bleach my eyes.
No bikes, no taxis. Just me and the endless road. By the time I reached home, I was drenched in sweat.
Ma was waiting, arms crossed, worry carved into her face. "Where were you?" she demanded, eyes scanning me head to toe.
"Ma, I'll explain. But please—food first."
She sighed, then served me watery egusi soup. I devoured it like a starving wolf, then explained everything. She said nothing, only patted my back gently before retreating to her room. The silence hurt more than shouting.
I felt hollow, like a man too old for his years. I peeked into Titi and Emeka's room, kissed their foreheads, and whispered goodnight. Then I lay in my own bed, staring at the wooden ceiling, thoughts racing—Pa, Ma, Titi, Emeka, the bar, my new passion for singing, and… that girl.
Ah yes, the girl. The one staring at me in the bar like I was some movie she couldn't stop watching. Her eyes had followed me the whole performance, soft but intense, like she was reading a secret only she knew. Why was she looking at me that way? Was I too handsome? (I mean, I am good-looking, let's be honest.) Or was she crushing on me? Either way, she needed to stop staring—or maybe not.
I laughed out loud at my own thoughts, trying on a fake British accent. "Geez, she must be crushing on me, innit?" The accent was terrible.
"Adejoke!" Pa roared from the other room.
"What?!" I shouted back.
"Stop that witchy laughter before I rush you there! Wizard!"
"Thank God you know you're the ape!" I yelled, loud enough for him to hear.
He groaned with anger. I smiled into the dark, satisfied. Then, slowly, sleep dragged me under—her face still playing in my mind, her smile looping like a record.
Geez. She's so cute.
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Hi guys!
What do you think about this chapter? Adejoke the smart-ass even hid his money in his socks—big brain move! 😂 Parents, I still love Ma a little, even though she's too quiet for my liking. But hey, that's African mums for you.
Stay tuned for Chapter Five… you'll love it! 💞
Your favorite teen authoress,
📑🔰 Oziomajasmine 💝