“Demand and supply…” Ayomide looked down at his desk.
The words written on the whiteboard were familiar.
Too familiar.
He lowered his gaze to the top corner of his spiral notebook.
The date was written in blue ink—the exact date he had etched into his mind over six years of late-night regret.
His thumb rested against the plastic casing of his pen, but he didn’t write a single word.
Around him, the usual background noise of a 200-level lecture filled the air.
Someone in the back row let out a sudden, loud laugh.
Under a desk three rows down, a phone vibrated against a wooden board before getting muffled by a palm.
The lecturer kept talking, completely unbothered.
A completely normal university class.
A completely ordinary day.
Except Ayomide had already lived through whatever came next.
He looked down at his palms again.
Smooth skin.
No rough calluses from lifting heavy office crates or scrubbing stained desks during unpaid overtime.
Just the hands of a twenty-four-year-old student with a long road ahead of him.
He slowly pulled his notebook closed with a soft thud.
“Ayomide.” A sharp nudge hit his elbow.
He turned his head slowly.
Tunde was leaning over his desk, one eyebrow raised as he gestured toward the closed notebook.
“You’ve been staring at that book for ten minutes straight, boss.
Wetin the paper do you?” Ayomide didn’t answer immediately.
He just stared at Tunde’s face—unwrinkled, full of energy, free of the quiet exhaustion that would settle into his eyes six years from now.
Ayomide had spent years replaying memories of people who had disappeared, people who had used him, and bosses who had dragged his dignity through the dirt.
But strangely, Tunde was one of the few names he never remembered with anger.
Tunde was noisy.
He was troublesome.
He borrowed small money and forgot to pay back for weeks.
But when everyone else walked away, Tunde had always just…
stayed.
Tunde leaned in a bit closer, a grin tugging at his lips.
“Did you finally realize you don’t understand a single thing this woman is writing on the board?” “No.” “Then why are you looking like someone wey they just tell say him carry over?” A couple of students in the desk ahead turned around, snickering under their breath.
“It’s nothing,” Ayomide murmured.
Tunde rolled his eyes, resting his chin on his fist.
“You and this your ‘nothing’.
One day, sha, that ‘nothing’ go carry you go where you no know.” The corner of Ayomide’s mouth twitched up for a fraction of a second.
He turned back toward the whiteboard without a word.
“That will be all for today.” Miss Grace capped her red dry-erase marker with a quiet click, glancing down at her wrist.
“Don’t forget next week’s continuous assessment test.” Immediately, the classroom erupted into chaotic movement.
Wooden chairs scraped loudly against the floor tiles, backpack zippers rattled, and overlapping conversations drowned out the rest of the lecturer’s instructions.
Tunde moved fast, throwing his books into his bag and slinging it over one shoulder.
He tapped Ayomide’s desk twice.
“Shey make we go chop?” Ayomide adjusted the strap of his bag, stepping out into the narrow aisle.
“What?” “Shey make we go get something to eat?” “I didn’t say I was hungry.” Tunde stared at him, squinting as if trying to solve a complex math problem.
“You don’t need to say anything, boss.
Na since first year I don know you.
Once that your face tighten like this, na either reading don tire you or hunger dey bite your belly.
That’s just how you look.” Kemi, who was zipping her backpack nearby, burst out laughing.
“He’s actually right, Ayomide.” Tunde pointed a dramatic finger at her.
“See?
Even Kemi knows.” Kemi nudged Tunde’s shoulder with her elbow, shaking her head.
“You’re still an idiot, sha.” Her eyes flicked briefly toward Adesewa, who was standing beside them, before shifting back to Ayomide with a knowing smile.
Kemi had tried subtle hints in their first year—dropping comments to Tunde to get Ayomide to join them, or giving Ayomide deliberate openings—but back then, Ayomide had been far too buried in his own financial worries to catch on.
Beside Kemi, Adesewa gathered her folders into a neat stack against her chest.
She couldn’t speak—a silence she had carried since childhood—but she didn’t need words.
Noticing Ayomide staring blankly ahead, Adesewa tapped the edge of his desk twice.
She tilted her head, pointing a slender finger toward his untouched exercise book, raising an eyebrow in silent question.
Are you alright?
Ayomide caught the gesture immediately.
In his previous life, he had been too distracted by survival to pay close attention to Adesewa’s quiet signals.
He had assumed she was just Tunde’s reserved friend who kept to herself.
Looking at her now, seeing the genuine concern in her eyes, a strange realization brushed against his mind—a lingering thought that maybe he hadn’t been as entirely alone as he used to think.
“I’m fine,” he muttered softly, his voice gentle.
Adesewa offered a soft nod, her mouth curving into a small, reassuring smile that spoke louder than any words.
Before Tunde could make another joke, a sharp, cold voice cut through the noise from the far side of the room.
“Give it back.” Ayomide turned his head toward the window rows.
Success was standing beside her desk, her hands tense at her sides.
Two girls stood directly in front of her.
The taller one, wearing a bright yellow top, was idly flipping through a thick spiral notebook.
“This?” The girl raised the notebook, tossing it lightly between her hands before letting it drop onto Success’s desk with a heavy slap.
“You really need to work on your handwriting, Success.
I need these three chapters copied into my book before tomorrow morning.” Success looked down at the pile of pages, her fingers tightening around the edge of her desk.
“But…
I have my own continuous assessment to prepare for—” “I wasn’t asking.” The girl smiled, stepping deeper into Success’s space while her friend crossed her arms, smirking.
