In every house there is a throne. It is not made of gold or wood. It is small, rectangular and powered by two batteries. It is called the remote control, and whoever holds it rules the sitting room.

This is the story of the Bello family, five people, one television and a very long Sunday evening.

The Schedule That Wasn’t

At 6 p.m., the family gathered in the sitting room. Everyone had a plan. Papa Bello wanted to watch football. Mama Bello wanted her favourite reality show, in which ten people argue about a house. Ten-year-old Seyi wanted cartoons. Fifteen-year-old Lola wanted a film that she described as “very deep” and her brother described as “very slow”. And little Femi, aged four, wanted to press all the buttons.

The television, a modest old model with a slightly crooked stand, glowed in the corner like an altar. Everyone looked at it. Then everyone looked at the remote, which lay on the table like a small black treasure.

Nobody moved. It was the kind of quiet that comes just before an argument or a war.

Papa Makes His Move

Papa Bello, calm and strategic, reached out first. “Today is a special day,” he announced. “A very important match. I will just take the remote for a moment.”

“For a moment?” said Mama Bello. “You said that last week, and we watched football until midnight.”

“It was a long match.”

“It was a very long argument about one referee.”

Papa Bello tucked the remote under his arm and turned on the match. The screen exploded in green. The commentator shouted something about a corner. Papa Bello leaned forward with the happiness of a man whose spirit had returned home.

Mama Strikes Back

Mama Bello was patient. She went to the kitchen and returned with a plate of fried plantain. She placed it on the table and smiled sweetly. “My dear, would you like some?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Papa, reaching for it with his free hand.

It was a trap. In a flash, Mama’s hand moved. The remote was gone. When Papa looked down, his arm was empty, and the channel had changed to the reality show. A woman in a large hat was crying about a missing handbag.

“What happened?” said Papa.

“It is the final episode,” said Mama.

“It is the final episode of everything,” said Papa, sadly.

The Children Join the War

Seyi saw his opportunity. He waited until Mama was fully absorbed in the drama, then crept across the carpet like a cat. His hand closed around the remote. The channel changed again, this time to a bright cartoon about a talking sponge.

“Seyi!” shouted both parents.

“It is educational,” said Seyi.

“It is a sponge,” said Papa.

Lola, who had been watching the chaos with great contempt, calmly picked up her phone and typed something. Seconds later, the television switched itself to a quiet black-and-white film. She had connected her phone to the television. Nobody had known that was possible.

“It is called technology,” she said, in the tone of a monarch. The family stared. Even Femi stopped pressing buttons.

The Great Disappearance

At 8 p.m., the sitting room descended into total war. The remote was passed, snatched, hidden, found and hidden again. Papa put it behind a cushion. Mama moved it to a flowerpot. Seyi slid it into his shirt. Lola confiscated it and placed it in her pocket, where it was promptly stolen by Femi, who ran down the corridor singing.

The family chased him through the house. They found him under a bed, holding the remote with both hands and pressing every button with deep satisfaction. The television, in the sitting room, was doing something strange. It was changing languages, brightness and volume all at once, and at one moment it displayed a menu that nobody had ever seen.

When Femi finally surrendered the remote, its battery cover was missing and its back was held on with a hairpin. It looked like a tiny wounded soldier.

The Hiding Place

That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Papa Bello crept into the sitting room. He held the remote in his hands and looked at it thoughtfully. Then he opened the cupboard behind the television, placed it inside a large pot and closed the door. “For the next Sunday,” he whispered, “I will be ready.”

What he did not know was that Mama Bello was watching from the doorway. She waited until he left. Then she crept in, took the remote from the pot and placed it in her own secret place, which was inside a bag of rice.

A few minutes later, Lola came, found it and moved it to her room. Seyi followed, took it and placed it under the stairs. Femi, half asleep, picked it up and put it in a shoe.

By morning, the remote was in a shoe, which was in a cupboard, which was behind a door that nobody could remember opening. The family spent three days searching. They found it on Wednesday, in the garden, where it had been taken by the cat.

The Peace Treaty

On Thursday evening, the Bellos held a family meeting. Papa spoke first. “We cannot go on like this. We need a rule.” Mama nodded. “A fair system.” Lola suggested a schedule. Seyi suggested a vote. Femi suggested snacks.

In the end, they agreed on a simple plan. Each person would have one hour of control, in turn, and then pass the remote with a handshake. Papa had football on Sundays, Mama had her show on Tuesdays, the children had Saturdays, and Lola, with great generosity, would choose a film every other Friday.

It worked beautifully for exactly two weeks. Then Papa discovered there was a second important match, and the war began again. But this time, there was a handshake, a plate of plantain and a promise. And in that house, a promise was almost as good as a remote control.

Once a year, a special visitor arrives at every rented home. He comes with a warm smile, a firm handshake and a short sentence that begins with “How is the family?” and ends with a number. This is the annual house-rent conversation, and nothing in life prepares you for it.

This fictional story follows Mr. Ogunleye, a charming landlord, and Seun, a tenant with a leaking roof, a limited budget and a sudden interest in the law.

The Polite Arrival

It was a Saturday morning. Seun was in his living room, enjoying a cup of tea, when there was a gentle knock. He opened the door and found Mr. Ogunleye standing there in a freshly pressed shirt, holding a folder and a bag of oranges.

“Seun, my son!” said the landlord. “How are you? How is your job? How is your mother?”

“We are well, sir.”

“Wonderful. I was just passing and thought of you. Here, some oranges.”

Seun accepted them with the quiet horror of a man who knows an orange is never just an orange. In the language of landlords, it is a warm-up act.

