Feeling Entitled Episode 4

Feeling Entitled

Episode 4: The City Does Not Care

The silence in Hajia Amina’s living room the next morning was thick enough to choke on.

The ceiling fan turned slowly above her head as she sat at the small dining table, a cup of tea untouched before her. The steam had long disappeared, but she had not taken a sip.

She had barely slept.

The events of the previous day replayed in her mind like a stubborn film she could not pause.

At exactly ten in the morning, Balarabe stepped out of his room stretching lazily, scratching his head as though he were on vacation in a luxury hotel.

Good morning, Auntie, he said casually, heading straight for the refrigerator.

Hajia Amina did not respond immediately.

She watched him.

Then she spoke, her voice low but firm.

Mr Okafor called me last night.

Balarabe did not look concerned.

I told you, Auntie. That man is rude. He does not know how to speak to someone of my standing.

Your standing, she repeated quietly.

He said you stole from his petty cash box and disappeared before midday.

Balarabe rolled his eyes.

Steal. That is a big word. I took what was fair. He was going to underpay me anyway. Besides, Baba would give me ten times that amount if I asked. I am not common.

Hajia Amina stood slowly.

Is that what your father sent you here to become. A thief with pride.

His jaw tightened.

Do not insult me.

She inhaled deeply, reminding herself of her promise to Mallam Shehu. She had agreed to guide his son. To give him direction. To help him grow.

Instead, she was raising a storm.

I have found you another place, she said calmly. A printing press. My neighbor owns it. Clean work. Paper and ink. No heavy lifting. If you fail there, I will not know what else to do.

For two days, Balarabe actually showed up.

The printing press felt more acceptable. Machines hummed steadily. Stacks of paper moved through rollers. Ink stained hands, but not like sawdust had.

He liked that he could still wear his expensive clothes.

He liked that customers occasionally walked in wearing suits.

But by the third day, the familiar boredom crept back into his bones.

Why was he carrying paper bundles.

Why was he taking instructions.

Why was he not in the office with the air conditioner.

When the manager handed him a neatly packed box of high quality business cards and told him to deliver them to a client in Victoria Island, Balarabe saw an opportunity to feel important.

Hajia Amina had given him transport fare for a bus.

He used it to call a taxi instead.

A man of his image could not squeeze into public transport.

By the time he paid the taxi driver, he realized he had barely enough money left.

Hunger whispered in his stomach.

He looked at the package in his hand.

The client had already paid a deposit.

He walked into another printing shop a few streets away.

I am the manager’s nephew, he said smoothly. We printed extra stock. I can give it to you at half price.

The shop owner looked him over carefully.

His polished shoes.

His confident tone.

His restless eyes.

No thank you, the man replied coldly. Leave my shop.

Humiliated, Balarabe stormed out.

Instead of delivering the package, he dumped it into a gutter behind a closed store.

He wiped his hands as if he had done something insignificant.

He spent the rest of the afternoon inside a cinema, watching an action movie and convincing himself that small setbacks did not define big destinies.

By the time he returned home, he had already crafted a story.

They robbed me, Auntie, he said breathlessly as he entered the house. Knife point. They took everything. The package. My phone. Even the little money I had.

He bent slightly, pretending to be shaken.

Hajia Amina stood still.

She examined him carefully.

His shirt was clean.

No tears.

No dust.

His shoes shone under the light.

You were robbed, she repeated slowly.

Yes. Lagos is dangerous.

She did not argue.

She simply walked into her room and locked the door.

That night, she did not sleep.

She thought of her brother’s pride.

She thought of the boy she was trying to mold.

She thought of the city outside that did not forgive foolishness.

The next morning, Balarabe woke up and stepped into the living room.

His suitcase sat beside the front door.

He frowned.

What is this.

Hajia Amina stood by the window.

I called your father, she said quietly.

And.

He defended you. He said I am too hard on you. He said Lagos is corrupting his son.

Balarabe smirked slightly.

I told you.

She turned to face him.

Since you are too big for honest work and too important for discipline, go and find where your greatness lives.

She handed him a small amount of cash.

This is all I can give you.

He laughed.

A harsh sound.

This house was too small for me anyway. When I become a big man, do not come begging at my gate.

Her eyes softened with something close to sadness.

I pray you understand what life is before life teaches you in a way you cannot forget.

He picked up his suitcase and walked out.

The Lagos heat hit him immediately.

It felt heavier than before.

But he ignored it.

In his head, he was still a king.

He walked through busy streets searching for opportunity.

The first hotel he entered rejected him when he asked for a room.

No identification.

No reference.

The second hotel demanded advance payment he could not afford.

By afternoon, his money had reduced significantly.

He called his father.

Baba, I need more money.

For what.

Small issues.

Mallam Shehu sent some funds without asking too many questions.

My son must not suffer, he muttered proudly to himself back in Unguwan Doka.

But Lagos does not care about pride transferred through bank alerts.

By evening, Balarabe’s phone battery died.

He had nowhere to charge it.

He had nowhere to sleep.

The streetlights flickered on one by one.

The noise of the city changed from business to survival.

He sat on his suitcase near a bus stop, trying to appear confident.

Inside, fear was beginning to form.

For the first time in his life, there was no father nearby to defend him.

No aunt to house him.

No teacher to argue with.

Only the city.

And Lagos does not bow to golden children.

It tests them.

It stretches them.

And if they refuse to bend, it breaks them.

As night deepened, a group of street boys walked past him slowly.

One of them stopped.

Fine shirt, one of them muttered.

Another smiled.

Oga, you dey find something.

Balarabe forced a confident smile.

I am fine.

But for the first time, he was not fine.

And the night was only beginning.

End of Episode 4.

To be continued. Episode 5