Akanbi Onobanjo Okanla was a beautifully crafted machine. with Six packs He stood in the center of the Future Africa gala at the Eko Hotel, a monolith of calm in a sea of silk and ambition. A deal had just been sealed with a handshake that felt like a tax filing necessary and emotionless.
His phone vibrated, a personal line only three people had. It was his driver, Sunday.
"Oga," Sunday's voice was a trembling whisper. "Something happen."
"Speak English. And speak up," Akanbi said, his voice low, not moving his smile from a passing dignitary.
"A car… sir, another car has damaged the Bentley. At the valet."
The details of the room sharpened into painful focus. The crystal of the chandelier, the bubbles in his abandoned champagne, the sound of a woman's laugh two tables over all became acute, irrelevant data. "How?" A single word, dipped in arsenic.
"A boy, sir. In a big black Jeep. He was reversing and he… kpa! He hit us. He is here with his friend. He is saying he is sorry."
Akanbi ended the call. He excused himself from his group with a politeness so flawless it was an insult and walked towards the exit. The journey felt elongated, each step measured. He was not a man who ran to problems problems were brought to him, quivering.
He pushed through the hotel's grand doors. The scene was a tableau of his displeasure his Bentley, his beautiful, silent beast, now wore a grimace of twisted metal and chipped paint. Sunday stood beside it, looking mortified. And there, in the center of it all, were two young men.
One was jittery, eyes darting everywhere. The other the driver was still. His hands were in his pockets, not in a gesture of defiance, but of a weird, unacceptable calm. He was looking at the damage with a furrowed brow, as if solving a math problem. This was Peter.
As Akanbi approached, Peter's eyes lifted to meet his. They were a light brown, almost gold in the valet lights. There was apology there, yes, but underneath it… a assessment. A calculation. He was looking at Akanbi, not just at the owner of the car he'd ruined.
A fresh, clean hatred ignited in Akanbi's chest.
"Your name," Akanbi stated, his voice a winter wind in the Lagos heat.
Akanbi didn't move. He let them come to him, let them swim through the tense silence he radiated. His driver, Sunday, stood frozen by the Bentley, a hand over his mouth.
"Ah! Boss, e ma binu! Sorry sir, it's my fault, completely my fault!" Peter began, his voice contrite but strangely calm, not groveling. His eyes met Akanbi's. They were a light brown, almost gold in the valet lighting, and they held a disconcerting directness.
Akanbi said nothing. He slowly pulled out his phone, took several clinical pictures of the marriage of German and British engineering now permanently consummated, and then finally looked at Peter.
"Your name," Akanbi stated, his voice so quiet it was more dangerous than a shout.
"Peter... Peter Emmanuel."
"Peter," Akanbi repeated, letting the name dissolve in his mouth like something bitter. "You have just turned my evening into an insurance form. Do you know what my time is worth?"
"I can imagine, sir. I am so sorry. We will sort it. Give me your details, I will handle everything personally," Peter said, pulling out his own phone. His friend, a jittery guy Akanbi would learn was named Fess, was nodding like a dashboard ornament.
Akanbi's hatred was instant and profound. It was the clean, white-hot kind he reserved for incompetence and slights. He hated the careless laughter that had caused this. He hated the calm apology that wasn't laced with enough fear. He hated the easy way Peter held himself, as if the world hadn't just been fundamentally rearranged by his mistake. He hated, most of all, the unsettling focus of those gold-flecked eyes, which were assessing him right back, not just the damaged car.
"You will not handle anything," Akanbi corrected him, his voice dripping with a disdain that could corrode steel. "Your insurance will handle it. But because I do not trust people who crash into stationary objects, you will give me your personal number. You will send me a copy of your driver's license and your insurance policy tonight. And you will be available to answer every single question from my garage. Is that clear?"
He expected stammering, more desperate apology. Instead, Peter's jaw tightened slightly. A flash of something irritation? defiance? crossed his face before being schooled back into polite regret. "That's fair. I'll send everything. May I have your number?"
The exchange was made in a frosty silence that seemed to drop the temperature around them. As Peter typed the digits, Akanbi's gaze, against his will, took inventory the sharp, clean line of his jaw, the surprisingly long and elegant fingers tapping the screen, the way his simple white shirt collar lay against the strong column of his neck. A fresh, violent wave of revulsion hit Akanbi. This disgusting, clumsy boy was now a problem in his contacts list. A living, breathing glitch in his otherwise flawless system.
"It's done," Peter said, looking up. His gaze was steady. Not challenging, but not broken either.
Akanbi didn't grace him with a reply. He simply turned and slid into the undamaged passenger seat of his Bentley. "Drive," he told Sunday. "Slowly. And roll up the partition."
As the tinted glass slid shut, sealing him in a silent, leather-lined tomb, Akanbi finally allowed his expression to collapse into pure, unadulterated contempt. He pulled out his phone and stared at the new contact: PETER EMMANUEL (CAR WRECKER).
But his mind wasn't on the repair estimates. It was stuck on a loop, replaying the crash. Not the sound, but the moment just before Peter's head thrown back in laughter, the effortless command of the huge car, the vivid life in his face. The image was intrusive, vivid, and it infuriated him. Why couldn't he remember just the damage? Why did his memory keep supplying the cause with such irritating clarity?
He told himself it was about vigilance. About studying a threat. About dissecting the moment of impact so he could bill for every nanosecond of inconvenience.
He didn't yet understand the fundamental law of obsession to hate something with precision, you must first notice it with extraordinary care. And Akanbi Onobanjo Okanla, for the first time in his controlled life, had noticed someone.