Looking Glass Bullet

By Akintomiwa Akinnimi

"YOU ARE NOT ALWAYS WHO YOU THINK YOU ARE..."

Samuel Adeniyi-Jones, a rich and successful casanova, leads a simple life of playing hard and working even harder. His utopia morphs into hell on the night an assassin narrowly misses an attempt on his life, whisking his world into turmoil.

Every day leaves Samuel

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quramo Publishing
• Release date: Oct 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9788478089512

Book preview

Dedication

For the people who do not need a bullet to remind them to hold up the looking glass.

Contents

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Acknowledgements

1

Sam! Sam! a voice calls out to me from a distance.

I hear it quite alright, but cannot quite focus on it, as I am in a daze, enraptured by the bright white light that is the only thing in my field of vision. I am gripping onto something with intense ferocity; anger is my only emotion as I stare into this light. Pure, undiluted anger.

Sam!

Again, the voice calls my attention. Is it coming from a mile away? Or is the source only a few inches from me? It is hard to focus on it with the intense anger welling up inside me.

I am going to snap his neck backward if I get a hold of him!

I will hang him by the nut—

Sam! What the hell! the voice calls again, but it was really the tap on my shoulder that brings me out of my trance state.

What? I ask irritably.

Why don’t you tell me? You’ve been staring at your phone screen for about two minutes and you look like you’re either about to go beat someone to a pulp or take the biggest, meanest dump of your adult life. Which is it?

A bit of both to be honest. But more of the first one.

Well, what happened? she asks, ever the curious one.

After a few seconds of not offering an answer, she snatches the object containing the message that had me furious from my grasp—my phone. Not interested in reading out the message to her, I let her take the phone and see for herself.

Its bright white light no longer in my eyes, I reacquaint myself with my surroundings and switch on my bedside lamp. The clothing items—jean trousers, t-shirts, bra, and panties—on my plain dark turquoise rug is the first sight to greet my eyes. I glance to my left and see my, well, whatever she is to me, seated beside me focused on my phone. She is still naked and a bit sweaty from the amazing sex we just had. The sight of her bare breasts has several raw thoughts running through my mind, and if I am not so pissed off by what I had just read, I would dive back in for round three. Anger prevails, so I rise to my feet, grab my boxer shorts from the ground, wear it, and make my way to the veranda, careful not to kick my home office table on the way.

My apartment is on the last floor of a four-storey building, and it affords me a rather beautiful view of the city. Electricity powered up a thousand bulbs and they in turn lit up the nighttime skyline. This sight and the cool sea breeze I am enjoying at the moment seldom fail to relax me when I am in a salty mood and thankfully, this calm Wednesday night is not an exception. Living on the island axis of Lagos sure has its perks and this scenery and serenity are right on top of that list.

So, you’re out of a driver…that sucks.

I turn to see her stunning body now covered by my expensive Turkish bathrobe. Again, the raw thoughts struggle to gain precedence in my mind.

I still don’t get why you’re so mad though, she continues.

Are you blind? Did you not read the words the idiot typed?

Don’t take that tone with me please, she cautions with a frown. I am not the one that resigned.

It is not because he quit. I don’t give a damn about that. It’s those words he used to describe me. How dare he? I gave that poor low-life a living, something to feed his family with, and he has the effrontery, the guts to talk trash about me? I feel the anger threatening to spill over again, so I take a deep breath and turn to rest my weight on the railing.

She comes over to my side, a mischievous smile on her face. By those words, I’m assuming you mean, ‘wicked, obnoxious and pompous prick that has not the slightest respect for anyone’. Or is it the part where he said and I quote, ‘I hope you....’

Hey, it’s okay. I know you’re trying to get me to calm down, but reading those words back to me is certainly not the way. Thanks, but no thanks.

Who said I want you to calm down? She giggles gleefully, making no attempt to hide how much she is enjoying this.

I still do not get why you’re angry. I mean, I thought you already knew these things about yourself. Besides, you always rant about how you don’t care what anyone thinks of you, so I expect you to be super chill about this.

What the fuck do you mean? You thought I already knew these things? Are you saying he’s right? That I’m a… I collected my phone from her to get the exact wordings … worthless son of a bitch, and I deserve to be shot dead by a firing squad? I stare at her incredulously.

You should see your face right now, she manages to say amidst bouts of laughter.

Can you please be serious with this?

Okay, okay, she composes herself. That part is a little harsh, but the rest of it is pretty much true. You’re an asshole, Sam, I’ve told you that several times.

That does not give a nobody like him the right to say it!

I’m not a bad person, you know, I mutter after a minute of silence.

I don’t think you are.

Well, this idiot sure thinks so.

I do think you have a big problem though, she says matter-of-factly.

