Chapter 7- Sole Baye, Don Shapiro

  Bell looked at the approaching figure, who walked toward him with an easy gait.

  It was a young man around the same age as him, with a neatly trimmed beard lining his cheeks. He wore one of the fakest smiles Bell had ever seen—so fake that it almost seemed honest.

  “So, how far, Sunglasses Man?” Solu Baye said in a joking tone, stopping just a few steps away.

  (“How far” was a local expression—another way of saying how are you?)

  At the nickname, Bell couldn’t help raising an eyebrow.

  Seeing his reaction, Solu Baye let out a dry laugh and tapped his chest lightly.

  “I don’t know if it’s because you wear those things all the time, even in the evening, or because they actually look good on you—but people on campus have already started calling you that.”

  He leaned slightly closer.

  “Someone even told me the Sunglasses Man was looking for me.

  So—what’s troubling you, Bell?”

  “I need money to start a business,” Bell said calmly.

  “And how much do you need?” Solu Baye asked.

  From his expression, it was clear that what interested him most wasn’t the business itself, but the amount. He looked like a shark that had just smelled blood, calculations already surfacing behind his eyes.

  Bell raised his hand, spreading all five fingers.

  “Fifty thousand naira?” Solu Baye guessed.

  Bell remained impassive.

  “Five hundred thousand?”

  A hint of disappointment appeared in Bell’s eyes.

  Solu Baye noticed it—and was still surprised when Bell spoke again, his tone flat and matter-of-fact.

  “I need five million naira. I heard you know people who can cash out that amount.”

  There was certainty behind his words.

  Bell had heard stories before—shady people giving loans to students. Stories that almost always ended in horrific, gruesome ways. A reminder that nothing came freely in this world, and that the most accessible paths were often the costliest.

  “I have a business guaranteed to return ten times the investment,” Bell continued.

  “I’ll be able to repay the loan in a month.”

  His voice was too calm. There was no attempt to persuade, no visible anxiety.

  Even Solu Baye swallowed.

  “You know what kind of people they are,” he said, trying to warn him in good faith.

  “They’re not the kind you want to mess with.”

  Those people could sell their debtors into prostitution—or, in some cases, harvest their organs.

  Bell knew that. What he didn’t know was how to find them.

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  That was why he had come to Solu Baye.

  Solu Baye was known as a jack of all trades. Someone who knew everyone. Someone who sold all kinds of services.

  As if sensing his hesitation, Bell added:

  “Don’t worry. I’m not caught in some pyramid scheme or microfinance scam. It’s a real business. I just need to buy supplies and resell them. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—but the more people who know about it, the lower the returns.”

  His words sounded coldly rehearsed.

  “Alright,” Solu Baye finally said. “I’ll take you somewhere. But you’d better be sure of yourself.”

  He had done all he could—for his client, as a conscientious businessman.

  Later that evening…

  The two young men entered a nightclub.

  Bell immediately noticed how people parted as Solu Baye walked forward.

  Everywhere he passed, it was like a fish moving effortlessly through water.

  Bodies moved to chaotic rhythms under intertwining multicolored lights. Loud music made the ground vibrate beneath their feet. Unaware patrons were unknowingly enjoying what might have been the last peaceful days of their former lives.

  The music was so loud it drowned out one’s own thoughts.

  Bell wasn’t used to places like this.

  With Solu Baye leading, they reached the second floor without obstacle.

  There, Bell noticed the shift.

  Gazes lingered. Followed.

  Scanning the crowd, he spotted them—men with hardened eyes. Elegantly dressed. Not bouncers. Not waiters.

  Hidden in plain sight.

  They were guarding something.

  In the current world, there were only a few things that required that kind of setup.

  And one of them was money.

  “Seems like we’re in the right place,” Bell said, his smile brightening just enough to startle a few observers.

  Behind his sunglasses, his eyes closed for a brief moment.

  His pace slowed. The surrounding noise faded—until he found himself standing once more in a familiar hall bathed in purple light.

  In front of him, the cocoon-like glow surrounding the dream dust fluctuated softly.

  Then Bell opened his eyes.

  He was back in the nightclub.

  His perception spread outward like a domain.

  Chaotic thoughts drifted around him—joy, sorrow, thirst, lust—a raw current of unfiltered emotion. But among them were others. Ordered. Disciplined.

  “One… three… four,” Bell counted silently.

  Threats.

  Ahead of him, Solu Baye walked calmly, perfectly in rhythm with the music. He maintained eye contact with passing girls, smiling or winking from time to time.

  Bell noticed the subtle signals Solu Baye exchanged with certain observers—small gestures, brief nods.

  They stopped in front of a door at the corner of the floor.

  A large bald man stood guard.

  “We’re here to see Don Shapiro,” Solu Baye said smoothly. “It’s about an investment.”

  The man knocked on the door in a specific rhythm. After a moment, it opened.

  “Five people. One of them is in trouble,” Bell thought instantly, his dream dust confirming it.

  Extreme distress and despair clashed with mockery and contempt.

  Inside, the lighting was far better than in the rest of the club.

  One man stood near the door. Another—light-skinned, bearded, wearing a suit—sat behind a desk. Bags and stacks of banknotes lay arranged in an unnervingly neat manner.

  Across the room, a man was restrained on a table by a fierce-looking enforcer.

  In front of them stood another man, bare-chested, a machete in his hand.

  “I’m sorry—please,” the restrained man begged, no older than his late twenties.

  “I’ll pay you back. I’ll give you double. Just give me a few more days.”

  The man behind the desk—Don Shapiro—remained impassive. His expression was almost gentle, like a teacher explaining a lesson.

  “There are always consequences to one’s actions,” he said calmly.

  Then he glanced at his men.

  “You may proceed.”

  The machete came down.

  A wet, squelching sound followed. Blood sprayed as the blade struck just behind the wrists.

  Again.

  And again.

  Metal met bone. Flesh tore. Screams pierced through the music leaking in from outside.

  For the first time, Bell noticed Solu Baye flinch.

  His head turned slightly toward Bell—a silent plea to reconsider.

  Solu Baye had seen many things in his life. He thought he handled scenes like this well.

  So he was unsettled by Bell’s reaction.

  Behind the sunglasses, Bell looked calm. Uncaring. Almost appraising.

  Don Shapiro noticed too.

  As the mutilated debtor was dragged away through another door, only four people remained.

  “Speak,” Don Shapiro said.

  Solu Baye recovered quickly. His fake smile returned.

  “Your reputation truly precedes you, Don Shapiro.”

  “I only do what needs to be done,” Don Shapiro replied.

  “If you’re here, I assume you want something.”

  “That’s right,” Solu Baye said. “My friend here has a business idea. He just lacks startup funds.”

  Don Shapiro’s gaze shifted to Bell.

  “Giving money has never been the problem,” he said slowly.

  “The trouble starts when it’s time to repay.”

  Bell stepped forward.

  “I’m not like other people,” he said evenly.

  “I need the money for a legitimate business. In one month, I’ll repay you.”

  “How much?” Don Shapiro asked.

  “Five million naira.”

  Solu Baye flinched.

  Don Shapiro laughed.

  Then stopped.

  “Good,” he said, knocking the table.

  “Bring him the money. And a contract.”

  Bell did not react.