Chapter 10

The Omoshola household buzzed with life under the golden glow of the morning sun. It was far from the dull stillness one might expect of an ordinary day. The sprawling compound hummed with purpose, each member of the family engrossed in their tasks, as if preparing for something grand.

Paul knelt among the flowerbeds, his shears snipping away at overgrown grasses and wilting blooms with practiced precision. Sweat glistened on his brow, but his focus never wavered. Nearby, Patrick hovered over the sleek IVM G6T, Chief Omoshola’s prized vehicle. The hood yawned open, exposing its mechanical heart, and Patrick’s hands moved deftly with a wrench, tightening bolts and humming a tune under his breath.

The car gleamed in the sunlight, a testament to both its owner’s status and Patrick’s meticulous care. Aggie emerged from the house, her arms cradling a woven shopping basket. She paused, watching Patrick with a mix of exasperation and amusement. His humming grew louder, evolving into a full-throated rendition of Tshawala Bam, his voice rich with fervor.

“Since 1947, the matter never settle,” he sang, swaying slightly. “You be pot, I be kettle, my sability lo ya won l’enu…” “Patrick!” Aggie called, raising her voice over his melody. He didn’t flinch. His song only grew more spirited. “Monday ita la wa, Tuesday ita la wa, Wednesday ita la wa…” His tone danced with defiance, as if daring her to interrupt his rhythm.

“Patrick, don’t do this to me. Not now,” Aggie grumbled, shifting the basket to her hip. Her patience was thinning, her tone sharp. He finally turned, wiping his hands on a rag, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Aggie, don’t come and disturb my work here.” “I need to go to the market,” she said, her voice firm. “Fly,” he replied nonchalantly. “Huh?” Aggie blinked, caught off guard.

Patrick grinned. “The moment you step out that gate, raise your head in faith and sing, ‘I believe I can fly.’” “Patrick, I’m not joking,” she snapped, her annoyance bubbling over. “I’m working on the car,” he said, gesturing to the G6T. “Take public transport.” Aggie squinted at the vehicle, unconvinced. “The car doesn’t look like it’s giving you any trouble.”

“I’m still your daddy,” he shot back, resuming his song with a theatrical flourish. Aggie stood there, arms crossed, her lips pressed into a tight line. She glanced at Paul, who had finished trimming the garden and was now stringing up colorful banners along the fence. The banners fluttered in the breeze, proclaiming an upcoming event—Chief Omoshola’s latest venture, no doubt.

The man never did anything halfway, and this launch was no exception. Aggie’s gaze flicked back to Patrick, who had added a few exaggerated dance steps to his performance. “Well, fine,” she said, turning on her heel. “I’ll just tell Chief his food will be delayed until evening.” She started toward the house, her words laced with a subtle threat.

Patrick froze mid-step. “Aggie!” he called, darting after her. He grabbed her arm gently, spinning her around. “You do things too quick. I’ll drive you, alright?” His tone softened, coaxing, as he took the basket from her and hurried to toss it into the backseat. With a dramatic bow, he opened the passenger door. “Enter, Your Royal Highness.”

Aggie raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said the car had a fault.” “Nope, never did,” Patrick admitted with a sheepish grin. “I was just keeping busy so Paul wouldn’t rope me into hanging those banners.” “Oh,” Aggie said, drawing out the word as realization dawned. She climbed into the car, suppressing a smirk. “You know we could’ve taken the Benz GLE instead.”

“Just get in,” Patrick interrupted, ushering her inside. “Sorry,” she muttered, settling into the seat. As they pulled out of the compound, a red Innoson Caris rolled in, its engine purring smoothly. Jonathan stepped out, his tailored suit catching the light as he waved at Paul across the yard. Paul returned the gesture, his hands still dusted with soil.

Jonathan strode toward the mansion, his gait confident yet unhurried, a man comfortable in his surroundings. Inside, Chief Omoshola lounged in the living room, his eyes fixed on the flickering screen of Channels Television. Business news droned in the background, a familiar soundtrack to his mornings.

Jonathan paused at the glass door, studying the older man for a moment. Chief’s presence filled the room—broad shoulders, a stern jaw, and an air of authority that needed no words. Though he noticed Jonathan’s arrival, he kept his gaze on the screen, unfazed.

“Baba mi, e káàlé,” Jonathan greeted warmly in Yoruba, his voice carrying the respect of a son. Good morning, Dad. “Jonathan,” Chief replied, his tone steady but welcoming. “Bawo ni?” How are you?

“Mo ri Ọlọrun,” Jonathan said with a slight smile. I’m blessed. Chief reached for the remote, lowering the volume until the television’s hum faded into silence. He set it down with deliberate care. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the armchair across from him.

Jonathan obeyed, settling into the seat, his eyes briefly meeting his godfather’s. The air between them held a quiet understanding, a bond forged through years of unspoken expectations. Outside, the compound thrummed with activity, but here, in this room, time seemed to slow, poised on the edge of something significant.

The early morning's sun spilled through the tall windows of Chief Gabriel's study, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floor. The air carried the faint scent of polished leather, a quiet testament to the man who sat at the center of it all.

Chief Gabriel leaned back in his armchair, his broad frame filling the space with an effortless authority. Across from him, Jonathan perched on the edge of a sleek couch, his posture rigid, his dark eyes fixed on the older man.

