Karma is a bitch (The Trade) - by David Lilly-West

The doorbell buzzes Ola didn’t order food nor did he call any of his escapades over, normally it will be one of forex buddies coming to gush about the night they just had shutting down the clubs in lagos, but he didn’t ball last night and he told no one he was home so he wondered who it was. After pondering over the doorbell for minutes Ola walks towards the intercom like it was a bomb he presses the button On the screen was a figure he had spent 18 hours hunting across the streets of lagos. Messy bun, small silver chain, white tee For a second, he thought it was a dream. But if it was a dream, it was the first one in years that didn’t cost him money when he woke up. Because the one girl who made him see life from outside the charade — Was standing at his doorstep. Like God had been listening to his silent prayer. The lock clicked Ola pulled the door open on normal occurrences ola would be wearing his chain from the night before cause he crashed on the bed immediately he got back from clubbing but this time he was naked no jewelry just a black tee and LV shorts White tee, messy bun, silver chain holding a brown envelope in her hand Up close she looked done, not angry, not smug just done cause the time was 12:45am and she was in the area doing late night delivery with her sister so she decided on just reaching there to drop the envelope. Her eyes flicked past him, into the penthouse. Just for a second At the marble counter. At the chain tossed there. At the cross beside it. Then back to his face “Hi” ola said, finally breaking the silence that engulfed the room. “hey” That was it “hey” No ola fx, no big stepper, no money na water hype just a simple hey from someone who wasn’t moved by anything he had. The place was silent once again, only this time the only thing making a sound was the AC. Ola breaks the silence once again “um would you like to come in?” he said She shuts him down immediately but respectfully “don’t worry I’m fine, Im not planning to stay long anyways” She held out the envelope. Not dropping it. Not making a scene. Just… returning something. “You left this at Quilox,” she said. “When you… when you stepped in front of me.” Ola frowned. “I didn’t—” “It was on the floor. By the VIP stairs.” She wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at the envelope. “I figured it was yours.” He took it. Their fingers didn’t touch. It was light. Plain brown. No name. He didn’t open it. “Thanks,” he said. “You didn’t have to… I mean, you found my house.” Zee shrugged. One shoulder. Tired. “You said it last week. On the mic. ‘Eko Pearl, top floor. Pull up.’ You were drunk.” Ola’s stomach dropped. He didn’t remember saying that. He didn’t remember a lot of things. “Right,” he said. More silence. She shifted her weight. Looked at her phone. 12:43am. “I should go,” she said. “My sister’s waiting downstairs.” Sister. The one on the phone. The reason she left. “Yeah. Okay.” Ola stepped back. “Sorry. For… Quilox. The light thing. It was stupid.” Zee finally looked at him. Really looked. For three seconds. Then she gave him the smallest nod. Not forgiveness. Not anger. Just “I heard you.” “Goodnight, Olamide.” She turned and walked to the elevator. No heels. Just flat sandals. No sway. No exit music. The elevator dinged. She stepped in. She didn’t look back. The doors closed. Ola stood there, door open, envelope in his hand. He looked back at his penthouse. Chain. Cross. $1M. All of it quiet. He closed the door. Leaned against it. Looked at the envelope. The door clicked shut. Ola leaned against it. In his hand, the brown envelope. Light. Plain. No name. He didn’t open it. Because his brain was screaming. You idiot. You absolute, Grade-A, diamond-chained idiot. He let her leave. No number. No Snap. No “Can I see you again?” He just said “Thanks” and “Sorry” like she was a Bolt driver. The girl he’d spent 18 hours losing his mind over. The girl who showed up at his door at 12:43am. The girl who said “Goodnight, Olamide” like she meant it. And he let her walk. The universe doesn’t do second chances. Not for guys like him. Shit. He was moving before he decided to. Envelope on the counter. Door yanked open. Bare feet on cold marble. He hit the hallway running. The elevator was gone. Red numbers: G. Stairs. He took them three at a time, suit jacket flapping, heart in his throat. 