Feeling Entitled Episode 5

Feeling Entitled

Episode 5: The Street Has No Crown

Balarabe did not see himself as expelled.

He saw himself as elevated.

As he walked away from Hajia Amina’s house with his suitcase rolling behind him, he convinced himself that he was simply stepping into destiny. He told himself that greatness required bold moves. That small houses and strict aunts were obstacles meant to be left behind.

He checked into the cheapest motel he could find near a busy junction.

The building looked tired. The paint peeled from the walls. The hallway smelled of damp air and stale smoke. But to Balarabe, it was temporary. Just a waiting room for success.

He paid for two nights.

Forty eight hours of confidence.

He lay on the stained mattress staring at the cracked ceiling, imagining business deals. He scrolled through his contacts hoping for an opportunity to magically appear. He even practiced how he would speak when he finally met someone important.

By the third morning, the illusion cracked.

A loud knock shook his door.

Payment or pack out, the motel manager shouted.

Balarabe adjusted his shirt and opened the door halfway.

Do you know who my father is. Mallam Shehu of the Civil Service. Send the bill to him.

The manager burst into laughter so hard he had to grab the wall.

This is not government office, boy. This is business. Out.

Within minutes, Balarabe stood on the sidewalk with his suitcase beside him.

The Lagos sun showed no sympathy.

Heat rose from the ground like punishment.

His stomach growled.

He had never known hunger this way. Not the mild inconvenience of delayed lunch. Real hunger. The kind that empties your thoughts and fills your chest with weakness.

He walked along the roadside and approached a trader selling secondhand clothes.

How much will you buy this for, he asked, holding up one of his expensive lace outfits.

The trader looked at it briefly.

Two thousand.

Balarabe stared at him.

This cost thousands more than that.

The trader shrugged.

It is used. Take it or leave it.

Pride wrestled with hunger.

Hunger won.

He took the money.

He bought bread and water.

He sat under a bridge chewing slowly while cars roared overhead.

Around him, young boys weaved through traffic selling gala and soda. Others tapped on car windows asking for coins. Some aggressively wiped windshields without permission.

I cannot do that, he muttered to himself. I am not like them.

But the city does not recognize titles whispered under bridges.

By the end of the week, his money was gone.

He had nowhere to sleep.

Eventually, he found himself inside an uncompleted building with a group of area boys. They laughed at his accent. They mocked the way he still tried to keep his posture straight.

Oga Prince, one of them joked. Where your palace.

He forced a smile.

Temporary setback.

To stay, he had to contribute.

He refused to beg.

Instead, he tried something else.

During evening traffic, he would approach cars and speak confidently.

My father’s company is recruiting. If you want slot, small administrative fee.

Most drivers ignored him.

Some cursed.

One man nearly chased him.

Desperation sharpened him.

Soon, he graduated from fake recruitment stories to quick snatches. A distracted phone. A loose purse. A bag placed carelessly.

He told himself it was survival.

He told himself the world owed him.

One evening, as he leaned against a concrete pillar watching traffic crawl forward, one of the boys beside him asked casually.

Why not go back home.

Balarabe sneered.

Let them think they won. Never.

He looked toward the horizon where city lights blinked faintly.

My family is meeting soon. I have sent word. They will send my share of the family land. It is my right. They are the reason I am here.

The boy laughed.

Land does not chase you to Lagos, he said.

But Balarabe believed his own story.

Even with grime staining his shirt and dust clinging to his skin, he still carried entitlement like perfume.

He did not see himself as fallen.

He saw himself as misunderstood.

Days later, while he stood at a busy intersection waiting for traffic to freeze, a bus slowed down nearby.

Inside that bus sat a young woman named Zainab.

She had once lived near Hajia Amina’s house.

She recognized him instantly.

The confident boy who had spoken loudly about greatness was now thinner. Dirt covered his sleeves. His eyes were restless.

She watched quietly as he leaned into a car window, speaking aggressively.

She saw the driver push him away.

She saw the anger flash across his face.

Zainab carried a secret.

She had been at the printing press the day he claimed he was robbed. She knew the truth about the package he dumped. She had overheard conversations between Hajia Amina and her neighbor.

And now she had seen him under the bridge.

The bus moved forward slowly.

Balarabe did not notice her.

He was too busy arguing with a driver who refused to hand over money.

But Zainab kept watching.

She understood something Balarabe did not.

Entitlement survives only when someone feeds it.

On the street, there was no father. No aunt. No praise.

Only consequences.

As the sun dipped below the buildings and traffic thickened, a police siren wailed faintly in the distance.

Area boys scattered instinctively.

Balarabe hesitated one second too long.

That second would matter.

Because the city was done testing gently.

And the next lesson would not be quiet.

End of Episode 5.

To be continued.