The Small Increase

They sat down. Mr. Ogunleye looked around the sitting room and nodded in approval. “You keep the place very clean.” He opened his folder. “So. The rent.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As you know, everything is increasing. Cement, paint, electricity, my phone credit. So I have decided to make a small adjustment.”

“How small?”

“Very small,” said the landlord, and wrote a number on a piece of paper. He slid it across the table. Seun looked at it. It was not small. It was the size of a modest wedding.

“Sir, this is an increase of forty percent.”

“Is it?” said Mr. Ogunleye, with a look of genuine surprise. “I did not calculate it. I only used my heart.”

The Sudden Expert

Seun took a deep breath. He had prepared for this. All week, he had been reading online articles about tenants’ rights, and now he felt like a lawyer in a very small courtroom.

“Sir,” he said, sitting up straight, “I would like to refer to the tenancy agreement. I believe it contains terms about rent increases and notice.”

Mr. Ogunleye blinked. “Notice?”

“Yes, sir. Under the agreement, and in line with the tenancy rules in our state, any change to the rent must be communicated properly and with reasonable notice. I would also like to see the receipt for last year’s payment.”

The landlord stared. He had never heard his tenant speak so many words in a row. He had certainly never heard the word “reasonable” used so confidently. “Where did you learn all this?” he asked.

“I read,” said Seun.

“Hmm,” said Mr. Ogunleye, which is landlord language for “I am recalculating”.

The Roof Report

Now it was Seun’s turn to make a point. “Sir, before we discuss the rent, we must discuss the roof.”

“The roof?”

“It leaks. Whenever it rains, my sitting room becomes a water park.”

As if on cue, a single drop of water landed on the table between them. It was followed by another. They both looked at the ceiling. A small, damp patch had formed, shaped like a map of an unknown country.

“That is a very small leak,” said Mr. Ogunleye.

“It filled three buckets last week.”

“Buckets are cheap.”

“So is a repair,” said Seun, “compared with an increase.”

Another drop fell. It landed directly on the landlord’s folder. He moved it away with great dignity.

The Great Negotiation

What followed was a masterpiece of polite bargaining. Mr. Ogunleye said the market was difficult. Seun said the roof was difficult. Mr. Ogunleye mentioned a cousin who would gladly pay more. Seun mentioned that he had always paid on time. The landlord sighed about taxes. The tenant sighed about water.

Mrs. Ogunleye, who had been waiting in the car, finally appeared at the door. “Dear,” she said, “are you two still discussing?” The men looked up like schoolboys caught talking in class.

“We are reaching an understanding,” said Mr. Ogunleye.

“You have been here for two hours.”

“It is a very deep understanding.”

She sat down, accepted an orange and in ten minutes proposed a plan that both men instantly agreed to. A modest increase, spread across the year. The roof would be fixed before the next rains. All the terms would be written down and signed, with a proper receipt each time.

The Agreement

When the papers were signed, Mr. Ogunleye shook Seun’s hand. “You are a clever tenant,” he said. “I hope you do not become a lawyer. It would be bad for my business.”

“I will remain a tenant, sir,” said Seun, “but a well-informed one.”

The landlord laughed and stood to leave. At the door he paused. “By the way, Seun, tell your mother I said hello. And please, remember: the oranges are not part of the negotiation.”

“They were delicious, sir.”

“Of course they were. I only sell the best.”

When he left, Seun sat down with a long sigh. He looked at the ceiling and the little wet map. A fresh drop fell. He caught it in a cup, smiled and said, “See you at the repair, my friend.”

A note for real-life renters and landlords: tenancy rules differ from state to state, so read your agreement, keep written records and receipts, and seek advice from a qualified lawyer or the relevant housing authority when you are unsure. This story is fiction and is not legal advice.

Every group of friends has one. He was an ordinary person last month. He ate rice, wore normal shoes and complained about fuel prices like everyone else. Then he made one small investment, it went up, and overnight he became a financial genius.

This is a fictional story about Dayo, his friends and the long lesson in humility that followed.

The Lucky Day

It began at a barbecue. Dayo arrived late, in a new shirt, carrying a small notebook and a smile that suggested he knew something the rest of us did not. “My friends,” he said, lifting a cup of juice, “I have an announcement.”

We stopped eating. A man with a notebook is either about to propose or about to sell something.

“Three months ago,” he said, “I put a small amount of money into something. Today, it has grown.”

“By how much?” asked Chidi.

“By a decent amount,” said Dayo. “Let us not discuss numbers. It is a sensitive matter.”

It was clearly a very good number, because he was already adjusting his collar.

The New Vocabulary

From that evening, Dayo’s speech changed. He began using words we had never heard him say. “Diversification.” “Portfolio.” “Liquidity.” “Bullish.” “Bearish.” He said “the market” the way other people say “my cousin”, as though it were a relative he met every weekend.

“The market is a living thing,” he told us one day, over suya. “You must feel it.”

“How do you feel it?” asked Kemi.

“With your instincts,” said Dayo, placing a hand on his stomach. “Mine tell me it is going up.”

It was an excellent answer, in the sense that nobody could argue with it.

The Free Advice Season

Soon, the advice began. At weddings, Dayo cornered uncles and explained how to “double their money”. At funerals, he spoke quietly about “opportunities”. At the neighbourhood meeting, he spent twenty minutes drawing a diagram on a napkin, which looked like a staircase to heaven.

His friends, curious and slightly hopeful, began to ask for tips. “Dayo, what should I do with my savings?” “Dayo, is it time to buy?” “Dayo, I have a small amount in a drawer.”

