Some memories don't knock.
They kick the door in and act like they pay rent.
This one didn't even hesitate.
The office door slammed open with a violent bang, sending a tower of papers flying. After dancing in the air they collapsed across the floor like they'd finally accepted their fate. Which, honestly, I related to.
Lanre stood in the doorway, buried behind a stack of files that reached his chin. Calm. Balanced. Annoyingly alive.
Meanwhile, I was on the floor.
Under betting slips.
Not a few. Not a stack. A full-blown burial. Slips on my chest, my face, in my hair. Only my nose and mouth were free, which felt less like survival and more like delayed embarrassment.
"...Ye—"
"Chukwu," Lanre said, adjusting the files with his chin as he stepped in. "Your game don cut."
I didn't move.
One ticket slid off my forehead slowly, drifting down like even it had lost faith in me.
"Contemplating suicide," I said from beneath the paper coffin.
Lanre paused.
Clean braids. White shirt. Green trousers. Not a wrinkle in sight. The kind of person who wakes up and decides to be useful. Disgusting.
He looked down at me.
I looked like a cautionary tale. I snapped suddenly, exploding out from under the slips and throwing them into the air. "TO HELL WITH AFCON! I should've just listened to you and carried the host!"
The tickets floated down around us like celebration confetti for failure.
Lanre just watched me.
Back then, I thought he was just being quiet the way he always is. Thinking. Processing. Judging me silently like a well-dressed conscience.
Later, I realized something else was going on.
He had told me before. About the voices. About how sometimes they nudged him toward outcomes. Not always right. Not always clear.
I ignored it.
Of course I did.
I was chasing certainty. You don't chase certainty by trusting something that says "sometimes." That's not guidance, that's a gamble wearing spiritual clothing.
And I was already gambling enough.
Trying to predict ten matches down to exact scorelines… that's not strategy. That's me politely asking life to humble me. And life, being generous, always delivers.
"So," Lanre said, as he started walking across the room.
Straight across me with no hesitation.
I wheezed as his shoe found my ribs.
"You're tired of your addiction?"
"YES— I mean, yes!"
"You shouldn't be."
I pushed myself up, slips sliding off me in quiet surrender.
He reached his desk and placed a file down like the world still made sense.
"Your vice," he said, "is a safety net."
I stared at him. "From what? Financial stability?"
"From everything else."
He leaned back slightly, voice quieter now.
"Life doesn't remove burdens, Chukwu. It changes them."
I frowned. "So if I stop this… something worse replaces it?"
"Not worse. Just different."
He glanced at me.
"Or it gets passed on."
That sat wrong.
"Like a curse?"
Lanre dropped the rest of the files onto his desk. The neat arrangement of books and notes collapsed instantly into chaos.
Good. At least something honest happened in that room.
"You can dump them on me," he said casually. "Your losses."
I blinked.
Behind him, the wall was filled with medals, certificates, trophies. Evidence that he had been winning at life while I was negotiating with probability like it owed me money.
He turned, that irritating confidence already forming on his face.
"I'll find somewhere to throw them."
I watched him for a second.
I wasn't buying is, "you'd keep my winnings."
Without a word, he pulled out his card and handed it to me.
"A path of comfort with no victories," he said. "Or a path of losses with one that matters."
I took the card.
Begrudgingly. My pride was definitely filing a complaint.
Then I looked at him properly.
"Your outfit annoys me."