The court gleamed under the evening sun, lights burning bright like a second sunset. The tension in the air was thick, but the roaring fans didn't seem to care. All they wanted—was a victor.
A single name echoed from the stands—
"Ilyas! Ilyas! Ilyas!"
He stood at the center of it all—his handsome face striking under the evening lights, long dreads cascading like a model's, one side laced with red wool, the top crowned in pure white. His tattooed skin glistened with sweat, giving him the look of a man fresh from a lover's arms. Towering at an insane height of 6'5", chest rising and falling with steady breaths, he held the ball like a king gripping his scepter. The court beneath him felt like a kingdom laid bare, and around him, his teammates formed a circle—eyes blazing with trust, their hopes resting at his feet.
The scoreboard flashed:
60 – 60.
Only one chance remained.
The ball spun through his fingers like a promise.
Then, he moved—like thunder clothed in skin.
A crossover. A behind-the-back step. He drove through defenders like a god among mortals. The crowd held its breath as he leapt, defying gravity, slicing through time itself.
He soared.
"There he goes!"
Commentator 1: "The most outstanding power forward—Ilyas Ayomide! Fresh off an injury and yet, in mere minutes, he's changed the fate of the game!"
Commentator 2: "If this boy had started the match, we wouldn't be talking about a close game—this would have been a burial!"
Commentator 1: "But with the pride of their roots burning in their chest, they can't afford to slow now. Just minutes to go… let's see how this tale ends."
The final pass came. A beautiful lob arced toward the rim.
Ilyas caught it mid-air and twisted in flight—
Reverse slam.
The stadium exploded.
Cameras flashed.
People cried.
Time stopped.
⸻
Then—
GBÁ!
A rubber slipper kissed his back with the fury of a thousand ancestors.
"Ṣé o ní lọ lesson ni?! Ṣé o mọ pé agogo mẹwa ti kọjá bayi?!"
("Aren't you going for your tutorial?! Do you know it's already past ten?!")
The court vanished.
The crowd turned into cracked walls and a flickering bulb.
The roaring fans? Just his younger siblings cackling like mischievous spirits outside the room.
One pointed and laughed. Another recorded on a cheap phone.
And in the middle of it all stood his mother—Queen of Thunder, Wielder of Rubber Slippers, wrapped in a faded Ankara and righteous fury.
As he woke up from the paradise of a dream he longed for, the only thing that remained the same was his height, hot face, and roughed-up dread—clear signs he was a bed dancer. He is dark, not too dark; his complexion is like a Spanish look. Although there wasn't any sign of red or white wool planted on him—as his mom would kill him if there was—the only reason he had the dread on in the first place was because he was born with it. In the native Yoruba tribe, it was considered a blessing, and they would call it Dada.
"Olorun má je kí ọmọ mi má lo s'ílé ẹ̀kọ́. You better carry your lazy body go baff right now before I help you wake up well."
("God forbid my child refuses to chase knowledge. Go and bathe before I really wake you up with sense.")
Ilyas sat up groggily, holding his back and his pride at the same time.
"Ah mummy, na dream I dey dream nau…" he whined.
"Dream?! Asojú aye, dream tí yó ko ẹ lọ s'Ibadan—go and bathe jare!"
(Dream? Ambassador of Sleep, a dream that'll carry you straight to failure—go and bathe abeg!)
His younger sister mimicked his dream dunk from outside.
Another shouted, "NBA star wey dey piss for bed!"
Ilyas groaned.
Not from pain. Not from fatigue.
Just the general frustration of being woken up by the most Nigerian alarm clock of all — his mother's hands.
"Ilyas! O ya get up! Tutorial no go wait for you!"
Whap! Whap! Whap!
The thin ends of her scarf connected with his back as she stood at the edge of his bed, her brows already raised, her slippers ready in case the scarf wasn't effective enough.
"Ah ah, mummy naw—"
"Don't 'mummy naw' me! Before I use this full wrapper on your destiny—get up!"
He sat up slowly, rubbing sleep from his eyes with a scowl. His afro was all over the place, pillow lines creased his cheek. He looked around the room like he had beef with the walls.
Grumpy. Groggy. Guilty.
All the G's.
Dragging his feet across the tiled floor, he grabbed his towel from the hanger and headed into the bathroom, still muttering under his breath.
"Shey I talk say I wan go Harvard? Na tutorial I dey go…"
Cold water hit his skin like truth. It stung, but it woke him up.
The soap barely foamed—too much water in it already. He cursed under his breath again and scrubbed faster.
Minutes later, towel around his neck and sneakers half-laced, he stepped outside.
The air was cool—early Lagos cool—the kind that promised heat in less than an hour. As Ilyas pulled his gate open, he noticed the gate across the street being pulled from the inside too.
