The small gaming lounge sat tucked between a barbershop and a phone accessories store, its neon sign flickering faintly against the evening sky. Inside, the air was thick with the sounds of laughter, heated arguments, and the constant clicking of controllers. Posters of football stars lined the walls, and the flat-screens glowed with colorful menus of FIFA 23.
Abraham pushed open the door, followed closely by Emperor, Chika, and Tamuno. The room erupted in cheers and playful shouts as the boys made their entrance. They were regulars, and everyone knew when they came, the games would get serious.
"Martial!" someone called from a corner. "You ready to lose again?"
Abraham smirked, adjusting his cap. "Keep talking. Today na my day."
Emperor was already striding toward the counter, loud as always. "Put us on the big screen abeg! Make everybody see as I disgrace these mumu boys!"
Tamuno chuckled, calm as ever. His tall frame moved with an easy confidence, and even without touching the controller yet, people knew he was the one to watch. His reputation in the lounge was legendary.
Chika rubbed his hands together, his grin wide. "Today I go humble somebody."
The four of them settled into their seats, controllers in hand, eyes glued to the screen as the first match kicked off. The energy was instant. Abraham controlled Manchester United, Emperor picked Real Madrid, Chika went with Chelsea, and Tamuno, unfazed, selected Arsenal—his team through and through.
From the first whistle, it was clear who was in control. Tamuno's fingers moved with deadly precision, each pass smooth, each dribble effortless. Within ten minutes of gameplay, he had already scored.
"Goal!" he shouted, leaning back with a satisfied smile as the room erupted in laughter and jeers.
"Na luck!" Abraham barked, his eyes narrowing.
"Luck?" Tamuno smirked. "This na pure skill. Watch again."
And he proved it. Another goal, then another. Abraham cursed under his breath, Emperor shouted theatrically, and Chika buried his face in his hands.
"Tamuno, abeg, no use us do training!" Emperor groaned, but he was laughing too hard to be angry.
The match ended in a humiliating 4–0. Abraham dropped his controller with a sigh, rubbing his temples. "This is worse than watching Desmond sit beside Glory."
The room burst into laughter. Even Chika couldn't resist. "So na Glory matter dey follow you reach here?"
Emperor slapped Abraham on the back. "My guy, channel that anger! You wan kill Desmond with FIFA? You better go train for real pitch."
Abraham shook his head, but a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. For the first time since the morning, the heaviness in his chest lightened. Gaming with the boys didn't erase the tension with Desmond, but it reminded him that he wasn't alone.
Tamuno, calm as always, simply set down his controller and stretched. "You guys try small. Next time, maybe one of you fit score."
The others groaned, and Emperor vowed revenge, already demanding a rematch.
As they packed up to leave, Miracle appeared at the doorway, dressed neatly, Bible still in hand. He watched them for a moment, a small smile on his lips.
"You people have energy," he said quietly. "If only half of this could go into something more eternal."
Emperor groaned. "Abeg, no start sermon here!"
But Abraham noticed the look in Miracle's eyes—steady, probing, as though he could see right past the jokes and into the restless storm beneath his calm surface.
For a brief moment, Abraham wondered if Miracle knew just how hard he was trying to distract himself.