As she turns towards me, the wind blew out one-half of her robe slightly, just enough to give me a spectacular view of her cleavage. She did not attempt to pull the robe back together and I start getting horny again. I approach her, grab one of her perky breasts, and lean in to kiss her neck.

There you go again, avoiding the tough conversations, she comments as I felt her up. I had no intention of stopping to discuss this silly topic she is fond of bringing up.

Stop, she demands with a firm hand against my chest.

I concede defeat and step back to my previous position. For the umpteenth time, I don’t have a problem.

And for the umpteenth time, you do. And it’s a big one too.

If I had a big problem, you won’t be here every other night, having sex with me.

Sam, I have a lengthy history of choosing terrible men. My being here every other night is more of an indictment than an approval of your person, she says pointedly.

Wow! Okay, since you’re acting like you have a degree in psychology, why don’t you tell me what my problem is huh?

In the spirit of honesty, there are problems, not a problem. But the summary of them all is that you’re angry at yourself and the whole world. You’ve been angry for so long, and you’ve built this…this wall, this barrier around yourself and…

I start laughing, so she stops and shakes her head in resignation. I’m sorry, but let me stop you right there. What is it that you think I’m angry about or who do you think I’m angry at?

That’s a question only you can answer actually. I sense her annoyance at me for not taking this seriously so I try to comport myself.

But that’s the thing; I have nothing to be angry about. I had a great life growing up, I have a shitload of money, I’m well placed at a job I love and I have gorgeous girls like you coming in and out of this apartment at the dial of a button. This deep-seated anger you’re referencing doesn’t exist. I mean, sure I may be a little mean and demanding but that’s because I’ve found that to be the way to get the best out of people. I am fine. It’s the rest of you who need to toughen up and stop being such sissies. I finish with an emphatic shrug.

Denial, deflection, rinse and repeat. She shakes her head again. It’s getting chilly out here and frankly, I should get some sleep. So good night. She walks away, back into the bedroom.

Well, there goes any chance of round three tonight. I decide to give her a five minutes head start to fall asleep before joining her in bed. I make a mental note to put out an ad for a new driver over the weekend. Uber would just have to suffice for the remaining two workdays.

Convinced I have given her enough time, I step out of the veranda and close the door behind me. I make a mental note to get a new duvet cover set to replace the current one, probably a blue one to better match the sapphire painting that coloured most of the room. I snuggle into the space she left for me and put off the bedside lamp, restoring the room to a state of darkness.

Sleep does not come as quickly as I had hoped for. Her words replay in my head as I try to find some truth in them. Could she be right? If so, what am I angry about?

After two minutes of introspection later, I have no answers. This means only one thing. I do not have a problem. I am fine. Not only fine, I am perfect, I muse out loud and, reassured by my rightness, I allow myself drift off to sleep.

My name is Samuel Adeniyi-Jones and I choose to live life on my own terms! I end my presentation emphatically.

The smiles and all-round applause tell me everything I need to know. It will not kill them to give me a standing ovation though. But this would do just fine too. I had sold the dream, and they had bought it completely; hook, line and sinker. We are going to get the contract, due to my brilliance.

The room begins to clear out, and on remembering my closing line, I immediately turn to face the projector screen so I can laugh without seeming like a crazy person. I choose to live life on my own terms, what does that even mean? Personally, I had zero idea; I just slipped that cliché in there because I knew it would fit perfectly. Contrary to the common opinion, clichés actually work. Effectively at that. I mean, that is how they got to be clichés in the first place, right? No one could convince me otherwise anyway. This presentation, like so many others in my career, was studded with clichés and my upward career trajectory is a testament to the effectiveness of my strategy.

The instant I close this deal, that trajectory is headed for another upward curve, much to my satisfaction and much to Taire’s dissatisfaction. I barely keep my laughter in check as I picture the look that would surely be on her face when I close this deal and consequently seal the promotion we are both vying for. She will probably die of jealousy. In the event of which, I had already prepared a little dance routine to do on her grave when her funeral service was over. God, I hate the stupid bitch.

I walk around the room and exchange firm handshakes with the five people that formed the clientele I had just made the pitch to. As I lock hands with the last of them, he whispers to me, brilliant presentation Mr. Adeniyi-Jones. We will get back to you tomorrow and I think you will very much like our response. My instinct is to reply with, I already know that, moron but instead I opt for I’m very glad to hear that, finishing off with my most professional smile. I wave to the other four as their entourage leaves the room. I use that alone time to think of the car I am going to get with the promotion money that is surely heading my way. A Mercedes Benz or a BMW perhaps. No, it should definitely be a Benz. A Benz oozes class and I need to have that strong classy stench so Taire can choke on it. Maybe if the choking plan did not work, I would hit her with my new ride. Ever so gently of course, I would not want to do anything to scratch the car.

