210 BILLION LIES

(210 Billion Lies)

Abubakar did not believe in luck.

Luck was for gamblers, for men who threw dice in dim corners and prayed to chance. Abubakar believed in numbers—clean, predictable, obedient numbers. Numbers didn’t lie. Numbers didn’t betray. Numbers didn’t disappear in the middle of the night and leave you gasping for air.

At least, that was what he told himself every morning as he adjusted his tie in the mirror of his Lekki apartment, staring into the reflection of a man who had mastered control.

On this particular morning, the Lagos sun rose like a promise—golden, relentless, unapologetic. From the glass windows of his apartment, the city stretched endlessly, alive with ambition. Cars crawled through traffic like ants. Traders shouted. Dreams moved. Money moved faster.

And Abubakar?

Abubakar controlled the movement of money.

---

He stepped into the banking hall at exactly 8:00 AM, not a minute early, not a second late. Discipline was his religion. The staff straightened instinctively when they saw him. Conversations softened. Files were arranged. Smiles appeared—some genuine, others rehearsed.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Morning, sir.”

“Sir.”

He acknowledged them with a slight nod, his expression calm, measured. Respect was something he had earned over years of precision, sleepless nights, and decisions that carried the weight of millions.

Behind the glass walls of his office, Abubakar sat like a man who owned not just his position—but his destiny.

His desk was spotless. Laptop aligned. Documents stacked perfectly. Pen placed at a precise angle.

Control.

Everything in his life was control.

---

But control, like silence, can be deceptive.

Because beneath that calm exterior, something else lived. Something quiet. Something dangerous.

Hunger.

Not the hunger of a poor man desperate to survive. No. That kind of hunger was loud, visible, understandable.

Abubakar’s hunger was different.

It was the hunger of a man who already had everything… but still wanted more.

---

“Sir, the audit files you requested.”

His secretary’s voice pulled him back. He looked up briefly, nodded, and accepted the documents.

“Leave them.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and once again, silence returned.

He flipped through the pages absentmindedly, scanning figures faster than most people could read words. His mind processed patterns, detected irregularities, predicted outcomes.

This was where he thrived.

Where others saw confusion, he saw clarity.

Where others hesitated, he decided.

---

At exactly 10:17 AM, his phone buzzed.

Not unusual. His phone buzzed all the time. Clients. Colleagues. Head office.

But something about this vibration felt… different.

Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was memory.

Or maybe…

It was fate, knocking quietly before breaking the door down.

---

He glanced at the screen.

Unknown number.

For a moment, he considered ignoring it. Unknown numbers often meant unnecessary conversations. And Abubakar hated unnecessary things.

But something—something he couldn’t explain—made his thumb hover… then press.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then—

“Abubakar.”

The voice was smooth. Familiar. Wrapped in confidence and something deeper… something harder to name.

Abubakar froze.

Not physically. His body remained still. But inside—inside, something shifted.

Because that voice…

He knew that voice.

---

“Who is this?” he asked, though he already knew.

A soft chuckle came through the line.

“You’ve become a big man now… you don’t recognize old friends?”

And just like that—

The past walked into the present without permission.

---

Usman.

The name didn’t need to be spoken. It existed in the space between them, heavy with years, memories, and something unfinished.

Images flashed in Abubakar’s mind—dusty streets, shared meals, laughter that came easily when life was simple and dreams were still innocent.

They had been boys once.

Brothers, almost.

The kind of friendship that felt unbreakable… until life tested it.

And life always tests everything.

---

“Usman,” Abubakar finally said, his voice lower now, more controlled. “It’s been a long time.”

“Too long,” Usman replied. “You sound different.”

“People change.”

“Do they?”

The question lingered.

Not as a challenge… but as a warning.

---

Abubakar leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly.

He had learned, over the years, that the past rarely returned without a reason.

And when it did…

It was never simple.

“So,” he said carefully, “what do you want?”

Another pause.

Then Usman laughed—a sound that carried confidence, power… and something dangerously persuasive.

“Straight to business. I like that. You’ve really become a banker.”

“This is a bank,” Abubakar replied coldly. “Not a reunion.”

“Relax,” Usman said softly. “I didn’t call to waste your time.”

And then—

He said the words that would change everything.

---

“I need a favor.”

---

The air in the room seemed to tighten.

Abubakar didn’t respond immediately.

Because somewhere deep inside him—beyond logic, beyond discipline, beyond control—

A voice whispered:

This is where it begins.

---

Outside, Lagos continued to move.

Cars honked. People shouted. Money changed hands.

Life went on, unaware that in a quiet office, behind a glass door, a decision was about to be made—

A small decision.

An innocent decision.

A decision that would grow… and grow…

Until it swallowed everything.

---

And Abubakar, the man who trusted numbers more than people…

Was about to trust the wrong person.