He answered every question with absolute certainty. “Buy,” he would say. Or “Wait.” Or occasionally “Sell, but only on a Tuesday.” He had a gift for giving advice that sounded both bold and impossible to prove wrong.

The Big Promise

One Friday, Dayo called a meeting. He had a chart. It was a large, hand-drawn picture of a line going up very sharply. At the top, in marker, it said: “OUR FUTURE.”

“My friends,” he said, “I have found a new opportunity. A guaranteed way to triple your money in two months.”

The room went quiet. Chidi leaned forward. Kemi reached for her bag. And Mama Tola, who was visiting and had listened carefully while peeling groundnuts, raised one finger.

“Dayo,” she said gently, “what does ‘guaranteed’ mean?”

“It means certain, ma.”

“And who guarantees it?”

“The, er, people who run it.”

“Who are they?”

“They are… professionals.”

“Do they have a licence?”

The room waited. Dayo scratched his head. “I will find out.”

The Wise Old Lady

Mama Tola put down her groundnuts. “My son,” she said, “I raised six children on a small salary. I have seen many people with beautiful charts. The thing I learned is simple. If someone promises you a sure profit with no risk, hold on to your wallet and ask more questions. Real investments can go up and down. Anyone who says otherwise is selling something.”

It was a short speech, delivered over a bowl of groundnuts, and it landed like a thunderclap. Dayo opened his mouth, closed it again and slowly sat down.

“Maybe I should be more careful,” he said quietly.

“Maybe you should check if your first investment was luck or skill,” said Mama Tola kindly. “Both are possible. But only one will pay you twice.”

The Humble Return

Dayo took the lesson to heart. The next week, he cancelled his big meeting. He tore up the chart and wrote a new one. At the top, it said: “OUR PLAN.” Underneath, in smaller letters, he listed three things. “Save regularly. Learn before you buy. Speak to a licensed adviser.”

He also stopped using words he did not understand. When asked about the market, he replied, “I honestly do not know. I am still learning.” His friends were shocked, and strangely relieved. They liked this new Dayo. He was still cheerful, still ambitious, but now, when he gave advice, he began with the words: “This is just my opinion.”

At the next barbecue, Chidi asked, “So, Dayo, what is the market doing?”

Dayo smiled, took a bite of suya and said, “Same as me. Going up and down, but trying to be wise about it.”

Everyone laughed. It was the best financial advice he had ever given.

This is a work of fiction. It is not financial advice. Before you invest, learn how the product works, be careful with anyone who promises guaranteed returns, and consider speaking to a licensed financial professional.

Some streets are calm. Nothing happens on them for years except the sound of a distant generator and the voice of a man selling bread. Then one morning, a long black car turns the corner, and everything changes.

This is a work of fiction about a street, a visitor and the powerful human instinct to say, “I knew him before he was famous.” The celebrity in this story is entirely invented. He is not based on any real person.

The Black Car

It was 10:20 a.m. on a Saturday. Mama Uche was sweeping her porch. Mr. Dele was fixing his gate. A group of children were playing football with a plastic bottle. Then a gleaming black car rolled slowly into the street, followed by a second car, and a third.

The sweeping stopped. The hammering stopped. The football stopped mid-air. Every head turned.

“Who is that?” whispered Mama Uche.

“It must be someone important,” said Mr. Dele.

“Maybe a politician.”

“Politicians don’t come here. We have no tarred road.”

It was true. The only people who visited their street were relatives, tax collectors and the occasional goat.

The Rumour Spreads

The cars stopped outside number 14, the house of Mrs. Akande. A tall man in dark sunglasses stepped out. Two assistants followed, one carrying a bottle of water and the other carrying nothing but a very serious expression.

By then the rumour was already moving. “It is the singer!” said one neighbour. “No, the actor!” said another. “I heard it is the footballer.” A third person said, “It is the one from that television series where everybody cries.”

In less than two minutes, the street had four different celebrities and three conflicting stories. The only fact everyone agreed on was that something extraordinary was happening, and that they needed to be on camera.

The Phone Parade

From every doorway, phones emerged. They rose like small glowing flags. A lady in curlers recorded from her window. A man in a vest filmed from the roof. Three boys pressed their phones against the gate of number 14, making a small but very dedicated news team.

A young woman named Ify turned on her camera and began, in her best presenter voice: “Good afternoon, viewers! We are live on Cassava Street, where something incredible has just happened!” She had forty-two followers, but she spoke as though it were forty-two million.

Nearby, a boy named Tobi held a toy microphone he had found in his sister’s room. He approached a bodyguard and asked solemnly, “Sir, can I interview you?” The bodyguard, who had faced crowds in four cities, looked at the small face and, to his own surprise, said, “Yes.”

The “I Knew Him” Season

Within the hour, everyone on the street seemed to have a personal connection with the visitor.

“I used to sell him puff-puff,” said Mama Uche. “A long time ago. He always asked for extra.”

“I taught him how to ride a bicycle,” said Mr. Dele.

“I was in the same church choir,” said a woman in the corner, who had never met him.

“He once borrowed my pen,” said a man at the back.

By lunchtime, the celebrity had gone to school with half the street, learned football from the other half and borrowed a total of eleven pens. Nobody noticed that he was only thirty-one years old, which made several of the stories biologically difficult.

The Truth Revealed

At 2 p.m., the door of number 14 opened, and Mrs. Akande walked out smiling, followed by the tall man, now without his sunglasses. The street held its breath. A hundred phones rose. “Good afternoon, everyone,” said Mrs. Akande. “I would like you to meet my nephew.”