"As he stepped out, he met his ride-or-die, Jason, emerging from the house he had just been wondering about—curious who it was that had tried to open the gate."
Jason, though not as tall as Ayo, he still stood at an impressive 6'2"—handsome, with a clean low-cut fade and earrings in both ears. He had a different vibe from Ayo—more mature, yet somehow more vibrant and flirty. Jason is purely dark, but with a flirty look that softened his edges. It was the kind of energy that drew people in without trying. Jason had grown up in the orphanage just across from Ayo's house, and that background shaped the confidence he carried today.
Jason.
Right on time. Almost like they planned it.
From the front of the orphanage, Jason stretched lazily, adjusting his backpack, then looked up and smirked.
"Wetin dem use wake you?"
Ilyas returned the smirk.
"Slippers. You nko?"
"Belt," Jason replied, voice dry.
They both burst into quiet laughter as they fell into step together, side by side like always.
"Omo…" Jason muttered.
"Omo for real," Ilyas echoed.
The street began to stir around them.
A woman poured water in front of her shop.
A child cried somewhere down the block.
A tired generator coughed to life behind a compound wall.
The boys walked on — two young men from different worlds but the same hunger, headed toward the same future.
The tutorial center wasn't far, but they didn't rush.
The silence between them was brotherly.
Not empty.
Just understood.
Their mornings always started this way —
With laughter.
With slippers and belts.
With a little pain…
But even more purpose.
The tutorial center sat at the far end of the neighborhood, a thirty–minute walk if you didn't stop to gist or chase trouble — which meant Ayo and Jason rarely got there on time.
This morning was no different.
The sun had just started heating up the dusty street, and the air carried that faint mix of exhaust fumes, frying akara, and the kind of dreams Lagos boys sell themselves every day.
Two young men walked side by side — Jason with his easy swagger, and Ayo with his careless confidence — a pair that had already earned a reputation neither of them seemed interested in fixing.
As they approached the center, the noise of the street bled into the noise of the compound. Some students hung outside, leaning against the low fence, pretending to wait for someone. Others were inside already, not because they were serious, but because they were hiding from the masters.
The tutorial was built like a secondary school, but that's where the resemblance ended.
It was an odd creature — too wild to be a proper school, too reckless to be a real university.
Students sorted themselves into tribes:
– The Baddies — wigs laid, nails sharp, always scrolling Instagram mid-class.
– Baby Gangsters — loud mouths with bigger dreams than pocket money.
– Nerds — hunched over textbooks as if trying to wrestle knowledge into their skulls.
– Romantics — writing love notes instead of lecture notes.
– The Flamboyant Few — dressing like they were on a runway in Milan.
– Bullies, Sport Fanatics, Gamers, and the ever-elusive Normal People who somehow survived it all,
But among all these groups, there were the ones with the biggest reputations for trouble — and Ayo and Jason were right at the top of that list.
These two had:
Led half the boys in the center to the basketball court in the middle of class.
Shown up late more times than anyone could count.
And never scored higher than 150 out of 400 in their JAMB CBT mock tests.
It was a drama stage without curtains — and for good-looking guys like Jason and Ayo, the spotlight was always waiting.
The moment they stepped into the yard, two of Jason's countless flings spotted him and made a beeline his way.
But before they could even smile too hard, his main girl — a thug-like baddie with hoop earrings and an aura that could slap — emerged from nowhere, claiming her territory without a single word.
Jason just grinned. He liked trouble.
Ayo, meanwhile, was immune to such chaos. His girlfriend might not be a baddie, but she was fiercely possessive — the type that could walk into a room and silence all possibilities.
Though she was still in a lecture
"My guy! Na how far nah?" Ayo heard from across the yard.
"My loveeeee!" squealed Sarah, one of Jason's flings, stretching the word like she was about to faint.
"Which your love? He's mine joor," another girl shot back with her neck rolling.
"Àwon ọmọ wèrè," muttered Tayo, the street's unofficial egbon-aburo — not quite older, not quite younger, but somehow everyone's problem.
At the center of the baby gangster squad stood Anthony, a.k.a. Short Joshua.
Best boxer in the tutorial.
Shortest in height, tallest in pride.
Joshua eyed them like a school prefect in a parallel universe.
"Why una late? Una no serious. Una don dey stroll come tutorial like say na fashion show. My master dey shout since," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You know say class don start like one hour ago?"
"Shut up wèrè," Ayo replied, smirking. "You don dey smoke this early morning again abi?"
"If you want, just ask, wèrè," Joshua fired back, already laughing.
Their banter was cut short by a sharp voice from across the compound. One of the assistant tutors stood at the door to the office, pointing straight at them.
