Feeling Entitled Episode 2

Feeling Entitled

Episode 2: The Fall Begins in Small Steps

The new gear bicycle did not just arrive in Unguwan Doka. It announced itself.

Its shiny frame reflected the afternoon sun like a trophy. Its tires were thick and powerful. The clicking sound of its imported gears sliced through the dusty street like music.

Children gathered around it in awe.

Balarabe rode it slowly at first, letting everyone see. He circled the compound like a king inspecting his territory. His white lace outfit flowed behind him, and the gold watch on his wrist glimmered each time he adjusted the handle.

Mallam Shehu watched from the veranda with pride swelling in his chest.

That is my son, he said loudly to anyone who cared to listen. A boy born for greatness.

But greatness does not grow from comfort alone.

The next morning, Balarabe did not arrive at school like the other students who walked in small tired groups, their sandals coated in dust.

He rode straight through the school gate without stopping.

The security man shouted after him, but Balarabe did not slow down. He pedaled across the assembly ground, the clicking of his expensive gears interrupting the morning anthem.

Students turned.

Some admired him.

Most rolled their eyes.

Inside the classroom, he chose the back seat, leaned into his chair, and placed both feet on the desk in front of him.

His books remained untouched.

He had not studied in weeks.

Why should he.

His father had told him countless times that he was different. That he was destined. That he would rise above ordinary people.

Ordinary people read textbooks.

Golden children did not.

When Mr Yusuf entered the classroom, the air shifted immediately.

Mr Yusuf was a man of structure. Neat shirt. Polished shoes. Calm but firm voice. He had been teaching mathematics for over twenty years. He had shaped doctors, engineers, and civil servants.

But today, his eyes landed on Balarabe’s feet resting arrogantly on the desk.

Balarabe, stand up, he commanded.

No movement.

The other students looked down, pretending not to see.

Solve the equation on the board.

Still nothing.

Balarabe tilted his head slightly and smirked.

My father says I am destined for greatness, sir. I do not need to know how to find X to become a great man.

A few students snickered nervously.

Mr Yusuf felt heat rise in his chest.

Greatness is built on discipline, not on your father’s pocket, he replied calmly. Stand up now.

Balarabe slowly lowered his legs, stood, and stretched lazily.

Then I will go to the Principal’s office. But you should know my father is coming today to donate desks. I wonder if he will like hearing that you waste my time with useless sums.

The class went silent.

This was no longer mischief.

This was open defiance.

By midday, the Principal’s office was tense.

Mr Yusuf stood upright, refusing to soften his position.

The boy must be disciplined, he insisted. His behavior is corrupting others.

The Principal rubbed his forehead.

Before he could respond, the office door opened without a knock.

Mallam Shehu entered, dressed in his finest robe, leaning lightly on his walking cane but carrying himself like a man of authority.

He did not ask what happened.

He did not greet anyone first.

He walked directly to Balarabe and placed a hand on his shoulder.

My son told me you are troubling him, he said calmly.

Mr Yusuf stiffened.

Mallam Shehu, your son disrupts class. He insults teachers. He refuses to learn.

Mallam Shehu turned sharply.

He is not refusing to learn. He is bored. Some children think ahead of their time.

Sir, discipline is not boredom, Mr Yusuf replied carefully.

Mallam Shehu’s voice hardened.

My son is a leader. He is not meant to be treated like every other child. If you cannot nurture brilliance, perhaps I should withdraw my support for this school.

The Principal glanced at the cracked ceiling above his desk.

The school needed donations.

The classrooms lacked chairs.

Students sat three to a bench.

He swallowed his pride.

Perhaps we can handle the matter internally, he muttered.

Mr Yusuf felt something break inside him.

So this was how it worked.

Money over morality.

Balarabe left the office smiling.

Not suspended.

Not corrected.

Victorious.

As he walked out of the school gate that afternoon, he spat on the dusty ground and looked back at the building with contempt.

Why should he sit in a hot classroom when the world was already his.

That evening, he returned home with a decision.

I am done with school, he announced casually while his mother served food.

Zainab froze.

Done with what, she asked.

School. It is for people who need help in life. I do not.

Mallam Shehu looked at his son and did not see rebellion.

He saw boldness.

He saw confidence.

Very well, he said slowly. The city is where men are made. I will send you to your aunt Hajia Amina in Lagos. There you will learn business. Real business.

Zainab’s spoon fell into the pot.

But he is only fifteen, she protested.

He is special, Mallam Shehu replied firmly.

Balarabe smiled, already imagining Lagos.

Tall buildings.

Fast cars.

Respect.

He imagined stepping into a city that would recognize him immediately.

He did not imagine struggle.

He did not imagine rejection.

He did not imagine hunger.

Two weeks later, Balarabe stood at the motor park with a small suitcase and big pride.

His father pressed money into his hands.

Remember who you are, Mallam Shehu said. You are not ordinary.

I know, Balarabe replied confidently.

The bus pulled away in a cloud of dust.

Unguwan Doka slowly disappeared behind him.

Inside the bus, other passengers spoke quietly about jobs, rent, survival.

Balarabe leaned back and listened with faint amusement.

These people were preparing to survive.

He was preparing to dominate.

Hours later, Lagos rose before him.

Noise.

Heat.

Movement.

Cars honking endlessly.

Street vendors shouting.

The air thick with possibility and danger.

Hajia Amina’s house was smaller than he imagined. It was not a mansion. It was a modest flat in a busy part of town.

Welcome to Lagos, his aunt said warmly, hugging him.

Balarabe looked around.

This is it, he asked.

His aunt laughed.

You think Lagos gives comfort for free.

The next morning, she woke him before sunrise.

Follow me to the shop.

Shop, he asked.

Yes. You will help in the electronics store. You must learn how money is made.

Balarabe frowned.

Help.

Learn.

Those were words for ordinary boys.

He followed reluctantly.

The market was loud and unforgiving.

Customers bargained aggressively.

Vendors shouted over each other.

Hajia Amina handed him a box.

Arrange these chargers neatly.

He stared at her.

Do you know who I am.

She looked at him carefully.

You are my sister’s son. That is who you are.

The simplicity of her answer unsettled him.

Back in Unguwan Doka, he was Golden Child.

Here, he was just a boy with a box.

Throughout the day, he made mistakes.

He miscalculated prices.

He insulted a customer who tried to bargain.

The customer nearly slapped him.

Hajia Amina pulled him aside sharply.

This is Lagos. Pride does not feed you here. Respect does.

That night, Balarabe lay on a thin mattress in his aunt’s house.

No special treatment.

No royal praise.

Just exhaustion.

For the first time in his life, he felt small.

Far away in Unguwan Doka, Mallam Shehu boasted to neighbors.

My son is now in Lagos learning business. He will return a millionaire.

But in a crowded Lagos market, surrounded by strangers who did not care about his father’s retirement money, Balarabe began to sense something he had never known before.

Irrelevance.

The city did not recognize Golden Children.

It recognized hustle.

And the higher a boy climbs on borrowed confidence, the more shocking the ground feels when he finally slips.

End of Episode 2.

To be continued. Episode 3