There was a long, deep silence.

“He is visiting from abroad,” she continued. “He came to see me for my birthday. He is very famous in a place far away, but here he is simply Emeka, my sister’s son.”

A small sigh rolled through the crowd. Several phones were quietly lowered. Mr. Dele coughed. “So… I did not teach him to ride a bicycle?”

“You did not,” said Mrs. Akande, kindly. “He learned in another country.”

Mama Uche shrugged. “Well. I still believe he liked my puff-puff.”

The Best Part

The visitor, a gentle, humorous man who had spent fifteen years being photographed by strangers, laughed out loud. “I like this street,” he said. “I would like to say hello to everyone.”

And he did. He shook hands, took photos with children and sat on a plastic chair on Mama Uche’s porch, eating Mama Uche’s puff-puff and asking for extra. Tobi got his interview, which began with “What is your favourite colour?” and ended with “Can you buy me a football?” The answer to the second question was yes.

When the cars finally left that evening, the street felt different. Not because a celebrity had visited, but because for one afternoon, everyone had been curious, generous and welcoming. Later, Mr. Dele posted a photo online with the caption: “A great man came to our street. I knew he would.”

It received seven likes. Three were from people who also claimed they had taught him to ride a bicycle.

Every family group has an administrator. This person holds a small but terrible power: they can add people, remove people, change the group name and, on rare dramatic occasions, delete a message that should never have been sent. For years, the Obi family group had been ruled by Uncle Francis, a calm man who rarely used his power. Then he went on a long trip, forgot his password and the group fell into chaos.

It was time for an election.

The Announcement

The news was delivered by Cousin Amara, who posted at 7:02 a.m.: “Good morning, family. As Uncle Francis is unavailable, we need a new admin. Nominations are open.” Within a minute there were fourteen replies. Within five minutes there were forty. Within ten, someone had created a poll, a second poll and, for reasons nobody understood, a third poll titled “Poll about the poll”.

Three candidates emerged. Aunty Chinwe, a warm and organised woman who believed in rules. Cousin Dozie, a young man with strong opinions and a flashy profile picture. And Papa Ikenna, who simply announced, “I have always been the leader in my heart,” and stayed there.

The Campaign Trail

Aunty Chinwe began with a long, formal message. “Dear family, if elected, I promise order, respect and no more forwarded messages about miracles. Every post must have a purpose. Birthdays will be announced at least one day in advance.”

The group replied with applause emojis, though a few cousins sent the face that means “that sounds like a lot of rules”.

Cousin Dozie launched a more modern campaign. He posted a video of himself in sunglasses saying, “Vote Dozie. Change is coming. Also, I can do voice effects.” He followed with a poster that read “DOZIE: THE FUTURE OF FAMILY.” It had a lot of fire emojis and a small picture of a lion.

Papa Ikenna campaigned the way he did everything: by sending messages. At 5:30 a.m., there was a good-morning message. At 5:45, a prayer. At 6:00, a long note about his candidacy. By 7:00, he had sent forty-eight messages, including three that said only “Thank you” and one that was a photo of his breakfast.

The Promises

Each candidate made bold promises. Aunty Chinwe promised a weekly summary of group news. Cousin Dozie promised a custom group logo and, if funds allowed, stickers. Papa Ikenna promised “peace, unity, and lunch”, though nobody understood who would be buying the lunch.

A debate followed. It was held in the group chat, which meant it took twenty-seven hours, because every reply caused three more. At one point, someone asked a serious question about the family’s long-term communication strategy. The reply was a picture of a cat in a hat.

By the second day, the group had split into three camps, a few quiet neutrals and one cousin who did not know there was an election and kept asking why everyone was angry about breakfast.

The Voting Begins

Cousin Amara opened the final poll at noon on Saturday. It had three options and a simple instruction: “Vote once.” This did not work. Within an hour, some people had voted twice. One person had voted three times, and one had voted for all three candidates “to be fair”.

Suspicion began to rise. Someone noticed that Papa Ikenna’s vote count had jumped suddenly. “How did you get twelve votes in one minute?” asked Cousin Dozie.

“I have many supporters,” said Papa Ikenna, with dignity.

“Most of them have the same profile picture.”

“They are a close family.”

It turned out that Papa Ikenna had, over the years, added several of his friends to the group, and they were extremely loyal. They had received a message that said “Vote for Ikenna, he is your friend,” and they had done as instructed, despite being unable to explain how they were related.

The Great Recount

Aunty Chinwe demanded a recount. Cousin Dozie demanded an audit. Papa Ikenna demanded to know what an audit was. Cousin Amara, who had hoped for a simple vote, now found herself managing a crisis.

She posted a message: “Dear family, the poll has been affected by irregularities. We will conduct a new vote.” Then she attempted to close the poll. The app refused. It showed a small message that said “Poll cannot be edited.” She tried again. It said the same. She restarted her phone, and the poll was still there, glowing quietly like a small digital monument.

“It is a permanent poll,” she announced. “We have created history.”

The Surprise Winner

As the arguments reached their peak, a new message appeared. It was from Uncle Francis, the old admin, who had just landed, recovered his password and logged back in. “Good morning, family,” he wrote. “I have returned. What did I miss?”

There was a long silence. It was the first quiet moment in three days. Then Aunty Chinwe typed, “Welcome back, Uncle.” Cousin Dozie typed, “Welcome back, Sir.” Papa Ikenna typed, “I have been campaigning on your behalf.”

