Abeokuta, Ogun State
January-March 1997
Aderemi learned quickly that his father did not repeat instructions.
When the man said "Time," it was not a suggestion. It was a boundary, invisible but absolute.
That morning became the template for many others. Wake early. No complaints. No rushing. The routines established themselves not through explanation but through repetition until they felt like gravity.
His mother watched quietly, noting details others might miss.
"You're early today," she observed one morning as Aderemi appeared in the sitting room before the usual call.
"Yes, ma."
She studied him for a moment, her gaze clinical. "You slept well?"
"Yes, ma."
A pause. Then: "You sound... settled."
Aderemi chose his response carefully. "I'm ready for school."
She smiled faintly, but her eyes remained observant. She was a Senior Administrative Officer in the Ogun State Ministry of Education—a woman who spent her days navigating bureaucracy, managing egos, and translating political intentions into institutional reality. She knew when behavior changed without reason.
School began that week at a federal secondary school in Abeokuta.
Not military—that transition would come later. He entered JSS3 at thirteen, younger than most of his classmates by a year or two.
He noticed the dynamics immediately.
Who talked too much. Who listened. Who mimicked confidence. Who actually possessed it.
A boy bumped into him on the first day, deliberate enough to test boundaries.
"Guy, comot for road." (Move.)
Aderemi stepped aside without protest.
The boy scoffed and walked off, satisfied.
Noise reveals insecurity, Aderemi thought. And insecurity seeks validation through volume.
Teachers observed him carefully during those first weeks. One paused while marking attendance.
"Coker," she said. "You're always quiet."
"Yes, ma."
She studied him for a moment. "Quiet is fine. Just don't disappear."
Aderemi nodded. He understood the warning. Visibility must be managed, not avoided.
Another teacher, Mr. Adeyemi, remarked after class: "You write neatly."
"Thank you, sir."
"Your father is military?"
"Yes, sir."
The teacher nodded as if that explained something. It did. Military households produced a certain type of child—disciplined, wary of chaos, comfortable with hierarchy.
Aderemi answered questions only when called. Correctly. Concisely.
No extra explanations. No volunteering. He learned where attention concentrated and positioned himself in the gaps.
At break times, alliances formed naturally. Loud boys gathered near the football field. Gossip circulated near classrooms. Quiet students clustered under trees, observing more than participating.
Aderemi chose shade. That was where he first spoke to Kunle.
Kunle was not impressive at first glance—average height, average build, the kind of boy who could disappear in a crowd if he wanted. But his eyes tracked everything. Entrances. Exits. Who moved with purpose. Who wandered.
"You dey watch people," Kunle said one afternoon, settling beside him.
Aderemi glanced at him. "So do you."
Kunle smiled—quick, genuine, slightly surprised. "Most people no notice."
"Most people don't look."
Something shifted between them. Recognition. Two observers acknowledging each other.
"Kunle," the boy said.
"Aderemi."
They didn't shake hands. It wasn't necessary. Something more durable had been exchanged.
***
At home, Aderemi began mapping the household's rhythms.
His father left at 0630 every morning. Returned between 1800 and 1900 depending on duties. Never discussed work in detail, but his bearing communicated volumes. Good days: measured silence. Bad days: clipped responses.
His mother departed later—0730—and returned earlier, unless meetings ran long. She processed stress through activity: organizing, cleaning, cooking more than necessary.
Aderemi's siblings were older. Ademola, twenty-two, was already commissioned—Second Lieutenant in the Artillery. Adewale, nineteen, was studying Accounting at University of Lagos. Both visited rarely.
The house held their absence like furniture arranged around empty chairs.
One evening, his mother found him reading at his desk. Not textbooks—a newspaper.
"Politics?" she asked, eyebrow raised.
"Economics section," Aderemi said. "They announced new banking reforms."
She studied him with the expression he was learning to recognize: curiosity layered over concern.
"You're thirteen."
"News doesn't have age requirements, ma."
A pause. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed. Short. Surprised.
"Your father's child," she said, shaking her head. But she was smiling.
After she left, Aderemi returned to the article. Banking sector consolidation. Minimum capital requirements. The architecture of financial power being quietly restructured while most Nigerians focused on survival.
He understood what the article didn't say: this was opportunity. Not for a thirteen-year-old with no capital. But someday. For someone positioned correctly.
He filed it away. One data point among thousands.
Outside, Abeokuta settled into night. Inside, a boy who remembered the future continued preparing.