The Abioye house did not sleep, even at 2:47 a.m., when Lagos exhaled and generators across the neighborhood hummed like tired insects, the mansion remained alert-lights glowing softly, security cameras blinking red, guards shifting positions outside the gate like chess pieces that never rested. Inside, Aderemi Chukwudero Dennis Abioye lay awake. His room was larger than most apartments. Cream walls. Tasteful art. A bed that could swallow five men whole. Air conditioning whispered steadily, obedient to the temperature he had set earlier without thinking. Everything worked, that was the problem. He stared at the ceiling, counting cracks that weren't really there, listening to the distant sound of his father's television downstairs-news, always news-mixed with the faint murmur of his mother's prayers floating from the other wing of the house.
A perfect family soundtrack, and yet his chest felt tight, not the tightness of fear, not the tightness of pain, something worse.
Restlessness. Aderemi rolled onto his side and reached for his phone. Notifications stared back at him-missed calls, messages, reminders of meetings he did not care about, plans arranged for him without his consent.
Your father has spoken to Chief Adeyemi about your internship. You'll start next month.
It's good exposure. Exposure to what? he wondered. A future already written?
He dropped the phone onto the bed and sat up, rubbing his face, from the outside, his life looked like envy itself. Son of Chief Abayomi Abioye, oil and real estate magnate, a man whose handshake could rearrange destinies. His mother, Mrs. Nkiru Abioye, was grace wrapped in discipline-Igbo by birth, Yoruba by marriage, respected in both worlds, feared by none, loved by many. They had given him everything, except room to breathe.
Growing up, Aderemi had learned early that expectations could be heavier than poverty. He was expected to succeed. Expected to behave. Expected to follow a path laid neatly before him like red carpet and red carpets, he had learned, were not for walking freely.
They were for being watched. He stood and walked to the window, beyond the thick glass lay the streetlights, the quiet road, the gate that separated him from everything messy and real. Freedom was right there, yet impossibly far.