Uncle Francis scrolled through the messages for a few minutes. Then he wrote: “I see. Thank you for your enthusiasm. I will remain admin, and I will appoint Aunty Chinwe as a deputy, Dozie as head of stickers and Ikenna as the person who greets everyone in the morning.”

The group erupted in celebration. Everyone was satisfied. Everyone was a little confused. And Cousin Amara, still holding the permanent poll in her hands, whispered to herself, “Next time, we will just ask Uncle Francis to stay home.”

Online shopping is a magical thing. You tap a screen, imagine a better life and wait. Somewhere, a box begins its journey. It passes through warehouses, vans, bridges and several people who say “it is on the way”. Eventually, it arrives. And that is when the story really begins.

This is the tale of Nneka, a happy shopper with a phone, a budget and a great deal of hope.

The Perfect Photo

It started on a Friday night. Nneka was lying on her bed, scrolling through a shopping app, when she saw it: a sofa. It was a deep blue velvet masterpiece, set in a bright living room with a vase of fresh flowers. A woman in the picture sat on it, smiling, holding a cup of tea, looking as though her life had no problems at all.

“That is my sofa,” whispered Nneka.

The price was surprisingly low. The description said “Premium, comfortable, elegant, perfect for any home.” There were forty-three photos, each more beautiful than the last. She added it to the cart before she could think. She even paid for express delivery, because she was a woman of vision.

The Waiting Game

Delivery was promised in three days. On day three, the app said: “Your order is being prepared.” On day five: “Your order is on its way.” On day eight: “Your order is almost here.” On day eleven, she received a message that said, “We apologise for the delay. Your order is still on its way.”

She called the customer service line. A cheerful voice said, “Madam, your package is in motion.”

“Where is it moving?” she asked.

“It is moving closer.”

“Closer to where?”

“To you, madam. Everything is closer to you if you wait long enough.”

It was an answer so philosophical that she did not know whether to be angry or impressed.

The Delivery Day

On day fourteen, at 5:40 p.m., a dispatch rider arrived with a small parcel. It was about the size of a shoebox. Nneka looked at it, then at the rider, then at the sky, then back at the parcel.

“Is this the sofa?” she asked.

“I do not know, madam,” said the rider. “I only carry what they give me.”

She signed for it, because hope has a way of making people sign things. She carried the parcel inside, put it on the table and opened it with the slow ceremony of a person approaching a mystery.

Inside was a small, round, bright-blue cushion, about the size of a dinner plate. It had a tag that said “Premium Velvet Pouf (Mini)”. On the box, in tiny letters, were the words: “Not actual size.”

The Investigation

Nneka sat on the floor. She opened the app and scrolled back to the listing. This time, she read the small print, which she had previously treated as a decoration. At the very bottom was a line: “Picture shows full-size sofa. Product sold is miniature accent version. Dimensions: 12 cm.”

“Twelve centimetres,” she repeated.

It was, technically, correct. It was also, technically, a cushion. She scrolled further and found the customer reviews, which she had also ignored. There were hundreds. They were short, honest and very funny.

“Beautiful pouf for my cat.”
“Fits in my pocket.”
“My husband thought it was a hat.”
“Great for resting a very small elbow.”

She laughed so hard that she had to lie down. Then she looked at the cushion, which was soft, cheerful and weirdly cute, and gently placed it on her bed.

The Great Refund Attempt

The next morning, she called customer service again. “Good morning,” she said. “I ordered a sofa, and I received a very small cushion.”

“Madam, our records show you ordered the Premium Velvet Pouf.”

“It looked like a sofa.”

“That is a style photo, madam.”

“What is a style photo?”

“It is a photo that shows what your life could look like if you bought many things.”

Nneka stared at the wall. The agent continued kindly, “But we can offer you a refund, subject to approval, in seven to fourteen working days.”

She accepted. Then she added, “And please, can you tell me who writes your descriptions?”

“It is our creative team, madam. They are very talented.”

“I can tell,” she said, and hung up with a smile.

The New Rules

That week, Nneka made a list of rules, which she posted on her fridge. Rule one: read the reviews. Rule two: look for the size in centimetres. Rule three: if the price seems too good to be true, ask a friend. Rule four: never trust a product photo with a woman holding tea.

She also discovered something unexpected. The mini pouf was surprisingly comfortable. She started using it as a footrest, then as a laptop stand, then as a pillow for her cat, Biscuit, who adored it more than any toy she had ever bought.

Weeks later, when her refund finally arrived, she stared at the money and thought about buying a real sofa. Then she smiled, opened a different app and typed “sofa dimensions”. She read forty reviews. She measured her living room twice. And when the next parcel arrived, a proper, enormous, delightfully real blue sofa, she sat on it slowly, carefully and with great respect.

Biscuit hopped up beside her, carrying the little pouf in his mouth, and placed it on her lap. It was, she decided, the best purchase of her life. Not the sofa. The lesson.

Behind every peaceful Sunday service is a small team of people running about like they are preparing for a royal visit. Nobody in the pews sees them. They see only the smooth, joyful result. This is a gentle, fictional story about what happens when one small thing goes wrong, and everyone, including the printer, learns a lesson in grace.

The Calm Before the Panic

Pastor Emmanuel arrived at the church at 7:45 a.m., humming a hymn and carrying his Bible. The service was to begin at 9. The choir was warming up. The ushers were adjusting their name tags. The sun was shining through the stained glass in a way that made everything look like a painting.

“Brother Sunday,” he said happily to the head volunteer, “do we have the programme?”

Brother Sunday, a kind and nervous man who took his duties very seriously, gave a long pause. “Yes, Pastor. It is ready.”

“Wonderful. Please bring me a copy.”

