Iremide's hands trembled as she held the small nylon tightly. "Tobi… what exactly do you want to use my pad for?" Her voice was a mix of fear, confusion, and disbelief.
The room seemed to shrink, silence pressing in from every corner. He swallowed, eyes downcast. "For our future," he said finally, almost in a whisper.
She stepped back, pale and shaking. "What kind of future needs my menstruation blood?"
Three years earlier, Lagos was hot as usual, the streets alive with the hum of generators, honking cars, hawkers shouting from every corner, and the occasional shrill wail of a siren. In a tiny, cramped apartment in Bariga.
Adewale stirred a pot of instant noodles, sweat glistening on his brow, not from the heat but from the exhaustion of the day.
Across the room, Oluwatobi sat cross-legged, his laptop open, but the screen frozen mid-transaction, his fingers drumming lightly on the keys, restless and anxious. Both young men were in their early twenties, broke, ambitious but still innocent, and most importantly, in love.
The love they carried for their girlfriends—Morounkeji for Adewale, and Iremide for Oluwatobi—was pure, untarnished by greed or suspicion. Even in the small apartment, with its flickering lightbulb and the hum of a malfunctioning fan, they laughed, shared dreams, and held onto hope.
They were bound together not just by friendship but by a shared vision of a life that promised more than survival; it promised freedom, power, and love unfettered by poverty.
Adewale waited that afternoon outside Morounkeji's modest compound in Surulere, holding a small nylon bag carefully in one hand. When she stepped out, her radiant smile cut through the heat of the day. "You came!" she said, eyes bright, her tone playful yet warm.
He shrugged and raised the nylon. "Madam complained yesterday that she was craving suya. So I went and borrowed money to buy it."
Her eyes softened. "You borrowed money just to buy suya for me?"
"For my future wife? I can borrow the world," he replied, flashing his charming grin. She laughed, shaking her head, and playfully hit his chest with her small hand.
They walked together to a low concrete bench outside her house and shared the suya and Fanta, the aroma of roasted meat mixing with the city's dusty air. She rested her head lightly on his shoulder, her trust in him absolute, her laughter a balm to the worries of his small, struggling life.
"I promise you something," she said softly between bites. "When we finally make it, don't ever change, Wale. I love the man I know now, not the one who'll be chasing money up and down"
Adewale kissed her forehead, a tender gesture that carried more weight than words. "Even if I enter Forbes list tomorrow, na you go sit beside me, Morounkeji. Nobody else." She smiled, oblivious to the secrets that destiny was already weaving into their lives.
Across town, Oluwatobi walked Iremide home after midweek church service. The streets smelled of fried yam, fuel, and sweat, and the fading sun painted a soft golden glow across her face. She clutched her Bible to her chest, a protective gesture that spoke of faith and vulnerability.
"You were distracted today," she said softly, her voice carrying concern.
"Just thinking about life," he said quietly. "About how to make you proud. About how to get us out of this struggle. About how to hit it big."
She stopped and faced him, eyes steady and calm. "Tobi… I don't need a rich man. I just need a man who fears God and loves me."
He looked at her as if she had handed him the world itself. "And I love you," he said quietly, the words heavy with sincerity.
"Then that's enough," she whispered, slipping her hand into his as they continued walking through the uneven streets, unaware that the same hand he held so tightly would one day be asked for something that could change their lives forever.
Back in their small apartment, the boys hustled late into the night, fingers moving rapidly across worn keyboards and cracked screens. Yahoo profiles, fake clients, scams that sometimes worked and often failed, but always with the same goal: money. Small victories were celebrated with shawarma and coke, small defeats with silence and sighs. They often talked about dreams so big they seemed impossible.
"I pray Make we blow before we reach thirty," Adewale would say, eyes shining in the dim light.
"Our babes go enjoy," Oluwatobi would reply, echoing the promise that kept them awake during nights when nothing else did.
They were not wicked men. Not yet. They were young, tired of seeing others live the life they imagined for themselves, desperate to create a future for the women they loved. Their ambition was pure, born out of love and hope, yet it was the same ambition that would one day begin to erode that innocence.
One evening, as they nursed cheap beer at a roadside joint in Surulere, an older man approached their table. His eyes were sharp, a glint of knowingness in his gaze.
"You boys still dey hustle small-small?" he asked, voice calm but carrying authority.
Adewale shrugged. "Na God dey help person o, yahoo don dey hard."
The man laughed softly. "God helps those who help themselves. If una serious about money… If una want cash out big from this yahoo,I fit show una way."
"Which way?" Oluwatobi asked cautiously, suspicion creeping into his voice.
"There is a babalawo inside the bush of Ijebu Ode. Baba Adigun. He no dey fail."
The boys chuckled nervously, unsure if the man was serious. His face did not move, nor did his expression change as he added quietly, "He doesn't fail."
That night, neither Adewale nor Oluwatobi could sleep. Morounkeji had sent him a voice note:
"Goodnight baby. Don't stress too much. One day we'll look back at this struggle and laugh."
Adewale replayed it three times, staring at the ceiling, thoughts tangled in dreams of wealth and love. He imagined the life they could have: cars, trips, a house of their own, and most importantly, a future where Morounkeji would never have to worry about anything again.
Oluwatobi, lying beside him on the tattered mat, whispered, "You dey think wetin I dey think so?"
Adewale exhaled slowly. "If this thing na real… nko?"
Tobi nodded. "Anything wey go make our women proud… I'm ready."
The wind outside whistled through the broken windowpane, carrying the scent of rain and something darker—an omen of choices yet to come.
Two days later, a dusty, rattling bus screeched to a halt at the edge of a dense forest. The boys stepped down cautiously, legs stiff from the journey and anxiety alike. The forest loomed before them, a wall of green and shadow, thick trunks entwined with creeping vines, the ground soft and damp with decaying leaves. The air smelled of wet earth, herbs, and something faintly metallic that made Adewale wrinkle his nose.
Under a gnarled tree, an old man sat, calm and still, eyes piercing, unblinking, observing them as though he had been expecting them all along. Baba Adigun.
"I have been expecting you," he said, voice low and measured, carrying a weight that made the boys freeze.
"How sir?" Adewale asked, attempting casualness but failing.
"True love always brings desperate men to me," the old man replied softly. The wind rose suddenly, rustling the leaves and carrying a scent of herbs and fire, as if the forest itself was listening.
The boys exchanged nervous glances, each realizing that their lives had shifted irrevocably the moment they stepped off that bus. Something powerful, dangerous, and irreversible awaited them in the shadows of that forest.