Abeokuta, Ogun State
South-West Nigeria
January 1997
The first thing Aderemi noticed was the heat.
Not pain. Not fear. Heat.
It pressed against his skin with the weight of something familiar, the kind that arrived just before dawn in the South-West when the harmattan had not yet stripped moisture from the air. Somewhere nearby, a ceiling fan squeaked in uneven rhythm—krr... krr... krr—as if it had surrendered the pretense of balance years ago.
Aderemi lay still, eyes closed.
He did not panic.
Panic, he had learned in another life, was the luxury of those who believed they had time. He had died once already. Panic had proven useless then.
Instead, he listened.
Fan. Distant traffic. A radio murmuring somewhere beyond the room—voices speaking Yoruba in measured tones, then switching to English for the news. The accent was local. The cadence was Nigerian.
I'm breathing, he realized.
That single fact shattered every rational framework he had constructed for death.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling hung low, paint cracked in patterns he could not immediately place but somehow recognized. This was not a hospital. Not the void. Not whatever came after an ending should have arrived.
He sat up slowly.
His body obeyed without resistance. No stiffness in his joints. No weight pressing down on his spine. He looked at his hands—small, unlined, the hands of a boy barely into adolescence.
Not weak. Just young.
His pulse quickened, but his thoughts remained steady. Decades of standing before restless university students, explaining complex systems to minds that resisted discipline, had trained him to separate emotion from analysis.
He stood and crossed the room. Cool tiles met bare feet.
A mirror was mounted on the side of a wooden wardrobe, its surface spotted with age.
The face that looked back was not his.
And yet it was.
A boy. Twelve, turning thirteen in May. Yoruba features—broad nose, full lips, dark skin that caught light differently than it had in the fluorescent glare of lecture halls. Hair cut low, practical rather than stylish. Eyes far too steady for someone that age.
He recognized the expression immediately. It was the same one he had seen in his own reflection during the final years—the look of a man who understood systems but lacked leverage.
Memory arrived not as fragments but as a flood.
His first life. University corridors. Teaching physics and technology to students who wanted degrees, not understanding. Nights spent studying finance and economics alone, building frameworks no one asked for. Watching Nigeria struggle under cycles he could explain but not interrupt.
Then 2025. Inflation that gutted purchasing power. Insecurity that made talent afraid to stay. A generation trapped by circumstances that felt inevitable.
And the thought he had carried like a stone: If I had been born earlier... if I had been born closer to power...
Aderemi exhaled slowly.
"This is real," he said aloud.
The name surfaced without effort.
Aderemi.
Then the surname, heavier somehow.
Coker.
The room came into focus with new attention. A desk held neatly stacked textbooks—Mathematics, Basic Science, Social Studies. The handwriting on a notebook was careful, disciplined. By the door, aligned with precision, sat military boots. Clean. Polished. Intentional.
And on a chair beside them, folded with the exactness of ritual, a military uniform.
Aderemi's mind clicked into a framework.
This house has structure.
Structure meant order. Order meant leverage.
He closed his eyes briefly and did what he had always done best. He organized.
***
AJOSE - INITIAL STATUS (v0)
Body: Adolescent / High adaptability
Mind: Fully retained (pre-2025)
Environment: Military household
Visibility Risk: High
Primary Directive: Observe. Do not rush.
***
Footsteps approached from the corridor.
Measured. Heavy. Controlled.
A presence that bent space without announcing itself.
The door did not open immediately. A man's voice came through, low and precise.
"Time."
One word. No emotion. No explanation.
Aderemi straightened instinctively. He stepped into the sitting room.
The space was modest, but everything in it existed with purpose. Furniture arranged with intention rather than decoration. No clutter. No excess. Even the air felt disciplined.
A man stood by the door, adjusting his beret in the mirror.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Spine straight without visible effort. The uniform he wore was pressed with military precision—khaki sharp enough to suggest consequences.
His father.
Aderemi did not need memory to confirm it. Authority announced itself in posture alone.
"Good morning, sir," Aderemi said.
The man glanced at him once and nodded. That was all.
From the kitchen came another presence—lighter in step but no less commanding.
"Aderemi."
A woman stepped out, wiping her hands on a cloth. His mother. She studied him closely, eyes sharp, intelligent, measuring something she could not quite name.
"O ti ji?" she asked. (You're awake?)
"Yes, ma."
She smiled faintly, but the smile did not reach her eyes. "Omo yi..." (This child...)
Breakfast passed in quiet efficiency. The radio murmured in the background—news about fuel shortages, security operations in the North, political maneuvering in Abuja spoken in tones that assumed familiarity with disappointment.
Aderemi listened.
Same country, he thought. Earlier point in the cycle.
As his father prepared to leave, his mother adjusted Aderemi's collar with the care of someone who believed small things carried weight.
"Oluabi," she said softly. (A child of good character.)
The word landed heavier than praise. It was expectation.
As the gate closed behind his father, Aderemi stood by the window and watched the street beyond. Abeokuta moved at its own pace—okadas weaving through traffic, hawkers calling out prices, a city that functioned despite systems designed to frustrate it.
I didn't come back to fix everything, he realized. I came back early enough to prepare.
Outside, Nigeria continued. Inside, a boy who remembered a different ending began his second attempt.