“Ah,” said Brother Sunday. “There is just one small thing.”

The One and Only Copy

The small thing was this. The programme existed in exactly one place: on a flash drive in the pocket of Sister Grace, the church secretary. And Sister Grace had gone to collect her aunt from the airport.

“When is she coming back?” asked the Pastor.

“The flight was delayed,” said Brother Sunday. “But she says she is on the way.”

“On the way where?”

Brother Sunday looked at the ceiling as if he might find the answer there. “To the airport, Pastor. To collect the aunt.”

Pastor Emmanuel closed his eyes and began to pray in a quiet, steady voice. When he opened them, he said, “Let us do this with faith and a good typist.”

The Great Retyping

A volunteer named Tolu, a young woman with fast fingers and a calm expression, was found in the choir stalls. She was led to the church office, a small room with a desk, an old computer and a printer that had been donated in the year of the great flood.

“We need the order of service,” said Brother Sunday. “Opening hymn, prayer, first reading, offering, sermon, announcements, closing hymn.”

“Do we have the names of the readers?”

“Some of them.”

“Do we have the hymn numbers?”

“We have most of the hymn numbers. For the rest, we have hope.”

Tolu typed. She typed quickly, helped by a small crowd of people who each remembered a different part of the programme and argued about it. At 8:25, the document was finished. It had three misspellings, one confusion about whether the offering came before or after the sermon, and an announcement for a “women’s fellowhsip”. Nobody noticed. Everyone was looking at the printer.

The Printer Has Its Say

The printer was a machine of great age and great character. It woke slowly. It made a groaning sound, like a man getting out of a low chair. It blinked a small amber light, thought deeply and then printed half a page crookedly.

“Print again,” said Brother Sunday.

The printer chewed the paper, held it for a moment and produced a long accordion fold, as if it were making a small paper fan. Then it displayed an error message that said only: “Paper jam. Please check Tray 2.”

“We do not have a Tray 2,” said Tolu.

“Then why is it asking?” said Brother Sunday.

It was a question for the ages.

The Microphone Mystery

While the printer was thinking, Pastor Emmanuel went to check the sound system. The microphone, which had worked perfectly all week, now made a long, mournful noise when he tapped it.

“Is this thing on?” he said. The speakers answered with a loud shriek that made two ushers jump and a baby laugh. A technician crawled out from under the stage, adjusted a cable, and said, “Try now.”

Pastor Emmanuel said “Testing, one, two.” The sound was perfect. Then he said “God is good,” and a chorus of ushers replied “All the time,” and everything felt right again.

Behind the stage, the printer produced one clean page. A small cheer went up.

Grace Arrives

At 8:50, the church doors opened, and Sister Grace rushed in, slightly out of breath, with a lady in a bright headtie, a large suitcase and a very proud smile. “I am here! I have the flash drive!”

She held it up like a trophy. The whole office froze. Then Tolu, who had retyped the entire programme, looked at the flash drive and said, kindly, “Thank you, Sister.”

“Did you start without me?” asked Sister Grace.

“We improvised,” said Brother Sunday.

Sister Grace plugged in the drive and opened the original programme. It was beautiful. It had colour, a border and a small picture of a dove. It was also, to everyone’s surprise, quite similar to the one Tolu had typed, though without the spelling mistake in “fellowship”.

The Service Goes On

The service began at 9:05. The choir sang. The congregation clapped. Pastor Emmanuel preached about patience, and for once everybody in the room felt personally addressed. Midway through the sermon, he smiled and said, “Sometimes the Lord sends us a printer to teach us humility.”

The congregation laughed warmly. In the back row, Brother Sunday dabbed his forehead. Tolu gave him a small thumbs-up.

At the end of the service, the Pastor thanked everyone, especially the volunteers. “They do the quiet work,” he said. “They hold the cables, they type the pages, they carry the flash drives. Without them, we would just be standing in a room with a good song and no hymn numbers.”

And in the office, the printer finally produced a perfect copy of the programme. It slid out neatly, warm and a little proud. It was twenty minutes too late. But as every church volunteer knows, there is always next Sunday.

Every street has one. The neighbour who is friendly, cheerful, generous with greetings and strangely allergic to owning anything. They do not ask for money, which is their great strength. They ask for things. Small things. Reasonable things. A lot of small, reasonable things.

This is the story of Mr. Ikenna and his neighbour, Mama Blessing, who has not bought a ladder in twenty years.

The First Request

It began with a cup of sugar. Mr. Ikenna had just moved into the flat next door, and Mama Blessing came by with a plate of biscuits and a warm smile. “Welcome to the compound! If you ever need anything, just ask.” Then she paused and said, “By the way, can I borrow some sugar?”

He gave her a cup. She thanked him and returned two days later with a half-cup and a long explanation about how the rest had “gone into the pap”. He accepted it graciously. A good neighbour does not argue about sugar.

That was the beginning. The sugar was a test, and he had passed.

The Extension Cable Years

The next request was an extension cable. “Just for one hour,” she said. Mr. Ikenna handed it over. A week later, he needed it to charge his laptop and found it missing. He went next door. Mama Blessing was using it to run a fan, a blender, a phone charger and what looked like a small television.

“Ah, you need it?” she said, as though it had never occurred to her that cables had owners. “Just give me ten minutes.”

Ten minutes became an hour. An hour became a day. At last, the cable came back, tied in a neat bundle with a thank-you note and the faint smell of fried plantain. He plugged it in. It no longer worked.

“Ah,” said Mama Blessing, when he told her. “That is how it was when I borrowed it.”