"I've been thinking, Jonathan," Chief began, his voice low and deliberate. "Samantha—do you think she sees all this as a burden?" He gestured vaguely, as if encompassing the sprawling estate, the empire he'd built, and the legacy that loomed over them both.

Jonathan opened his mouth to respond, but Chief pressed on, undeterred. "She doesn't find any joy in what we're doing, does she? Not a damn thing." He shook his head, his gaze drifting to the window.

"It's good, though. Very good. If I were in her shoes, I'd learn the ropes early—because one day, it'll all be hers. Tomorrow, even, when I'm gone." He waved a hand dismissively. "But let's set that aside. God knows I've tried to carve a path for her future. The rest? That's in her hands now."

Jonathan shifted, his fingers tightening around the armrest. "Back to business, then?" Chief nodded, his tone sharpening. "This Friday. The launch."

"What?" Jonathan blinked. "The launch, Jonathan," Chief repeated, exasperation creeping into his voice. "This Friday—the day after tomorrow, to be precise. I need the entire estate locked down. Security has to be airtight. Hire external agencies if you must—I don't care. Just get it done."

"I'll send word across the Southwest," Jonathan said, already mentally mapping out the logistics. "I want the best," Chief said, pointing the remote at him like a conductor's baton. "You." He set the remote on the armrest with a soft clack and leaned forward, his eyes boring into Jonathan's.

"The best soldier I've got." Jonathan sat back, silent, his jaw tight. The weight of Chief's expectation settled over him like a second skin.

Chief's voice softened, shifting gears. "So, were you able to stop Makanaki?" "No, sir," Jonathan admitted, his tone clipped. Chief tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Well, you did a good job regardless. It was all over the news—Chief Oviyon's dead."

"Oh," Jonathan said, his voice flat. "He fell off a building." "Don't lie to me, Jonathan." Chief's words cut through the air, sharp and commanding. "You shot him."

Jonathan hesitated, his fingers flexing against the couch. "Well…" "Admit it," Chief pressed, leaning closer. "I've known you since you were nine. I know what you're capable of."

"Okay," Jonathan said finally, meeting Chief's gaze. Chief's expression darkened. "You know my wife, Helen, didn't hand you that position. He did. And you killed the man who put food on your table."

"It's a testimony," Jonathan muttered, almost to himself. "Surely," Chief replied, his tone dry. He reached for his phone, switched it off with a decisive flick, and dropped it onto the side table.

Then he rose, crossing the room to a small table beneath the television. He picked up a sleek glass case and returned, settling beside Jonathan on the couch. "Take a look at this." Jonathan accepted the case, his curiosity piqued. He opened it to reveal a pair of vintage-style glasses with an orange frame—reminiscent of a MePanda design but distinctly unique.

He lifted them, turning them over in his hands, inspecting every angle. "Put them on," Chief instructed. Jonathan slid the glasses onto his face, adjusting them carefully. At first, they felt ordinary—stylish but unremarkable.

Then Chief spoke again. "Touch the bridge, like you're pushing them up." "Okay," Jonathan said, complying. The moment his fingers brushed the bridge, a Heads-Up Display flared to life before his eyes, overlaying the room with a digital interface.

"Whoa," he breathed, startled. Chief chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "Isn't it? The future's here, Jonathan—the one we've been waiting for." He leaned in, his excitement palpable. "That's not all. Connect it to your phone, and you can talk to it—Moferso, I call it. Voice recognition, maps, trackers for other users with the model. It's got everything."

"But here's what people will love: they can walk and send messages without risking their necks." Jonathan tilted his head, still adjusting to the display. "Like Samantha used to do?" Chief's smile softened, tinged with nostalgia. "My Sam. When she was younger… God, she was a sight. Always smiling, dragging us out for evening walks—no cars, no escorts, just us."

"He'd walk with her nose buried in that damn phone," Chief continued, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Helen and I would warn her—'Samantha, a few seconds without it won't kill you, will it?' And you know what she'd say?" Jonathan shook his head. "No." "She'd grin and say, 'Yes, it would kill the vibes. They'd see I stopped replying, go offline, and by the time I'm back, they're gone.'" Chief laughed, a warm, wistful sound.

"She kept at it until one evening at the market," Chief said, his eyes distant. "She was standing behind my Bentley—Continental GT Spur, I think they call it—texting away. Patrick was already in the driver's seat, waiting. Some kid snatched the phone right out of her hands and bolted. Funniest thing? Helen and I didn't have to say a word after that. She learned her lesson." Jonathan forced a laugh, more out of respect than amusement.

"What I'm saying, son," Chief said, his tone shifting to something earnest, "is that Moferso could fix that. It lets you see your chats, reply with your voice—even pick emojis if you name them. Samantha could walk and chat to her heart's content." "With this, she'd finally be safe doing it," Jonathan said. Chief snorted, reclaiming his seat. "Safe, maybe. But I'm not giving it to her—no way in hell."

"You're coming Friday, though," Chief said, his eyes glinting with a hint of command. Jonathan slipped off the glasses, placing them back in the case. "Yeah, that could work." "Good," Chief said, rising once more. He started toward the stairs, pausing to glance back. "Oh, and that little toy? Just 3.8 million." "Just?" Jonathan echoed, incredulous. "Yes," Chief called over his shoulder, his voice fading as he ascended. "Now get ready—we're leaving for Lekki."

Jonathan stared at the case in his hands, the weight of the future pressing against his palm.