“You’re already good at writing notes.
At least be useful for something in this class.” Success reached out her hand, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts.
“Give me my notebook.” “Oh?
So you finally found your voice today?” The girl sneered, leaning in close enough that Success had to tilt her head back.
“You normally don’t talk back.
Where is all this courage coming from all of a sudden?” “Relax,” the friend added, laughing quietly.
“We’re just joking.
Don’t go and cry now.
Just make sure you bring the completed note to the hostel later.” A few students nearby glanced over, but as soon as eye contact was made, they quickly turned back to their phones or hurried out the door.
Nobody wanted to get dragged into petty classroom drama.
Success stood there, her head lowered as she picked up her notebook, checking the bent edges.
Her mouth was set in a tight, silent line.
It was obvious this wasn’t the first time.
The free labor, the casual disrespect, the expectation that she would just take it because she was quiet.
Ayomide watched her.
For a second, the image of a fourteen-year-old boy standing in front of a whiteboard while a class captain pointed a finger at him overlapped with the girl standing by the window.
His fingers tightened around his bag strap.
The old Ayomide would have looked away, swallowed the discomfort, and walked out to mind his own business.
But the old Ayomide had died in a hot room at 12:03 AM after thirty years of keeping his mouth shut.
He took a step forward, walking straight over to the row.
The girl in the yellow top frowned as a shadow fell over her desk.
“What?” Ayomide didn’t even acknowledge her.
He didn’t look at her, didn’t argue, and didn’t waste a single breath on a speech.
His eyes stayed fixed on Success.
“Let’s go,” he said, his voice flat and completely calm.
Success blinked, her mouth slightly open.
“…What?” “You heard me.
Grab your things.” He turned on his heel and began walking toward the front exit.
“Tunde.” Tunde, who had been watching with wide eyes, moved on pure instinct, taking two steps before freezing mid-stride.
He looked at Ayomide’s back, then at Success, then back at Ayomide.
“…Guy,” Tunde muttered under his breath, scratching the back of his neck.
“Are we actually doing this right now?” Ayomide didn’t slow down.
Behind him, after a second of hesitation, the sound of a zipper echoed as Success grabbed her bag and scurried after them.
The classroom fell into an awkward, sudden silence.
Nobody blocked the aisle.
As they crossed the threshold into the hallway, the tight knot in Ayomide’s chest began to loosen.
Six years.
He knew what was coming.
He remembered the undeveloped land in Ikorodu that everyone mocked—the same land big developers would fight over three years from now.
He remembered the small fintech startup three senior students were trying to pitch in an empty cafeteria—the one that would become a massive company before he turned twenty-eight.
He remembered the trends, the mistakes, the timing, and the exact moments people failed.
In this life…
I move first.
But money was only the first layer.
In his previous life, he had made the fatal mistake of thinking that working harder and earning a salary would eventually grant him freedom.
It never did.
It only trapped him in a longer queue.
This time, he wasn’t going to build another job for himself.
He was going to build something that ran whether he was in the room or not.
A structure of leverage—businesses, capital, and reliable people—where his time finally belonged to him.
He was done selling his hours to survive.
Ayomide adjusted his bag strap, a rare, quiet sense of control settling into his shoulders.
For the first time in thirty years, the future felt entirely predictable.
Then, the lights flickered.
It wasn’t a normal power cut.
The overhead fluorescent tubes didn’t just shut off—they hummed violently, buzzing at a frequency that vibrated right inside Ayomide’s teeth.
The hall instantly went silent.
A guy near the door looked up at the ceiling, frowning.
“NEPA again?
Or generator issue?” Before anyone could answer, the floor beneath their feet began to glow.
A harsh, brilliant white light bled up through the concrete tiles, etching sharp, razor-thin lines that spread across the ground like liquid silver.
Within seconds, those lines connected, expanding into an intricate, geometric circle that covered the entire floor of the lecture hall.
Screams broke out instantly.
A pen clattered onto the desk as a girl scrambled backward, falling over her chair.
“Wetin be this?!” Tunde yelled, his voice cracking as Kemi grabbed his arm with a force that pinched his skin.
At the front of the room, Miss Grace stumbled back against the whiteboard, her leather folder slipping from her hands and scattering papers everywhere.
Her face had drained of every drop of color.
Success instinctively clutched her notebook against her chest, stepping closer to Ayomide’s shadow, while Adesewa’s eyes snapped straight to him—wide, terrified, and searching for an answer.
Ayomide couldn’t move.
His boots were rooted to the glowing floor tiles as the strange, ancient symbols spun slowly beneath his soles.
The frantic noise of his panicking classmates faded into a muffled, distant hum.
His heartbeat thundered against his ribs.
No…
He searched his memory—every single detail of this exact day six years ago.
The heat.
The lecture on demand and supply.
Walking to the cafeteria with Tunde.
The cheap rice.
The mundane afternoon.
There were no glowing symbols.
No blinding light.
No classroom dissolving into brilliant white fire.
In his memory, this day had ended with a walk back to his hostel and a late-night assignment.
This didn’t happen.
The light surged violently, climbing up his knees, blindingly bright and burning cold.
Ayomide’s breath hitched in his throat, his eyes widening in pure, unadulterated shock.
“Then…” His voice was barely a whisper, swallowed whole by the roaring light consuming the room.
“…what future did I return to?” If this wasn’t his past…
then what kind of world had he just woken up in?
The white light roared, swallowing the lecture hall, the desks, and the sky outside—erasing everything into complete nothingness.