The Ladder Incident

One Saturday, Mr. Ikenna decided to repair his roof gutter. He went to the storeroom for his ladder and found a blank space. A small, empty, ladder-shaped silence.

He knocked on Mama Blessing’s door. “Good morning. Have you seen my ladder?” She looked genuinely surprised. “Ah, the ladder! I borrowed it in March.” It was October.

“Can I have it back?”

“Of course. It is with Mr. Segun in the next building. He borrowed it from me for his gate.”

So Mr. Ikenna walked to Mr. Segun’s building, who said, “Ah, the ladder! Mr. Dele has it.” Mr. Dele said, “I gave it to the church.” The church said, “Which church?” and the ladder began a long journey through the neighbourhood that would one day make a wonderful documentary.

The Pressing Iron Pattern

A few weeks later, Mama Blessing knocked on his door at 6:15 on a Monday morning. “Good morning, my dear. Do you have a pressing iron?” Mr. Ikenna, half asleep, said, “Yes, but I need it for work.”

“I will return it in five minutes,” she said.

He gave it to her. She returned it at 9:30 p.m., warm, lightly scorched and carrying a faint trace of someone else’s shirt collar. He would have been angry, but she had also brought a small plate of jollof rice. It is difficult to complain about an iron when you are holding rice.

This was Mama Blessing’s secret weapon. She always returned what she borrowed with a little something extra. A plate of food. A story. A prayer. By the time you realised you had been inconvenienced, you were smiling and full.

The Perfect Return

The strangest part was the timing. Mama Blessing had a mysterious gift: she always returned things at the exact moment you needed them again. Not a day early. Not a day late.

One evening, Mr. Ikenna was cooking and realised he was out of onions. He thought about going to the market, but it was already dark. At that exact moment, there was a gentle knock. Mama Blessing stood at the door holding exactly four onions. “I borrowed three last month,” she said. “I added one for interest.”

The next week, he was assembling a bookshelf and needed a screwdriver. His own was missing. Before he could even finish the thought, the doorbell rang. Mama Blessing appeared with the screwdriver, a hammer he did not know he had lent and a pair of pliers that were definitely not his.

“Where did these come from?” he asked.

“Oh, from the neighbours,” she said. “We have a very active circle.”

The Great Neighbour Swap

By the end of the year, Mr. Ikenna had made a surprising discovery. Mama Blessing was not borrowing in a selfish way. She was running an unofficial community exchange. Pots, ladders, drills and extension cables flowed through the compound in a great generous loop. Everyone took something. Everyone gave something. Nothing stayed in one place for very long.

He realised that his own storeroom had never been so organised. Items he lost had a habit of returning, often improved by someone else’s repairs. His neighbours, he understood, were not thieves. They were a very slow library.

That evening, he knocked on her door with a smile. “Mama Blessing,” he said, “I need to borrow something.”

“Ah, finally! What do you need?”

He held out an empty plate. “A little jollof rice.”

She laughed and filled it to the brim. “Return it when you can,” she said. And for the first time, he understood why nobody on the street ever locked their gate.

There is a special kind of joy that comes with a salary alert. It is a small, shining notification that says, “Your account has been credited.” For about four minutes, you are a king. You walk differently. You greet strangers. You consider buying a second plate of rice.

Then reality knocks. This is the story of Emeka, a hard-working office assistant, and the shortest love affair of his life: the one between him and his salary.

9:03 a.m. The Alert

Emeka was sitting at his desk when his phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and smiled. The money had entered. He did not even need to check the amount. He could feel it in his chest, like the first sip of cold water on a hot afternoon.

He opened the banking app, looked at the balance, and whispered, “Thank you, God.” Then he closed the app quickly, like a man afraid the number might change if he stared at it too long.

His colleague Bisi leaned over. “Alert?” “Alert,” said Emeka. They shared a moment of respectful silence, the way people do in front of a miracle.

9:30 a.m. The Rent Reminder

The first message arrived within half an hour. It was from his landlord. “Good morning, Mr. Emeka. I hope you are well. Just a gentle reminder about the rent.”

The word “gentle” was doing a lot of work. Emeka had received this message every month for three years. It always arrived on the exact day of the alert, which made him wonder if the landlord had a secret connection to the bank.

He paid. The balance dropped. He told himself it was fine. After all, rent is the cost of having somewhere to sleep, and sleep is very important.

12:00 p.m. The Transport Tax

At lunch, he remembered he owed his friend Chuka some money for a lift last week. Then he remembered the bus fare increase. Then he remembered his cousin who had once promised to repay him for a phone charger. Nobody had remembered that promise except Emeka.

He bought a prepaid transport card, filled it with enough credit for the month, and felt like a man who had just invested in the future. The balance dropped again. He glanced at it with the polite smile of a man looking at a fading rainbow.

3:30 p.m. The Family Call

His phone rang. It was his Aunty Nkechi, who always seemed to call precisely when the bank sent the alert. “My dear Emeka, how are you? How is work? How is life?” She asked about his health, his job and his shoes before getting to the point.

“There is a small something I need,” she said sweetly. “Just a small thing. My neighbour’s goat has entered my compound and eaten my cassava. I need to repair the fence.”

Emeka had so many questions. Whose goat? Why the fence? Why now? But in a Nigerian family, you do not ask questions when an aunt says “small something”. You simply say, “Yes, Aunty,” and send the money, then wait for a prayer.

The prayer came within a minute. It was beautiful and detailed, and it covered his job, his future wife and his unborn children. Emeka smiled. At least the goat had a good lawyer.

