Money, Power.. I Have Them All

"Coming!" A young man, around twenty, shouted breathlessly as he sprinted along the crowded street, dodging pedestrians and weaving through traffic. His sneakers slapped against the pavement, each step louder than the last, as his eyes stayed locked on the bus just ahead. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but his focus remained sharp.

"Come on, kid, we ain't got all day!" the bus driver called out, his gruff voice carrying through the open window. His hand lingered on the ignition, fingers tapping impatiently, eyes narrowing in the rearview mirror as he watched the boy's struggle to catch up. The bus began to roll forward, slowly, with the threat of leaving the boy behind.

The young man gritted his teeth, adrenaline surging through him. "I'm coming!" he gasped out again, pushing his legs harder, the muscles in his calves tightening. With a final burst of speed, his feet pounded against the asphalt as he closed the gap, his hand slamming against the side of the bus just as it picked up momentum.

He stumbled but managed to swing himself onto the steps, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The driver, an older man with a weathered face and tired eyes, glanced at him with a faint smirk. "You're lucky today, kid. If it were any other time, you'd be eating my dust."

The young man gave a half-hearted shrug, brushing a lock of damp hair from his forehead. "Yeah, well, today's not that day," he muttered, casting a brief glance at the driver before moving down the narrow aisle. His shoulders were still rising and falling with the effort of his sprint, but he tried to mask his exhaustion. His fingers brushed along the seats as he found an empty spot and sank into it, slouching low.

He fished out his earphones, his hand shaking slightly from the adrenaline still buzzing through his veins. The world around him blurred as he plugged them into his phone, scrolling through his playlist. A song started, and he leaned back, closing his eyes. His chest still rose and fell rapidly, but with each breath, he let the music drown out the noise of the bus, the city, the tension.

For a moment, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he let himself slip into the rhythm, the world outside his headphones fading into a distant hum.

This is Owner Ebilade, a twenty-year-old man with sharp eyes and a lean build, standing at the crossroads of his life in Nigeria, a country he loved and loathed in equal measure.

He often called it a backwater country—not out of malice, but frustration. If you were to ask him if he was proud of being Nigerian, his chest would swell, and he'd give a firm nod. Yes, of course. But ask him if he was proud of Nigeria, and the answer would shift, his lips twisting into a frown. A resounding no.

It wasn't the people he resented, no. It was the system—the corrupt government, the leaders who made a mockery of the country's potential. Whenever he thought of it, his jaw would tighten, his fists curling at his sides, knuckles pale with frustration. It felt like a weight pressing down on his chest, an invisible force suffocating the dreams of people like him, people who only wanted a chance to live better.

He didn't voice these feelings often; they stayed locked behind his quiet eyes. But inside, the disappointment simmered. He was proud to be Nigerian, but ashamed of what his country had become. Every news headline, every rumor of graft and greed, deepened the knot of anger in his stomach. He wanted no part of it anymore.

He had his own plans, his own life to focus on. That's why he'd packed his bags and headed to Lagos—a place people said was full of opportunity, where things moved fast and the energy was almost palpable. He didn't have much when he arrived, just a few worn-out clothes stuffed in a faded backpack, but his eyes carried a quiet determination.

He stood at the entrance of the city, taking in the chaos—the endless honking of cars, the shouts of vendors trying to sell their wares, the thick smell of street food mingling with exhaust fumes. His lips pressed together into a thin line. Was this what people called a bustling city? He wasn't sure yet. His expression remained hard, unreadable, as he stepped forward, merging into the flow of life around him.

Lagos. Once the capital of Nigeria. Now it was his escape, his chance to build a life far away from the crippling weight of the country's corruption.

Owner Ebilade took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing slightly, and moved forward into the city. Determined. Detached. Ready to carve out something new.

"Hey! Step out of your daydream and get out of the way!"

Ebilade blinked, pulled abruptly from his thoughts by a sharp, clear voice behind him. He turned, slightly startled, and his gaze landed on a young woman about his age, but there was something undeniably different about her—she carried herself with an air of confidence and maturity that he couldn't quite place. Her long wine-colored braids framed a face that left him momentarily speechless.

Her features were striking—smooth, fair skin that gleamed in the afternoon light, high cheekbones that added elegance to her soft, yet confident expression. Her almond-shaped black eyes were sharp and intense, framed by lashes that cast a faint shadow over her cheeks. Her full lips, painted with a subtle sheen, were pressed into a tight line, though not in anger, more in a sort of controlled impatience.

Ebilade's breath caught in his throat. He had to admit, in all the years he'd lived in Nigeria, he'd never seen anyone as beautiful as her. She was the kind of beauty that made the world around her fade away, and for a moment, he felt as if time itself had slowed.

He realized he had been staring, and her arched brow made it clear she had noticed. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience," he stammered, quickly stepping aside, his heart racing with a mix of embarrassment and awe. He kept his eyes down, avoiding further eye contact, not wanting to seem rude.

Her expression softened just a fraction, the tension in her shoulders easing. "Thank you," she said, her voice now lacking the edge from before. She began to walk past him, her posture elegant and composed, but after a few steps, she glanced back over her shoulder, curiosity lingering in her gaze.

She hadn't expected such humility from him. In her experience, if it had been any other man in this crowded city, they would have been arguing, puffing their chest, perhaps even hurling insults at her for daring to call them out. But not him. He had handled the situation with quiet grace. The contrast left her momentarily stunned.

Ebilade stood still for a moment longer, feeling the weight of her brief, curious look before she turned back and continued on her way. A strange, unfamiliar warmth spread in his chest. He watched her walk away, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, then shook his head, chuckling to himself as he carried on.