CHAPTER TWO — CHILD OF BIG MEN NO DEY WAKE ALONE
Damilare Adekunle woke up with a headache money could not cure.
The room was quiet, too quiet for a night that had ended with sirens. Heavy curtains blocked the Lagos sun, but light still found its way in, touching the edges of luxury — Italian leather chair, imported rug, framed photos of powerful men shaking hands with his father.
Power slept here.
But peace did not.
His phone lay beside him, screen cracked, battery almost dead. Fifty-seven missed calls. Messages stacked like unpaid debts. Group chats on mute were suddenly loud with panic.
He rubbed his face slowly.
Memory came back in pieces.
Laughter.
Music.
The slap.
The camera light blinking like an eye that never sleeps.
"Fuck," he whispered.
Damilare sat up. His head spun, but not from alcohol alone. This one was fear — not the type he knew from movies or poor people's stories. This was unfamiliar fear, the kind that crept in quietly and refused to shout.
He checked the time.
9:14 a.m.
That alone told him something was wrong.
In his world, mornings were soft. Breakfast trays. Drivers waiting. Assistants greeting him like a small king. No urgency. No accountability.
But today, the house felt like a hospital after bad news.
He reached for his phone.
First call: Seyi C.
Second: Musty G.
Third: Deji Senator-son.
The Cabinet Boys.
The same boys who were loud last night. The same boys who were recording, hyping, pushing.
"Guy, nothing fit happen."
"Relax na, na cruise."
"Dem no go touch you."
He scrolled through messages.
Seyi:
Bro, lie low for now. My dad vex die.
Musty:
Omo make you no call me for now abeg.
Deji:
Delete everything. Act normal.
Damilare laughed — dry, empty.
Act normal.
That was always the advice.
Peer influence was never about force. Nobody held his hand to slap that officer. Nobody pushed the drink into his mouth. Nobody forced him to shout his father's name like a war drum.
But the boys made recklessness look normal.
They turned bad behaviour into bonding.
Arrogance into entertainment.
Disrespect into proof of status.
In their circle, restraint meant weakness.
A knock came on the door.
Soft. Respectful. Afraid.
"Sir… your father wants to see you."
That sentence hit harder than any slap.
Damilare stood up slowly. His legs felt heavy, like they were walking into history instead of a living room.
As he moved through the corridor, the walls told stories. Campaign posters from years past. Newspaper headlines framed in gold.
IRON MAN CLEANS UP MINISTRY.
ADEKUNLE: DISCIPLINE IS NOT NEGOTIABLE.
He swallowed.
Those words were weapons now.
The sitting room was calm — dangerously calm.
Chief Solomon Adekunle sat upright, reading glasses on, newspaper folded neatly. No uniform today. Just plain white native, starched, modest. That scared Damilare more than shouting ever could.
His father looked up.
Not angry.
Not disappointed.
Tired.
"Sit," he said.
Damilare obeyed.
Silence stretched.
In the barrack, silence was punishment.
"Do you know what you did?" Chief Solomon asked, voice level.
"Yes, sir," Damilare replied quickly.
That answer was automatic — trained, empty.
"No," the man said. "You know what happened. But do you know what you did?"
Damilare hesitated.
Words failed him.
Last night had been fun.
This morning felt expensive.
"Do you know how many calls I've received since 6 a.m.?" his father continued. "Do you know how many people are now speaking my name with laughter?"
That one hurt.
Not jail.
Not scandal.
Laughter.
Chief Solomon removed his glasses and placed them on the table carefully, like a ritual.
"I built my life on control," he said. "I controlled hunger. I controlled anger. I controlled fear. And I controlled power."
He looked at his son.
"But I never controlled you."
Damilare shifted.
"Daddy, it was just cruise. Those boys—"
"Those boys," his father interrupted softly, "will not answer for you."
Silence again.
Peer influence wanted the fun.
Consequences wanted a scapegoat.
Later, alone in his room again, Damilare opened social media.
That was a mistake.
The video had grown legs.
Different angles.
Different captions.
Different lies mixed with truth.
'Politician son assaults officer'
'Is this the discipline they preach?'
'Barrack for poor, freedom for rich kids'
He watched himself on screen — loud, stupid, untouchable.
That wasn't who he thought he was.
But it was who he had been encouraged to be.
The comments hurt more than the headlines.
Not insults.
Disappointment.
People wanted his father punished through him.
And suddenly, he understood something the streets always knew:
When you are privileged, your mistakes are never just yours.
His phone rang again.
Seyi.
He answered.
"Guy, you good?" Seyi asked.
Damilare paused. "Are you?"
Silence.
"Bro, make you no drag my name abeg. Things hot."
The line went dead.
Damilare stared at the phone.
So this was it.
The same mouths that shouted his name last night were now careful with it.
Peer pressure doesn't stay for the morning after.
By evening, Damilare sat by the window, watching the city move. Traffic flowed. People hustled. Life continued.
But something had shifted.
For the first time, his father's name felt heavy, not powerful.
For the first time, he wondered who he would be without it.
And for the first time, fear arrived without escort.
This was no longer about cruise.
This was about legacy.
And the day was still young.