Abeokuta, Ogun State
April-August 1997
The months passed like water finding its level.
Aderemi settled into patterns that felt natural because they were designed to. School. Home. Study. Observation. The architecture of an unremarkable life, constructed deliberately.
But underneath, something else was being built.
He began keeping a journal—not of events, but of systems. How teachers allocated attention. How students formed hierarchies. How information moved through the school like blood through veins, following paths that seemed random but weren't.
"You dey write plenty," Kunle observed one afternoon. They had fallen into the habit of sharing shade during breaks. "Wetin you dey write?"
"Notes."
"For class?"
"For everything."
Kunle considered this. "You think say everything fit be noted?"
"Everything that matters."
"How you know wetin matter?"
Aderemi paused. It was a better question than Kunle probably realized.
"Patterns," he said finally. "Things that repeat. Things that connect to other things. Those matter."
Kunle nodded slowly, processing. He didn't ask more questions. That was one of the things Aderemi appreciated about him—he knew when to stop pushing.
***
At home, Aderemi's relationship with his mother evolved into something neither of them fully named.
She had started leaving newspapers for him. Not obviously—just placed where he would find them, relevant articles sometimes circled in pencil. Banking news. Political developments. Economic indicators.
He never acknowledged the circles. She never mentioned them.
But conversations shifted.
"The CBN announced new reserve requirements," she said one evening over dinner, apropos of nothing.
His father looked up, mildly confused.
"It means banks need more capital," Aderemi said. "Some smaller ones will fail or merge."
His mother's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes did.
His father studied him for a long moment. "Where did you learn this?"
"The newspapers, sir. And inference."
"Inference," his father repeated. The word sat between them like a test.
"If banks need more capital and can't raise it, they have limited options. Merge, sell, or close. The strong absorb the weak. It's consolidation."
Silence. His father resumed eating. His mother exchanged no glances with anyone.
But later that week, Aderemi found a book on his desk: Principles of Economics, undergraduate level. No note. No explanation.
His father's handwriting was on the inside cover: "For the boy who infers."
***
By July, Aderemi had identified twelve students worth watching.
Not befriending—watching. Students who demonstrated qualities that might matter later: intelligence, resilience, strategic thinking, moral flexibility, or the lack of it.
He created mental files for each. Updated them weekly.
Kunle remained the only one he actually talked to regularly. Their conversations had evolved beyond small talk into something more substantive.
"My father wan make I go NMS," Kunle said one afternoon. Nigerian Military School—the feeder system for military careers.
"Do you want to go?"
Kunle shrugged. "I no know wetin I want. I just know say I wan option."
"Options require positioning."
"Wetin you mean?"
Aderemi considered how much to share. Kunle was intelligent, observant, trustworthy so far. But trust was earned through time, not granted through potential.
"Every choice opens some doors and closes others," he said carefully. "NMS opens military doors, government doors, certain business doors. It closes others—some academic paths, some international options. The question isn't whether you want it. It's whether what it opens matters more than what it closes."
Kunle stared at him. "You think like old man."
"I think like person wey dey plan."
"Plan for wetin?"
For everything, Aderemi thought. For a country that doesn't know it needs saving. For a future that hasn't happened yet. For the chance to do this life right.
"For options," he said.
***
August brought the end of term exams. Aderemi performed precisely as intended: top fifteen, but not top five. Excellent enough to avoid concern. Unremarkable enough to avoid attention.
The calculus was deliberate. Excellence invited scrutiny. Mediocrity invited dismissal. The sweet spot was competence—acknowledged but not investigated.
His mother noticed anyway.
"You could do better," she said, reviewing his results.
"I did what was necessary."
"Necessary for what?"
He didn't answer. Some truths were too heavy for the moment.
She studied him with that expression again—the one that saw more than he wanted to show.
"You're not what you appear to be," she said quietly. "I don't know what you are. But I know that much."
Aderemi met her gaze. "Is that a problem?"
A long pause. Then: "Not yet."
She left the room. The conversation stayed.
Outside, Nigeria continued its slow burn. Inside, a boy who watched everything prepared for the year to come.