"AYO! JASON! Master dey call una — now!"
The baby gangster crew went silent for a moment, then erupted in mock funeral sounds.
"Ah! He don spit una name. Una don die today," Tayo announced with the enthusiasm of someone watching a live Nollywood drama.
"This one still dey press yansh," another gangster teased, pointing at Jason, who simply adjusted his backpack with a sly smile.
"Wèrè, shut up jare," Ayo said, though he was already bracing himself for whatever was coming.
The walk to the head master's office felt like marching towards execution.
The corridor stretched longer than usual, its cracked tiles echoing their footsteps.
The air was thicker here, filled with the faint scent of old chalk and authority.
Some students peeked from the classroom doors, grinning as if to say, Better you than me.
Jason walked like a man going for a job interview he had no intention of taking seriously.
Ayo walked like someone who had been here before — many times.
The closer they got, the more the muffled voice of the master grew clearer, cutting through the air like a cutlass through tall grass.
And yet, there was a certain calm in their steps — the calm of boys who had danced in this storm too many times to count.
The air in the narrow hallway seemed to grow thicker with each step Ayo and Jason took, the silence between them laced with unspoken dread. The smell of old varnish and faint chalk dust clung to the walls as they approached the headmaster's office — the lion's den.
Only one thing stood between them and judgment: a single knock on that worn mahogany door.
Ayo's hand hovered midair, reluctant.
Jason, smirking like a man who'd never learned to fear the cane, nudged him.
"Just knock, nah… wetin dey worry you self?" Jason muttered, reaching forward as if to do it for him.
But before his knuckles could make contact, the door creaked open from the inside.
Out stepped the self-proclaimed guardian of discipline, Simon — the tutorial's representative and resident pain in the neck. Everyone called him Mr. I Too Know because of his irritating habit of talking like an old man who had lived three lives and read every book in existence.
He shot them a smug glance, leaned slightly forward, and hissed under his breath,
"Heh… you two are finished."
Before either boy could respond, a voice erupted from within — deep, sharp, and laced with fury.
"What are you two doing there? Should I come and meet you myself?"
It was Headmaster Tunde Oluwabamishe.
Ayo and Jason stiffened like guilty children caught with their hands in the biscuit jar.
"No sir, no sir!" they chorused, stepping inside like prisoners answering the gallows call.
The headmaster sat behind his desk — the heavy, carved wood looming like a judge's bench. On either side of him, the shadows from the wide windows cut across the room like prison bars. There were empty chairs, but they dared not sit.
"Do you two know why I called you here?" he asked, voice cold as a wet harmattan morning.
Ayo cleared his throat. "Because… we caused trouble recently, sir."
Tunde leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Recently? This is not the first time I'm calling you here for that. But this time… it is different. You fools won't change, no matter how much I talk. And you haven't even heard the latest news — because all you do is goof around, glued to those blasted phones. That Sim and his gang won't tell you anything either."
Ayo and Jason kept their eyes down, the seconds stretching unbearably.
"The news is simple," the headmaster continued. "Your JAMB examination has been moved forward. To next week. Reprinting starts tomorrow morning."
The words struck like a slap.
Ayo's jaw slackened. Jason's smirk dissolved instantly, his trademark playboy face wrinkling into panic. For a heartbeat, neither spoke — their bravado evaporated, leaving only the raw fear of two boys staring at disaster.
The JAMB exam was supposed to be a month away. That was the only reason they'd been coming to this tutorial center in the first place. Now? Their entire plan was in shambles.
"What… sir?" Jason croaked, his voice cracking.
"I thought we still had one month."
If they failed this exam, it wouldn't just be a problem — it would be war at home.
Ayo's mind was already spiraling. The truth was ugly: neither of them had read a single meaningful page. They were only writing the exam because their families had forced them to, as though passing it would miraculously transform them into scholars.
Two years ago, they had thrown themselves at the NBA draft with everything they had — not once, but twice. Both times, they failed to get picked. School had been an afterthought; basketball was life. They spent their savings training under Dikaku, the ex-pro with hands like steel and lungs like iron, believing his connections would finally get them into the league.
That was the plan.
Train.
Dominate.
Get drafted.
And if the draft results came before the JAMB date? Well, their families would forget about school altogether.
But now… the timeline had flipped. JAMB was next week. The draft results? Weeks away. If they failed the exam, they'd be in hell long before they even knew if their basketball dreams were alive.
And tonight — of all nights — was the underground Vipers' final match. The game that could define their reputations in the streetball world.
Ayo glanced at Jason. Jason glanced at Ayo.
For once, there were no jokes.
Just the quiet, heavy understanding of two boys caught between their dream… and the whip of reality.
To be continued…