CHAPTER FOUR — THE BARRACK BOY MEETS THE MACHINE
By dawn, Lagos had already begun to gossip. Not just the street, not just the blogs, but every office, corridor, and social media handle that mattered. The video of Damilare, son of Chief Solomon Adekunle, standing on a police vehicle, shouting his father's name, had become a symbol of entitlement run wild.
The office phones rang without rest. Every call carried the same undertone: "What happened in your house?" "Is this true?" "Are you really going to let this slide?" Chief Solomon picked up half of them, muted the rest, and let his staff handle the murmurs he could not — or refused to — answer directly.
The Iron Man's home, however, was another battlefield. Inside the private wing, the walls themselves seemed to hum with tension. Every assistant, every aide, every security officer knew that a single misstep could turn this incident into a political earthquake. And earthquakes, unlike sirens, did not announce themselves. They shattered quietly, slowly, and completely.
Chief Solomon sat behind his massive mahogany desk, papers neatly arranged, a steaming cup of tea cooling beside his hand. The calm was deliberate. He did not raise his voice; he did not flinch. But beneath that calm, the mind was racing. Years of careful image-building, decades of discipline, and the precision of a career spent like clockwork — all now threatened by the recklessness of a single child.
"Do you understand what your son has done?" one aide asked, trying to keep her tone professional, her hands trembling slightly.
"I understand," the Chief said evenly. "I also understand that what we do next will determine whether this becomes a scandal or a storm we can weather."
It was a delicate balance. In politics, the perception of control is often more powerful than control itself. And for the first time in years, Chief Solomon realized that control had slipped from his hands, not due to opponents, but from inside his own house.
Meanwhile, Damilare was still reeling from the social media fallout. By mid-morning, the video had gone viral, replayed in clips, slowed down for emphasis, dissected by bloggers, newspapers, and Twitter commentators. Every post, every caption, carried the same implicit question: How can a child behave like this, and why is the father silent?
He checked his phone again. Hundreds of notifications. Calls from Seyi, Musty, and Deji flooding in. The Cabinet Boys were anxious, but also calculating. Peer influence worked in cycles: first, the thrill; then, the panic; and finally, the strategy.
"Omo, na wetin we go do now?" Seyi asked, voice low.
"Nothing fit happen," Damilare said automatically, though the words felt hollow. "My father go handle am."
But deep down, he was learning something dangerous. Influence, he realized, was conditional. It worked only if the world remained ignorant. Once the world woke up, influence became a mirror, reflecting your own vulnerability back at you.
By late morning, Chief Solomon convened a private war council. Not the press, not the ministers, not even the police chiefs. Just his most trusted aides, those who had learned to operate in the shadows where the machinery of politics ran smoothly.
"This is not about my son's misbehavior alone," he began, voice level, eyes scanning the room. "It is about the perception of authority, about trust, about everything we have built. This incident can either destroy us or define us — if we manage it correctly."
The aides nodded, understanding the gravity. Strategies were proposed. A press release — carefully drafted, sterile in tone, formal in content — to distance the father from the child without appearing weak. Social media strategy — highlight charitable work, show the father in meetings, display calm. Damage control — meet with senior officers, ensure they know he does not condone the behavior.
"But what about him?" one aide asked, hesitant. "The boy… Damilare?"
Chief Solomon's eyes darkened. "He is both the problem and the solution. We do not act out of anger. We act to protect the empire. He will learn, whether he likes it or not."
The afternoon sun rose high, and the city itself seemed to react. News crews congregated near the police station where the initial incident had occurred. Journalists called the office repeatedly, eager for comments. Bloggers dissected every frame of the video, extrapolating narratives. The street talked, Twitter raged, WhatsApp forwarded clips. For every person laughing, ten were shaking their heads. Influence, privilege, and reputation collided in the glare of public scrutiny.
Damilare watched all this from the study, feeling the weight of his father's name like chains around his wrists. Peer influence had shaped him into arrogance and bravado, but now he saw its limits. His friends could hype him up, record him, cheer him on — but when reality demanded accountability, they vanished into the shadows.
"Where are Seyi and the others?" he muttered aloud. "Where's the loyalty?"
Silence answered.
Meanwhile, Chief Solomon was already moving. Meetings with political allies, ministers, and media consultants filled the afternoon. Each conversation was precise, calculated, polished. His image, meticulously built over decades, would not falter on his watch. But internally, he knew the fragility. One misstep from his son, one misjudged comment, one social media leak, and everything could unravel.
He paused only briefly, reflecting on the paradox: he had trained himself, instilled discipline, and built an empire — yet the very empire he protected had allowed his son to grow without restraint, nurtured by wealth, peer influence, and the illusion of immunity.
The realization was bitter.
By evening, the household itself became a political arena. Damilare, summoned to his father's private study, entered reluctantly. No shouting, no tears, just silence. Chief Solomon rose, slow and deliberate, extending a hand.
"Sit," he said.
Damilare obeyed.
The room smelled of leather, polished wood, and the faint trace of strong cologne — scents of power.
"Your actions today," the father began calmly, "have repercussions beyond what you can see. They affect your friends, your house, your father, and the perception of this government."
Damilare stared down at his hands. He knew this lecture, in some form, had been delivered to others before him. But hearing it now, with the city watching through screens and gossip, it carried a weight unlike any other.
"Daddy, I… it was just fun," he started.
Chief Solomon's gaze sharpened. "Fun? There is no fun in a world where every move is public. Fun is a luxury of the ignorant. We are neither ignorant nor invisible. You forget that your name is a weapon. And weapons, when mishandled, can hurt the wielder."
The boy flinched, but said nothing. Peer influence had taught him courage in the street, but courage in the presence of legacy was different. His father's calm authority was a machine, precise, implacable, and far more terrifying than shouting.
"Do you understand why this matters?" Chief Solomon asked.
Damilare nodded, quietly. It was not understanding that he lacked, but acceptance. Acceptance would come later, if at all.
"Good. Because tomorrow, the world will continue to watch. And you, my son, will need to walk carefully. Not because I say so, but because your name now carries responsibility."
Outside, Lagos continued its indifferent hum. Cars honked. Markets buzzed. Life moved on. But within the Adekunle mansion, the machinery of power was already responding. Press releases were being drafted, political allies briefed, social media posts scheduled. Chief Solomon had always treated politics like a barrack — discipline, hierarchy, strategy. But now, for the first time, he faced a personal breach, one that threatened the very control he wielded.
And the lesson was clear: in politics, as in life, privilege without discipline is a disaster waiting to happen.
By nightfall, Damilare lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The city lights outside flickered through the curtains. He reflected on the day — the videos, the whispers, the subtle judgments, the absent loyalty of peers, the quiet but lethal authority of his father. Peer influence had been a double-edged sword: empowering him, hyping him, and finally leaving him exposed.
For the first time, he realized something he had never felt before:
His father's empire was bigger than him. His friends were smaller than him. And the consequences of privilege were larger than anything he had imagined.
Tomorrow would come. But today had already changed him.
And the Iron Man watched silently, knowing that his son's education in power, influence, and responsibility had only just begun.