A Shattered Peace
"What? How did this happen?" David's voice trembled as he clutched the phone tighter, his knuckles whitening. On the other end, Favour's words had struck him like a sudden storm, leaving him breathless.
He paused, swallowing hard before responding in a low, shaken voice, "I don't really know the full details… but from what I could gather, he was shot at while in his place of work." The weight of the words pressed down on him, each syllable heavy with grief.
"I'm so sorry, David. I really am. I didn't even know," Favour murmured, her tone laced with pity. He could hear it—the softness, the hesitation, the unspoken sorrow. It made his chest tighten.
"It's alright, Favour. Don't worry about it," he replied, forcing a steadiness into his voice that he didn't feel.
"Okay," she said quickly, as if relieved to move past the moment. Then, just like that, her tone shifted—light, almost careless, as though the conversation about his father had never happened.
"So, I saw your invitation," she chirped. "And don't you think it's too early for a party? Since you just lost your dad?"
David stiffened. There was something off about her voice—it didn't sound like genuine concern. No, it was laced with something else… excitement? Anticipation? As if she was masking her eagerness behind a thin veil of sympathy.
He exhaled faintly before answering, "No, it's not too early. To be honest, this party will help me take my mind off this tragic experience. It'll temporarily ease the pain… the tears."
Favour didn't hesitate. "Alright. So, will there be alcohol?"
The question hit him like a slap. He sighed, rubbing his temple. "Sorry, Favour, but I made a promise to Mum. I won't allow alcohol at the party."
Her response was immediate, sharp, and demanding. "Listen, David. If you want me to attend the party, there must be drinks—and it must be alcohol. Besides, you can't possibly forget about your pain if you don't drink a little."
David's breath caught. He was stunned. This wasn't the Favour he knew. She wasn't even eighteen yet—same age as him. They'd been to countless parties together, but never once had he seen her drink. Never once had she asked for it.
His mind raced. He needed to decide—and fast. On one side: his promise to his mother. On the other: Favour's ultimatum. And he needed her there. Because this wasn't just any party.
This was the night he planned to finally ask her out.
The night he hoped to steal his very first kiss.
"Hello? Hello? Hey, David, are you still there?" Favour's voice snapped him back to reality.
"Oh, sorry, Favour. I was just… lost in thought," he muttered.
"So?" she pressed. "Will there be alcohol or not?"
He could hear it now—the impatience, the hunger in her voice. She didn't care about his promise. She didn't care about his grief.
All she wanted was the alcohol.
And all he wanted was her.
"Yes, Favour," he finally said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "There will be alcohol."
Her squeal of delight was instantaneous. "Thank you, David! And also… David?"
"Yes?"
"I love you. Bye, bye!"
The line went dead.
David stood frozen, his heart pounding. Did she just say…? A slow, disbelieving smile spread across his face. Shock and elation warred inside him. She loves me?
"Wow," he whispered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "What just happened?"
Then, with a dark chuckle, he added, "Sorry, Mom. But I'll have to break your rules… and my promises."
Because now? If he asked Favour out, she would definitely say yes.
The Price of a Party.
The moment he ended the call with Favour, David sprang into action. He pulled out his phone, opened their group chat, and typed:
"Alcohol will be served at the party."
Before he could even lock his screen, his phone exploded with notifications—65 replies, 200 likes, and a flood of new RSVPs. Everyone was coming now.
Just because of the alcohol.
A bitter taste filled his mouth. Their lifestyles disgusted him—the way they chased after cheap thrills, the way they cared more about getting drunk than about him, about his loss.
But he didn't care.
Because the only thing that mattered was Favour.
The party? The guests? The alcohol?
All of it was bullshit.
Only she was real.
And So I got up and left my room to check up on the house and to my surprise it was dirty, so much dirty then with a sharp clap of my hands, I summoned the maids. Within moments, they assembled before me, their uniforms crisp, their expressions attentive but wary. They knew better than to keep me waiting.
"Clean this place properly," I commanded, my voice laced with the authority of someone who had never known want. "I mean spotless. Not a single speck of dust, not a single smudge on the glass. Understood?"
Their nods were immediate, but I wasn't finished.
"First of all, I'm rich," I continued, my tone dripping with the unspoken implication that this alone should motivate perfection. "And secondly, I refuse to let my home look like some rundown shack. Unless, of course, you want me to be the next target of those spoiled brats at school?"
The maids exchanged glances. They knew exactly what I meant. The elite private school I attended was a breeding ground for ruthless social climbers—kids who lived for the thrill of exposing even the slightest flaw in their peers' lives. A single photo of a messy house, uploaded to social media with a mocking caption, could tarnish a reputation for months.
I wasn't about to let that happen.
Satisfied that my orders would be followed, I turned on my heel and strode back to my room, my designer shoes clicking against the polished floor. The party planning couldn't wait any longer.
My bedroom was a sanctuary of luxury—plush carpets, a king-sized bed with silk sheets, and a walk-in closet that rivaled a boutique. But none of that mattered right now. I grabbed my tablet and sank into an armchair, fingers flying across the screen as I calculated the costs of hosting the most extravagant birthday party my school had ever seen.
I leaned back, exhaling sharply. Thirty million naira. A staggering sum, even for my family. But this wasn't just any party—this was my party. A statement. A spectacle. A declaration that I wasn't just another rich kid; I was the rich kid.
No time to waste.
The hallway to my mother's room felt longer than usual, my footsteps heavy with purpose. I rapped sharply on her door, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent corridor.
"Come in," came her muffled reply.
I pushed the door open—and froze.
The scene before me was chaos incarnate. Clothes were strewn across every surface, wigs tossed carelessly over chairs, shoes scattered like fallen soldiers in a war against order. Makeup palettes lay shattered on the floor, their vibrant powders smeared into the carpet. Broken mirrors reflected fragments of the disarray, and the sharp tang of alcohol mixed with the acrid scent of cigarettes.
And there, in the center of it all, was my mother—sprawled across her bed, her usually immaculate appearance replaced by disheveled hair and smudged eyeliner.
"Jesus, Mom," I blurted, unable to hide my disgust. "What's going on? Please put yourself in order."
She turned her head slowly, her gaze meeting mine. For a moment, she just stared, her eyes hollow. Then, a faint, almost ghostly smile tugged at her lips.
"I will, son," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
I opened my mouth to argue, but the words died in my throat. I knew why she was like this. The reason hung between us, unspoken but suffocating.
So instead of lecturing her, I cut straight to the point.
"Hmmm, Mom," I began, my tone businesslike. "I'll need a total of thirty million naira for my party."
The effect was immediate. She pushed herself up, her movements sluggish, and sat on the edge of the bed. Her eyes, now sharp with disbelief, locked onto mine.
"You can't possibly be serious," she said, her voice gaining strength. "What kind of party do you want to throw that requires that much money?"
I didn't flinch. "Mom, please. I want my party to be unforgettable," I said, reaching for her hands, gripping them tightly. "A night people will talk about for years."
Her expression darkened. Anger flickered in her eyes, followed by something deeper—disappointment.
"David," she said, her voice low and strained, "it's too much money, for God's sake. Do you even know how money is made? Just because we're rich doesn't mean you get to waste it like this."
Her words entered one ear and exited the other. I wasn't here for a lecture. I wasn't here for wisdom or life lessons.
I was here for the money.
And I would get it.
To be continued...