They were two: Obinna and Goke, childhood friends from a dusty street in Akoka, Lagos. Their bond was the sort of thing Nollywood directors salivate over-thick like ogbono soup with loyalty, dreams, and laughter to reach beyond the walls of any compound.
They met when they were five years old, fighting over a single tire that they both wanted to roll down the street. Their moms scolded them, but by the next day, they were seen sharing a tray of puff-puff from Mama Ngozi’s tray.
Obinna was Igbo, Goke was Yoruba. But that had never mattered.
They attended the same primary and secondary school and gained admission into the same university—UNILAG. Goke read Engineering, and Obinna read architecture. The plan was simple: to graduate, to make money, and to build a firm together.
Dust2Designs.
Things changed at the university.
Not instantaneously, but gradually.
Obinna was focused and driven. He was bright but distracted. Parties, girls, and chasing social media clout became his drug of distraction. Obinna had warned him many times, but Goke always laughed it off. “Guy, relax now. You dey carry life like generator wey no dey off.”
Nevertheless, they passed. Obinna graduated with a First Class. Goke barely scraped through with a 2:2.
NTSC took them apart for the first time in several years. Obinna went to Abuja-a posting for an architectural firm-and building up contacts. Goke was posted to Bauchi. Life humbled him there. He struggled.
Their phone calls became less frequent.
When they reunited, Goke came back with the 411 that Dust2Designs would finally kick-start his life, whereas Obinna had plans of his own.
“I got an offer to move to the UK, bro. Master’s in Sustainable Architecture. Scholarship.”
Goke smiled, but it was a hollow expression. “So… Dust2Designs nko?”
Obinna looked away. “Just wait for me. Two years. We’ll build it better.”
Obinna left. And true to his words, he did eminently well. Good job. Started sending money home. Bought his mum a car.
Goke stayed back. He became a supervisor at a construction site. Life was rough. Rougher still considering that each time some cantankerous soul asked, “What of that your genius friend? He don hammer, abi?”
The bitterness. It grew slowly. Like termites eating wood.
Then one day, Goke got a call.
“This is Chief Olumide from BeSpace Developers. We saw your sketches online. We’d like to talk business.”
Goke was just confused. Sketches? He hadn’t posted any.
He followed through, and the truth struck him like NEPA light after the blackout. Obinna had launched Dust2Designs in the UK. Alone.
And he was using Goke’s old sketches. Designs that they had both worked on years ago. Without credit.
Goke was angry. Hurt. Betrayed. Yet no call came. No confrontation. He just fell right off Obinna’s radar.
BeSpace was opened to him. Projects began to trickle in. Small at first. Then big ones. Before long he had become one of the fastest-growing names in urban housing in Lagos.
He set up his firm: Urban Dust.
He had intentionally stolen the name.
Obinna noticed.
One night he called. “Why are you doing this?”
Goke answered flatly. “Why did you steal our dream?”
Silence.
Then Obinna issued a challenge: “Let us settle this once and for all, face to face. I’ll be landing in Lagos next week.”
They met at Jazzhole, Obinna’s favorite spot from undergrad days.
Goke looked different. Broader shoulders. Beard fuller. A cold glint in his eye.
“I see you are looking good,” Obinna said.
“You look rich,” Goke replied.
They talked. Argued. Shouted. Then drank in silence.
Until Obinna said something that cracked the surface.
“I never meant to betray you. I was scared. Scared you weren’t ready. Scared we’d fail. I took what we had and ran with it. That was wrong, I know, but I also made it bigger than we ever dreamed.”
“Without me,” Goke said.
Obinna nodded. “You’re right. I messed up. But look at you now. We built different paths, but we still got here. Let’s collaborate. Dust & Urban. Let’s fix this.”
Goke stared.
Very long.
Then stood.
“I’ll think about it.”
Three weeks later, Obinna was found for unconscious in the hotel. Poisoned.
Police carried out their investigations. No forced entry. No struggle. Just a half glass of wine.
His phone had been wiped clean. Only one number remained; Goke.
Goke was arrested. He denied everything. Said he hadn’t seen Obinna since the Jazzhole meeting.
Then a video appeared.
Obinna installed a secret camera in his wristwatch.
The footage had him and Goke toasting to “new beginnings”.
Goke then dropping something into the glass.
Not wine. A slow-acting sedative mixed with neurotoxins.
To what end? Obinna had been planning to buy Goke out, quietly and legally; then completely-off the brand.
The collaboration was a trap.
Goke was released. The footage cleared him. Obinna had faked the act to frame Goke, destroy his public image, and regain investor control.
It backfired.
But Goke’s reputation was already marred in the process. Clients pulled out, contracts canceled.
Obinna had gone back to the UK.
A few months later, Goke got a letter. No name of the sender. Just a flash drive and a not saying, “This is the real betrayal.”
The recordings and emails on the flash drive proved that Obinna had paid to sabotage Goke’s early contracts, bribing officials and blocking funding to deliberately cripple Goke’s rise.
And Goke had never known.
Until now.