The sound of the door opening behind me interrupts my reverie. I look to see who it is and my eyes were blessed with the view of my secretary. Blood flow to where the sun doesn’t shine corroborates the thoughts that are in my head. I have always held dark-skinned beauties in high regard and she is exactly that. Not even the dull grey business suit she is wearing hides her perfect Coke bottle figure that had me buzzing with sexual excitement. But beyond her obvious sex appeal, she is a true beauty to behold. She is perfect in more ways than not—three, maybe four inches shy of six feet tall, a small and sharp nose you are more likely to find on a Caucasian, and pretty brown eyes that somehow become prettier when she smiles.

Good morning, Mr. Adeniyi-Jones. I trust your presentation went very well, she greets, without taking her eyes off the pile of documents she held in her hand.

I roll my eyes at her expert show of professionalism as I play along. Yes Miss Bello, it went very well.

Like a predator on the prowl, I close the distance between us in seconds. On reaching her side, I slip my hand around her generously wide waist. Without even pausing to look up, she smacks my hand with the brutality of an angry Math teacher.

What the hell, Bukky? I exclaim as I withdraw my hand from the danger zone.

That’s what you get for acting inappropriately, sir, she replies with a stern look, daring, no, begging me to try again and see if she would not smack me even harder.

I, used to her usual antics, flash her a charming smile, lean in towards her until my lips are a hair’s breadth from her ears and tease, Come by my crib later today and I’ll show you inappropriate.

You know one of these days I’m going to report you to HR she warns as she eases me a few inches back.

"Leave me alone, oga. I just need you to sign these documents and I’ll get back to your, I mean, my workstation." She proceeds to jab the documents at me hurriedly but I did not miss the crack in the façade of disinterest.

Fine, fine. I’ll sign them, but not here. Let’s head over to my office. That’s where my special pen is.

Her shoulders drop in tandem as she sighs. Again with this special pen nonsense? Or is this another scheme to get me alone in your office?

Don’t flatter yourself, Miss. Also don’t disrespect the special pen. Iniesta signed his freaking autograph on my jersey with that baby! I fire back, referencing my trip to South Africa for the 2010 World Cup, during which I ran into the world-famous footballer who so graciously signed my jersey with that pen, forever changing its status from ordinary to special. A story she knew all too well of course. Everybody knew actually, only death can make me shut up about it.

You know sir, for someone so smart you’re incredibly superstitious, which kind of makes you stupid.

Oh! So, you think I’m very smart huh? Go on, do tell, what else do you like about me? A playful smile is plastered on my face as I await her response in hopes it’s of the flattering variety.

Nah, that’s pretty much where the positives end— your smartness.

You’re mean and insubordinate, Bukky. Be rest assured I’m including that in your next performance review. She marches towards the door unflinching, not remotely buying my bluff.

I follow right behind her, eyes locked on her... Stop staring at my ass, I hear her warn, her index finger shooting up to that effect. Damn, how does she always know?!

Just a minute Miss Bello, I excuse myself on sighting the young intern we had recently hired. Bayo, bring your head over here. He dutifully hurries over.

One, go into the conference room and clear out the place. Make sure you return the projector to Mrs Ogundipe as well, the last thing I need is her storming into my office tomorrow. Two, I hand him a couple of thousand naira notes, Quickly go to Chicken Republic and get me the usual. Can I interest you in anything Miss Bello? I ask Bukky to which she responds in the negative.

How far boss? Can I keep the change this time? He pleaded.

"E be like say you no well. You better bring my change." I rebuff, sending his hopes up in flames.

Bukky laughs as he left to run the errand. Sorry but your tush accent makes it so weird when you speak pidgin. Seriously, you should hear yourself, Mr. Cambridge.

"It’s Yale, not Cambridge and mind your business abeg," I scowled.

As I closed the door to the conference room behind me, I look around at the office personnel as they go about fulfilling their respective duties. Stationed across the seven light brown, long, African hardwood desks were a total of twenty-eight staff members, all of whom handle the lower level tasks of customer relations, project execution and the likes. I have always held the opinion that cubicles would improve efficiency as opposed to this current structure of four people sharing a desk—and as if to prove my point, I see two people on the fourth desk, flirting their time away instead of working. I scoff at the lot of them. Phones ring, printers hum, computer mouse click, but not a single mouth offers a word of congratulations to me. I realise one cannot exactly describe my relationship with this level of employees as cordial since I restrict my communication with them to strictly work-related talk, but surely it wouldn’t kill them to acknowledge what had just happened in the conference room. I cannot shake the sting of disappointment, and I air it to my secretary, making sure I was loud enough for