6:00 p.m. The Subscription Surprise

That evening, as he lay on his bed, a notification appeared. “Your subscription has been renewed.” He sat up. “Which subscription?”

He opened his phone and discovered he was paying for a music app he never used, a streaming service he had forgotten, a fitness app he had opened once, and a mysterious thing called “Premium Plus Gold Max”. He could not recall signing up for any of them.

He cancelled three. The fourth cancelled him back, by asking, “Are you sure you want to leave us?” with a sad face. He closed the app, because he did not have emotional energy left.

11:58 p.m. The Final Balance

Before bed, Emeka opened his banking app one last time. The balance was small. Not zero, but small, like the last biscuit in a packet shared by too many people.

He looked at it for a long moment. He had paid the rent, the transport, the fence, the subscriptions and a surprise bill for something called “service charge”. It was not even the end of the day, and his money had gone on a full holiday.

He laughed, because there was nothing else to do. Then he made a promise, the same promise he made every month: next time, he would budget. He would save. He would be wise.

His phone buzzed. A new message from Bisi: “Emeka, do you have change for a small loan until the end of the month?”

He stared at the screen, smiled, and typed, “Let me check my bank.” Then he turned off his phone and went to sleep, a poor man with a rich sense of humour, ready to do it all again next month.

There are two kinds of people in a big city. Those who say they are not afraid of traffic, and those who have met it. This guide is a fictional account of one morning drive, written for anyone who has ever left home at 6 a.m. to arrive at work at 10.

The hero of our story is Tunde, a cheerful driver in a small blue car, and his three passengers, each of whom believes they are a navigation expert.

Rule One: Leave Early, Then Leave Earlier

Tunde woke at 5 a.m., which he considered a heroic act. He was on the road by 5:45. The streets were calm, the sky was soft, and the radio played a cheerful song. For ten minutes, he believed in a better world.

Then he reached the first junction. A long line of cars stretched ahead like a metal snake that had stopped for a nap. A man in a yellow vest was waving his arms with great confidence and no obvious plan.

“Don’t worry,” said Mr. Dayo, the passenger in the front seat. “This is only small traffic. We will pass in five minutes.” It was a prediction. Mr. Dayo had made many such predictions in his life, and in all of them he had been generously wrong.

Rule Two: Respect the Prophet in the Front Seat

Every car has a prophet. This one sat next to Tunde, held his phone like a holy book and spoke in a calm, certain voice. “Take the left,” he said. “It is faster.”

Tunde took the left. It was not faster. It led to a long road with a surprise roadblock, three goats and a man selling oranges who looked at the line of cars with the satisfaction of a farmer watching his crops grow.

“Interesting,” said Mr. Dayo. “That is not what the app said.”

“What did the app say?”

“It said left. It did not mention the goats.”

Rule Three: Watch the Fuel Gauge Like a Hawk

At 7:15, as the traffic crawled past a shopping mall, Tunde glanced at the dashboard. The fuel needle sat low, trembling like a nervous student at an exam.

“Oga, how much petrol do we have?” asked the lady in the back, Mrs. Amina, who had been quietly eating groundnuts since 6:30.

“Enough,” said Tunde bravely.

“How much is enough?”

“Enough to keep hope alive.”

The silence in the car was thicker than the traffic. A man in the next lane noticed the dashboard light and gave Tunde a long sympathetic look, the kind men give each other at funerals.

Rule Four: Accept That Every Diversion Has a Personality

At 8 a.m., a policeman waved them off the main road. “Diversion,” he said, pointing vaguely at the horizon. “Ahead, turn, then turn again, then you will see.”

“See what?” asked Tunde.

“You will know,” said the policeman, who had clearly given similar directions to every car since dawn.

The diversion was an adventure. They passed a half-built bridge, a roundabout with no exit and a field where children were playing football in the middle of the road. At one point, they drove through a gate and out of another gate, and nobody could say how it happened.

“Where are we?” asked Mrs. Amina.

“We are in the middle of the unknown,” said Mr. Dayo, proudly.

Rule Five: Never Trust a Shortcut

At 9 a.m., the third passenger, a student named Femi, spoke up for the first time. “I know a shortcut,” he said. Everyone leaned forward. A shortcut, in this city, is like a legend. People talk about it. Nobody has proof.

The shortcut was a narrow lane between two buildings. It began well. It had smooth tarmac and a peaceful atmosphere. Then it ended at a wall.

“It was open last week,” said Femi.

“Last week it was a road,” said Tunde. “This week it is a decoration.”

Reversing took twenty minutes and the combined efforts of four strangers, two street vendors and a man who just happened to be passing and enjoyed giving advice.

Rule Six: Celebrate the Small Victories

At 10:10, the car finally rolled into the office district. The roads were open. The sun was bright. A gentle breeze made the trees dance. Tunde, who had survived goats, diversions and a wall, felt like a hero returning from a long journey.

He pulled up outside the first office. Mr. Dayo stepped out and said, “See? I told you. Five minutes.” He walked away with the pride of a man who had said the same thing four hours earlier.

Mrs. Amina thanked him for the groundnut conversation. Femi apologised for the wall. And Tunde, still sitting in his car, looked at the fuel gauge. It showed a trembling line just above empty.

He patted the steering wheel. “Good car,” he whispered. “You are a legend.”

The Final Lesson

Surviving city traffic is not about speed. It is about patience, humour and a healthy distrust of anyone who says “only five minutes”. Pack snacks, charge your phone, keep a little fuel and always, always have a good song on the radio.

And if someone offers you a shortcut, smile politely, thank them and take the long road. It is longer, yes. But at least it has no wall.