"Okay, Commissioner. Thank you, sir."
Daniel's voice was calm, polite, but firm.
"No, no, I'm fine. I'm good. Just help detain him—and also his boss. Tunde Gbenga, yes, that's the na. Just hold the two of them for now. They were the ones who sold the house."
He nodded as he listened to the response, eyes darting around the quiet car park where he had pulled over. The engine humd low in the background.
"Thank you, sir. I'll make sure to tell my uncle how well you've been taking good care of . Truly, thank you."
He ended the call with a small smile, resting the phone in his lap. For a brief second, there was a flicker of satisfaction on his face—the kind that ca from feeling like you were finally getting justice. But just as quickly, it disappeared, replaced by a frown of frustration and a distant look in his eyes.
Daniel had been the one who called the police on Kunle. After all, Kunle had been the one who introduced him to the house—his supposed dream ho. At the ti, everything seed perfect: the location, the price, the timing. In his excitent to move out and finally have a place of his own, he had rushed into the deal without consulting his lawyers. He had only skimd through the docunts and signed them like a man in a hurry to start a new life. And now, it was all catching up to him.
He had heard the horror stories—fake land sales, duplicate docunts, title disputes—but he never thought he would be a victim. Especially not him. He was Daniel Otedola, nephew of Alhaji Folarin Otedola. Things like that weren't supposed to happen to him. But now… now he wasn't so sure.
And the worst part? He had already made that house his own.
After all the effort of furnishing it, bringing in custom pieces, painting the walls in his favorite shades, designing the living room exactly the way he wanted… after all the excitent, the independence, the sense of finally having his own space away from his mother and the suffocating luxury of his childhood ho—now he was being told he might not even own it? No way. No way in hell.
"Are you sure you did the right thing?" ca Tolu's voice from across the car. She was sitting opposite him, her tone a mix of concern and caution.
Daniel glanced at her, blinking away his thoughts before answering, "Don't worry. It's just this guy—Kunle. He's the one who introduced to the house. Well, technically, it's his boss who sold it, but Kunle led there."
He said it while tapping distractedly on his phone, trying to stay composed, but the irritation was clear in his body language—the tight jaw, the tapping foot, the quick glances at his notifications.
Tolu furrowed her brows. "I know that. I'm asking if you're sure about having him arrested. What if he really didn't know anything? What about the boss? The actual one who sold the land—Tunde, right?"
She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. Tolu was a careful thinker, soone who read the news religiously and understood how things worked—especially in a place like Nigeria. She had seen enough stories about innocent people being used as scapegoats. And she could already see the police zeroing in on the small fish just because the big one had gone underground.
Daniel, a little more sheltered in matters like this, didn't fully grasp the nuance. He was used to things being taken care of for him.
He sighed. "Tunde's number isn't going through. It's been dead all day. Kunle's the only one we can reach right now. Don't worry—the cops are just holding him for questioning. It's not like he's being fully detained or anything."
Tolu didn't look convinced, but she stayed quiet. She could tell he wasn't in the mood to hear her full thoughts.
A mont passed in silence, then she spoke again. "What about your uncle? Didn't he say he's already getting to the bottom of this? Maybe it's best to let him handle it."
Daniel nodded slowly, the weight of everything pressing down on his chest. "Yeah… I guess."
He leaned back in the seat and exhaled deeply, the sigh lingering in the air like a fog.
Tolu looked at him again, this ti with more softness. "What's wrong?" she asked quietly.
He didn't respond right away. Then, in a low voice, he said, "I just really like that house. I was so, so happy I could finally move out. Be away from ho. From my mom. Have a place that's just mine. You know?"
He paused. "I was proud of it. It finally felt like I was doing sothing on my own. And now…"
His words trailed off. He didn't need to finish the sentence. The pain in his eyes said enough.
Tolu tried not to smile, but a small laugh escaped her lips. Daniel turned to her, mildly irritated. "It's not funny."
That only made her laugh harder. "Sorry, sorry," she said quickly, covering her mouth. "I'm not laughing at you. It's just the way you said it… like a little boy who lost his toy."
Daniel shook his head, groaning. "You see your life?"
"I'm sorry, abeg. Don't worry," she said, still giggling. "Let's trust Uncle Folarin. He'll sort this out. Nothing's going to happen. You'll still have your house. We'll laugh about this soon."
Daniel muttered, "Yeah," though the sadness still clung to his voice.
Tolu gave him a reassuring nudge on the arm. "Co on. Let's go back to the house. We'll finish arranging everything. That should cheer you up. I an, we didn't drag all those boxes around for nothing."
A tiny smile tugged at his lips. "You're right."
Together, they started the drive back to the house—Daniel's house, at least for now. The place that held his dreams, his pride, and his effort.
But as they drove off, both of them were too caught up in the mont to spare another thought for the boy who had been taken away by the police.
Sowhere far from them, inside the luxurious walls of Alhaji Folarin Otedola's mansion—Uncle Folarin to them—a new developnt was already unfolding...