24 floors. He didn’t count. His lungs did. By the 12th floor his chest was fire. By the 6th his legs were jelly. By the lobby his vision was black at the edges. He burst through the door like a man escaping a fire. The security guy jumped. “Oga!” Outside. Eko Pearl Drive. 12:46am. And there — White tee. Messy bun. Halfway into the backseat of a small blue Toyota. The driver’s head turned. A woman. Older. Frowning. The sister. Ola’s bare feet hit the pavement. “Zee!” His voice cracked. Loud. Raw. Not Big Stepper loud. Olamide loud. She froze. One leg in the car. One out. She turned. He stopped three feet away, hands on his knees, panting like he’d just run from a margin call. Which he had. The sister said something sharp from the front seat. Yoruba. Fast. “Who is this one again?” Zee said something back. Quiet. Then she closed the car door, but didn’t get in. She walked to him. No smile. No attitude. Just… confused. “You okay?” she said. Ola couldn’t talk yet. He held up one finger. Give me a second. He dragged in air. The Lagos night was thick. Smelled like rain and exhaust and his own sweat. When he could finally speak, it was stupid. “I… I forgot to ask.” Zee tilted her head. “Ask what?” “Your…” He gestured at her, at the air, at the whole damn universe. “Number. Or Snap. Or… something.” He sounded 15. He felt 15. For the first time, Zee’s face did something. Not a smile. A twitch at the corner of her mouth. Like she was holding back either a laugh or a sigh. “You ran down 24 floors,” she said. Flat. “For my Snap.” It wasn’t a question. Ola wiped his face. He was sweating. He was barefoot. He looked insane. “Yeah,” he said. “I did.” The sister honked. Short. Impatient. Zee glanced at the car. Then back at him. She studied him for one second. Two. Not his chain. He wasn’t wearing it. Not his car. He didn’t drive down. Just him. Breathing hard. Looking wrecked. She sighed. Pulled out her phone. “Here.” She didn’t ask for his. She just typed on hers, then held it out. New Contact. Zee. 0803… Ola stared at it. Like it was a winning trade. Like it was $1M. He pulled out his phone with shaky hands. Typed it in. Zee. He looked up to say thank you. She was already walking back to the car. She didn’t wave. Didn’t look back. She got in. The blue Toyota pulled off. No screeching tires. No dramatic exit. Just… gone. Ola stood there on Eko Pearl Drive. 12:48am. Barefoot. In a suit jacket. Holding his phone like it was holy. He looked down. Zee. 0803… He didn’t feel accomplished. He felt terrified. Because now he had to not mess it up. Ola saw himself twirling in the air like a little princess who just got a new tiara The last time ola saw himself this happy was three years ago when he made his first 100k from forex, he remembered that night like it was yesterday “how e be” Somi, pami lap that unit una boy don cash out The whole ig heard about it, we outside hashtags all over the gram, with a million new followers, with everyone asking the same thing, who is this guy, how did he get so rich, motion so high that he got invited by the EFCC for questioning. In the old days, Ola would have laughed. Thrown him a 5k. Said “My guy, OlaFX no dey sleep.” Tonight, he just nodded. “Yeah. Everything dey alright.” A lie. Because inside him, something had shifted. Something quiet. Something heavy. And it all traced back to one sentence. Four words she said to him in Quilox. When he stepped in her way with his phone light. When he tried to perform. She didn’t shout. Didn’t insult him. She just looked at him — really looked — and said: “E for cost your self-respect.” Seven words that changed his life more than any candle on TradingView ever did That was the trade that bankrupted OLAFX And made room for Olamide He caught his reflection Black shirt. LV shorts. No chain. No Rolex No notifications blowing up his phone from the usual “We still outside?” crowd. No noise. For the first time in years, OlaFX was asleep. And Olamide Adeniyi was standing there. Barefoot. Broke in all the ways that matter. And he wasn’t willing to trade this feeling for anything. Not for $1M. Not for the penthouse. Not for the crowd. Ding. 24th floor.

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