CHAPTER THREE — NAME WEY DEY OPEN DOOR
Lagos no dey pity anybody.
For Damilare, that lesson was coming slow, heavy, and expensive.
By 10 a.m., the first calls from journalists had already started. His father's office was on fire. Not literally, but as close as words could burn. Every channel, every WhatsApp group, every Twitter handle was echoing the same thing:
"Adekunle son misbehaves, Lagos policeman assaulted."
"Iron Man's heir shows Nigeria how privilege looks."
"Barrack discipline? Na lie."
The boy scrolled through the updates, stomach twisting. His fingers moved, but they were frozen. He had grown up in a world where his surname opened doors. Where a nod, a handshake, or a mention of "Adekunle" could stop arguments, arrests, or even entire investigations. But today, his father's name felt like a double-edged sword. It protected him in the short term, but it also made him the target.
He remembered last night vividly. The loud music. The shouting. The alcohol. The peals of laughter. The thrill of untouchability. The Cabinet Boys hyped him up, pressing ego and bravado into his veins like they were trying to make him immortal. Peer influence had never been subtle. It didn't need to be. They were loud, rich, and untouchable — and they wanted him loud, rich, and untouchable too.
And he had obliged.
By noon, Damilare's driver pulled up outside a small, discreet café in Ikoyi — a place his father would never dare to visit. He stepped out slowly, sunglasses hiding the dark circles under his eyes. The Cabinet Boys were already there, all of them laughing as if nothing had happened. Peer influence doesn't wait for consequences; it always wants to party first.
"Guy, why you dey look like say Lagos don beat you?" Seyi teased, clapping him on the shoulder.
"You no worry yourself," Damilare muttered, sliding into the booth. "The matter big."
"Big?" Musty laughed. "Na cruise be this. You be son of Iron Man. Na him go handle am."
Damilare stared at them. The same laughter that had pushed him last night now seemed hollow. The same confidence he had felt in their presence now rang false. He could feel the weight of the video burning into the internet, the whispers of politicians, the silent judgment of everyone who actually mattered.
"Abeg, relax," Deji said, leaning back. "I dey tell you, nobody fit touch you. Your name na shield."
It was true. It had always been true. Peer influence taught him to believe in the untouchable. The world outside those walls rarely mattered. And for Damilare, that illusion had been everything.
But deep down, he knew something had shifted. This one was different.
Meanwhile, inside the Adekunle residence, the real battle was happening quietly. Chief Solomon Adekunle, the man who had built a reputation like steel, was now facing the fragility of legacy. Public perception was delicate, and a single misstep could undo decades of discipline, respect, and power. He had always believed that his name would protect his family. That his lessons, his upbringing, his iron-handed approach to governance, and his network of influence would shield Damilare from the consequences of arrogance.
But life, he realized, had other plans.
He summoned his private secretary.
"Call all necessary aides. No, call the political team too. Prepare statements. Prepare apologies. And… prepare a way to fix my son."
The secretary froze. "Oga, fix him?"
Chief Solomon nodded. "He has no idea what he's done, and we are going to make sure he never finds out the full cost… yet."
Legacy was fragile. And the Iron Man was about to learn how easily privilege could corrupt even the most carefully constructed empire.
Back at the café, Damilare's thoughts drifted to the night before, to the peer influence that had guided his every move. It wasn't just about thrill or arrogance. It was strategy — or so they told him. "Confidence," they said. "Power is nothing without show." And he had performed. But the show was now public. And the cameras, phones, and social media had made it permanent.
"You go need to lie low," Musty said, noticing the seriousness on his face. "Na so e suppose be. But… you go survive. Your father fit fix anything."
Damilare nodded, but the word "fix" carried a weight he didn't like. It reminded him of the times his father had bailed him out — when school fees were forgotten, when drivers insulted the guards, when the police came knocking. It reminded him that he had never faced consequence, not truly.
"But what if e no reach?" he asked quietly, more to himself than to anyone else.
"E go reach," Seyi replied quickly. "Your papa na Iron Man. The country know am. Nobody fit touch him… or you."
The words were meant to comfort, but they did the opposite. They reminded him that his life was a shield of privilege. That every mistake, every act of defiance, every slap, every yell, was covered by the weight of a name he hadn't earned. That realization stung more than any slap could.
By late afternoon, the Cabinet Boys left one by one, leaving Damilare to his thoughts. Alone, he walked to the balcony, looking down at the Lagos streets below. Cars honked. People shouted. Hustlers dodged traffic. Life continued, unaware of the video that now bore his face and his father's name. And for the first time, Damilare felt small. Vulnerable. Exposed.
He understood now what peer influence had done to him. It hadn't pushed him to rebellion — it had masked fear with confidence, arrogance with laughter, recklessness with friendship. The boys had made him feel untouchable. They had made him believe he owned the consequences of the world, simply because of who he was. And in doing so, they had blinded him to the truth: that power does not protect the reckless forever.
At the same time, Chief Solomon called a trusted ally, a former military officer who had always understood the balance between discipline and chaos.
"We need to control this," he said. "Not just the story, the perception… and my son. We need to remind him that the world does not bend for him."
The officer understood instantly. "Sir, we can manage the narrative. But him… na different problem."
Chief Solomon nodded slowly, staring out the window at the horizon. "Different problem," he repeated. "Because it is one thing to face enemies in the field. Another thing to face a child who believes he owns the world because of your name."
And just like that, the war had two fronts: the public narrative and the private reckoning. One controlled by influence and power, the other — unknowable, unpredictable, dangerous.
By evening, Damilare found himself back at home. The house was quiet again, but now the walls seemed alive with judgment. He passed the framed newspaper clippings of his father's triumphs. Each one whispered reminders: discipline. Integrity. Iron Man. And next to them, his own reflection stared back at him from the glass — a boy trained to be untouchable, now learning the sharp edge of peer influence and privilege.
The sun set over Lagos. The city shimmered with lights, indifferent to the chaos inside one mansion. And Damilare understood something stark, something he had never felt before:
No one survives recklessness forever, even with a name like Adekunle.
He had been taught power, but he had never been taught restraint.
He had been surrounded by influence, but never responsibility.
And now, in the quiet of the evening, Damilare realized that peer influence had done more to shape him than discipline ever could.
By nightfall, he was lying in bed, phone in hand, staring at the ceiling. The social media comments still burned. The laughter of the Cabinet Boys still echoed. And somewhere deep, buried beneath privilege and ego, fear settled in.
Not the fear of punishment.
Not the fear of arrest.
Not even the fear of scandal.
The fear of knowing that his name — and his father's — was no longer just protection. It was a spotlight. And everyone was watching.
Tomorrow would be another day.
But for the first time, Damilare felt the weight of legacy pressing down.
And it was heavier than alcohol, louder than laughter, and sharper than any slap could ever be.