The conversation that broke the wall, morning came with routine precision.
Breakfast at eight. Newspapers arranged neatly on the dining table. Chief Abayomi already dressed in crisp native attire, glasses perched low on his nose as he skimmed headlines like a general reviewing battle plans. His mother noticed first."Mí ọmọ," she said gently, switching unconsciously into Igbo as she studied his face. "You didn't sleep well." Aderemi sat. "I slept." She smiled sadly. "Your eyes say otherwise." His father folded the paper. "What is it?" There was a moment-a fragile one-where Aderemi considered lying. Saying nothing. Letting the machinery of his life continue uninterrupted.
Instead, he spoke. "I want to leave." Silence fell hard. Leave. The word sat on the table between the teacups and cutlery like a loaded gun. "Leave… how?" his mother asked carefully. "I want to move out," Aderemi said. His voice was calm, surprising even himself. "I want to live on my own, find my own path." Chief Abayomi leaned back, eyes narrowing. "Is this a joke?" "No, sir."
"Aderemi," his father said slowly, "everything you need is here." "That's exactly it," Aderemi replied. "Everything is here, except me." His mother's hand flew to her chest. "Jesus." "You are confusing comfort with imprisonment," his father snapped. "No," Aderemi said, standing. "You are confusing money with freedom." The words landed.
His father rose too, anger flaring. "Do you know what freedom costs?" "Yes," Aderemi said quietly. "That's why I'm willing to pay for it." His mother began to cry-not loudly, not dramatically-but in that silent, breaking way that shattered him more than shouting ever could. Warnings followed. Pleas. Logic. Anger. None of it stopped him. That evening, with one suitcase and a heart that felt too big for his chest, Aderemi walked out of the Abioye mansion. The gate closed behind him with a finality that echoed.