The mansion stood imposingly on the bustling Lagos mainland, a colossal fortress of wealth and power in a city that never slept. It was a sprawling estate of gleaming white walls, polished granite floors that reflected the midday sun, and manicured gardens stretching wide enough to host a small village. Palms and flamboyant trees swayed gently in the breeze as the distant sounds of Lagos traffic faded behind thick iron gates guarded by alert security personnel. This was Alhaji Folarin Otedola's domain — a king's castle in a land of chaos and opportunity.
Inside, the air was cool despite the afternoon heat, cooled by sophisticated climate control and punctuated with the subtle scent of expensive tobacco. Rich mahogany paneling lined the walls, bookshelves stuffed with leather-bound volus and financial reports gave the room a gravitas befitting its owner. At the heart of this sanctuary was the ho office — a cavernous room dominated by a massive desk stacked with papers, a sleek laptop, and multiple phone lines.
Alhaji Folarin Otedola strolled slowly along the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the lush garden outside, a thick cigar clenched between his fingers, sending up fragrant plus of smoke that curled lazily toward the high ceiling. His sharp eyes, hardened by decades of navigating Nigeria's labyrinthine business and political landscapes, flicked to the man beside him — a nervous promoted senior executive, sweating lightly under the weight of the Alhaji's intense gaze.
"Sir, I don't understand," the man said hesitantly, his voice betraying a hint of fear. "Why must we increase these fees? Charging custors for email ssages they never signed up for — it's... it's risky."
Alhaji's eyes narrowed sharply. His voice erupted like thunder, cutting through the heavy air: "What do you an, risky? Are you saying there is sothing wrong with the plan?" His tone was not a question but a challenge — one that could cost the man dearly if he answered wrong.
"Sorry, sir," the young man stamred, lowering his eyes quickly.
"Exactly," the Alhaji barked with a dark chuckle, tapping ash from his cigar into a crystal ashtray. "We are going to charge all our custors. Everyone. Those banks are losing money left, right, and center. If they can't find a way to make an extra naira or two from these 'email fees,' then what exactly are they doing?"
The senior executive swallowed hard, trying to maintain his composure. "But sir, what if they call back demanding refunds? What if they find out they were charged for services they never subscribed to?"
A slow smile crept across the Alhaji's face, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Simple. Just give those who complain their money back. Easy."
The man blinked, confused. "But—"
Alhaji sighed deeply, shaking his head in amused disbelief. "This boy is slow oo," he muttered quietly, his voice dripping with impatience.
"We have more than thirty million custors using our banks, and even if half of them call back demanding refunds — half, mind you — the rest won't bother. They'll grumble under their breath, but they won't escalate it. The money we collect from the silent majority is more than enough to cover the refunds to the few. It's small, nearly dismissible," he explained, waving a hand as if swatting away a minor annoyance.
The senior executive's eyes widened as understanding dawned on him. "Ooo... I see now, sir."
"Yes, now go. Attend to this imdiately. We cannot afford delays."
As the man scurried out of the office, shoulders hunched and steps quickened, Alhaji Folarin Otedola remained standing by the window, watching the young man's retreating figure with barely concealed disdain.
"This one is slow," he muttered to himself, flicking ash from his cigar. "Where did Seun find this boy?" His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "I need soone sharper, soone who understands the ga better."
But the displeasure soon lted into a slow, satisfied smile as his thoughts turned to more pleasurable matters.
"That new yacht..." he mused aloud, eyes gleaming with anticipation. "When this money starts rolling in, I should have enough to pay it back... finally."
He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, already picturing the sleek white hull slicing through turquoise waters, the sun glinting off polished brass fixtures.
"Two hundred naira each, and even if only half the custors pay without complaint, that's three billion naira — roughly two and a half million dollars i just need to do it 2 more tis and i would get my coup back for the yatch."
His smile grew wider, the scent of success and power intoxicating. The empire was about to get a lot richer.
Just as Alhaji Folarin took another long drag of his thick cigar, lost in the sweet fantasy of waves, champagne, and the deck of his soon-to-be yacht, a staff mber approached hurriedly from the marble-tiled corridor.
"Alhaji... Alhaji, your phone, sir," the man said, respectfully extending a gold-trimd phone encrusted with subtle diamonds — the kind of indulgence only soone like Folarin would own without irony.
Alhaji turned slowly, his gaze shifting to the device like a lion acknowledging a lesser beast. He took it without urgency, his fingers heavy with rings gripping the phone as he glanced at the screen. A na flashed across it.
His face lit up instantly.
"Ooo..." he chuckled deeply, a grin spreading across his face like a man who had just been told he won the lottery — except, Alhaji Folarin never needed to win anything. He already owned most of the board.
He brought the phone to his ear, the cigar still burning between his fingers as he leaned back and let out a booming laugh that echoed through the garden.
"Minister of Housing! How are you, my brother?!"
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