The four of them in the room froze. Mama Ronke’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a sob, while Uncle Bayo’s eyes darted frantically from the door to the open bag of millions.
The knock came again, harder this time, vibrating through the thin walls of the apartment.
—Open the gate, or we will open it ourselves,— the cold voice called out.
Uncle Bayo lunged forward, grabbing Dami by the shoulder, his voice a frantic whisper.
—Zip the bag! Hide it under the bed! If you give it to them, we get nothing and we still die!
—No,— Dami said, twisting out of his uncle’s grip. The fear that had been punching his ribs suddenly cleared, replaced by the same sharp focus that had won him seven academic awards two years ago. —Those are not the police, and that is not the CEO’s voice. Look at the documents, Uncle. This was a setup.
Dami’s eyes had caught a specific page in the contract papers—a termination letter addressed to a head of logistics at Adewale Roads and Bridges Ltd, dated just yesterday. Whoever dropped that bag hadn’t lost it. They were hiding it, or running with it. And now, they had tracked Dami’s scrap cart.
Before Uncle Bayo could protest, Dami snatched the documents, shoved them into his waistband beneath his torn shirt, and zipped the heavy black bag.
—Papa, hold the door,— Dami commanded. For the first time in his life, he sounded like the man of the house.
Papa Sola, his jaw set, stepped toward the entrance and bolted the thin wooden door just as heavy footsteps crunched across the compound’s flooded yard.
Dami didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the heavy travel bag, hauled it toward the small, rusted window at the back of the room that faced a swampy, overgrown alleyway, and pushed it through. He scrambled out behind it, his feet sinking into the thick mud just as the front door of their apartment was violently kicked open.
He heard his mother shriek and his father shout, but Dami was already running. He dragged the heavy bag through the pouring rain, his lungs burning, his bare feet sliding over broken glass and sharp stones in the alley. He didn’t stop until he reached the main road, dripping wet and covered in muck, and flagged down a passing yellow danfo bus heading toward Victoria Island.
Two hours later, the receptionist at the towering glass headquarters of Adewale Roads and Bridges Ltd looked up with deep disgust. Standing in her pristine, air-conditioned lobby was a young man soaked to the skin, caked in mud, holding a battered black travel bag.
—Get out before I call security,— she snapped.
—Tell Chief Adewale Balogun that his board meeting at 2:00 P.M. is a trap,— Dami said, his voice ringing clearly across the marble lobby. —And tell him I have the contract files his CFO claimed were destroyed in the office fire last week.
The receptionist paused, her hand hovering over the security button. The mention of the fire—a heavily guarded company secret—changed everything. She picked up the internal phone with a trembling hand.
Less than three minutes later, Dami was escorted into a massive penthouse office.
Sitting behind a mahogany desk was Chief Adewale Balogun. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in a month. His tie was loose, his eyes were bloodshot, and surrounding him were three stern-faced men in dark suits—federal auditors.
—Who are you?— Chief Adewale asked, his voice exhausted. —And what is this nonsense about a trap?
Dami walked forward, lifted the heavy black bag, and slammed it onto the pristine mahogany desk. The zipper flew open, revealing the stacked bundles of millions and the official company stamps.
The auditors gasped. Chief Adewale stood up so fast his chair rolled backward into the glass wall.
—Where did you find this?— the Chief breathed, his hands shaking as he touched the cash. —My Chief Financial Officer told the board yesterday that this liquidation money was stolen by armed bandits on the expressway. They are voting to oust me as CEO in thirty minutes for gross negligence!
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