Surulere, Lagos — Early Morning
The morning crept slowly over Surulere, its gray light seeping through half-drawn blinds. The streets below were quiet, yet every muted footstep, every shutter creak, seemed amplified. The city's pulse was deceptively calm—a fragile silence stitched over the chaos of the night before.
Bayo sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled, eyes tired yet alert. Outside, the city hummed a deceptive calm; the echoes of yesterday's march lingered in the air like smoke, invisible but present.
The muted television replayed fragments of the protest: fire, shouting, flashes of fists and banners, and the news twisting truth like molten metal.
"Violent agitators disrupt public peace."
Bayo turned it off with a sharp click, the silence afterward heavier than any roar.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. Tope entered, tablet in hand, her face drawn from sleepless hours, eyes red around the edges. She hesitated before speaking.
"They've turned it against us," she said softly. "The governor's office released a statement this morning. They're calling you an instigator. Two major sponsors have already withdrawn."
Bayo exhaled slowly, letting the weight of her words settle like dust in the room. "Fear moves faster than any bullet," he murmured.
She hesitated, then turned the tablet toward him. Leaked documents flickered on the screen: contracts from his company, twisted into smears of corruption and deceit.
"They're saying you profited from the government before you turned rebel."
Bayo's hands clenched slightly. "They're smearing me," he said.
"To the people who watch, yes," she whispered. "And they're listening."
He lifted his gaze, eyes steady, voice calm but edged with resolve. "They can poison the air, but they cannot own the breath we take."
The words hung between them, fragile yet defiant. Somewhere in Surulere, the city held its breath with them.
---
Surulere Office — Mid-Morning
By ten, tension buzzed like static through the office. Mutiu stormed in, sweat beading on his brow, his shirt damp from a morning spent weaving through the restless city streets.
"Oga, wahala don start proper. Police dey ask for you. And Demola—he no come home last night," he reported, voice tight.
Bayo's eyes sharpened. "Disappeared?"
Mutiu nodded grimly. "Two police vans block him street. His wife dey cry since morning. They dey send a message."
Tope's voice cut softly but clearly. "Every step they take is a warning. We can't underestimate them."
Bayo turned to the window, scanning the city sprawl under the gray haze. "Then we'll send one back."
"How?" Mutiu asked, frustration creeping into his voice. "They control the money, the media… everything."
"Then we hold the truth," Bayo replied, voice firm. "And we don't let go."
His phone buzzed suddenly. An unknown number flashed across the screen. Against his better judgment, he answered.
A smooth, controlled male voice came through. "Mr. Adeniran, this is Chief Oladipo's office. The Chief would like a private discussion today. He believes you'll want to hear him out."
Bayo's tone was flat, deliberate. "Tell him I'll come."
Mutiu frowned, unsettled. "You sure that's wise?"
Bayo shrugged on his jacket. "Sometimes silence is the loudest trap. I'd rather meet the noise."
---
Mainland Bridge — Afternoon
The sun glared down over the bridge, turning the tarred road to molten glass. Lagos pulsed with impatient energy—danfo buses blared horns, vendors shouted, engines growled, the city alive, sharp-edged, dangerous.
Tope sat beside him, silent most of the drive. Finally, she spoke, voice low. "You don't owe him anything."
Bayo's eyes remained on the road, scanning every mirror, every vehicle that shifted unnaturally. "I owe this city a breath of honesty," he said quietly, but firmly.
A danfo bus swerved ahead, blaring its horn. Painted on its rear in jagged letters: No Justice, No Peace. Bayo almost smiled, a flicker of recognition in the chaos: even disorder had conscience here.
They drove on in silence, swallowed by the city's restless pulse, every pedestrian, every motorcycle rider another variable, another unseen observer in a city under surveillance.
---
Victoria Island — Private Lounge
The lounge smelled of power—imported whiskey, cold air, and money. Chief Oladipo sat behind a curved mahogany desk, gold rings flashing as he smiled, the polished veneer of authority unshaken.
"Ah, my young reformer," he said smoothly. "Please, sit. Lagos trembles when you speak."
Bayo didn't move. "You called me here to talk. Talk."
The Chief chuckled, unfazed. He opened a drawer and slid a slim brown envelope across the desk.
"Fifty million naira," he said. "Not a bribe—an understanding. You step back, let the noise fade. Keep your company, your peace, your name."
Bayo's gaze remained steady. "And if I don't?"
The Chief's smile thinned. "Then you lose everything that breathes your name—contracts, credibility, safety."
Tope's voice cut in, cold and unwavering. "You're threatening him."
The Chief's eyes gleamed. "I offer balance."
Bayo stepped forward, picked up the envelope, and tore it cleanly in half. The sound was sharp, final.
"My peace isn't for sale," he said. "And Lagos doesn't need your balance. It needs air."
Oladipo's expression hardened. "You think this city runs on ideals? It runs on compromise."
Bayo turned to leave. "Then let it choke."
The Chief leaned back, expression smooth but colder. "Be careful what you suffocate, Mr. Adeniran. Air belongs to those who can afford it."
---
Surulere, Lagos — Evening
The drive back was a blur of horns, sirens, and restless city noise. The streets seemed to vibrate beneath the tires, aware of a shift, a fracture widening in its foundation.
Inside the dim office, Tope dropped her bag and faced him. "You didn't just refuse him. You declared war."
Bayo nodded slowly. "Then we fight smart."
"You've changed," she said softly. "You're harder. Quieter."
"Change is the price of truth," he said.
A ping broke the silence. A message appeared on his phone:
Unknown Number: You breathe too loudly for a marked man.
Tope's breath caught. "They're not bluffing."
Bayo's gaze remained calm but distant. "I know."
The air thickened between them, charged with unspoken fear and unrelenting tension. For a moment, Tope reached for his hand but stopped halfway.
"Promise me you'll keep breathing, Bayo," she whispered.
He gave a faint smile, a tired ghost of warmth crossing his face. "That's the one thing they can't take… yet."
---
Night — Lagos Skyline
From his balcony, the city sprawled beneath an orange haze of smoke and light. Beautiful. Poisoned. Alive.
Bayo thought of Demola's silence, of the marchers, of the missing faces. The cost of truth was climbing—but he wouldn't stop breathing yet.
Behind him, Tope stood in the doorway. "You should rest," she said gently.
"There's no rest for truth," he replied.
"Then at least don't face it alone."
He gave her a faint, weary smile. "I won't."
The night air was thick, alive with electricity. Lagos exhaled—and waited.
---
Victoria Island — Same Night
In a penthouse overlooking the Atlantic, a sharp-eyed man stood by the window. Thunder grumbled in the distance.
Chief Oladipo spoke into his phone. "He refused."
The man exhaled smoke, smiling faintly. "Good. The stubborn ones always believe they can fight clean."
He turned to the city lights. "That's when they're easiest to destroy."
Lightning flashed over the water. The storm had begun.