The dining table wasn't usually a place where anything but food and comfort was shared.
But today was different. My mom had a grim look on her face, playing with the food bits on her plate. Maybe she was trying to distract herself from reality, or perhaps trying to accept it, but he didn't expect her to just give in that easily. She was probably thinking of solutions to the problem at hand. My father, on the other hand, had his laptop in front of him—something that happens rarely.
After the buzz of the Harvard announcement had cleared, it had left us with a dull feeling of financial anxiety.
Femi sat across from his father, who was currently crunching figures and numbers of their family expenses and assets. He was an accountant; this is probably where Femi got his love for numbers.
Femi was also aware of a cold reality in the numbers—the reality of the data his father was processing.
He knew the scholarship was a miracle, but it covered only the tuition and housing alone. The indirect expenses like visa processing, travel, and feeding weren't part of the package. He planned on studying applied mathematics, which needed his own set of tools: software licenses and a high-spec laptop to run programs and simulations.
The final figure, once converted, looked like a fucking wormhole ready to devour his family.
"The Naira is too much, my boy," his father finally said to him after massaging his temples a bit.
He spoke in English but there was a hidden Yoruba beneath his tone, and Femi understood what he meant: I am tired.
Femi also looked at the data on his father's computer. The pressure was trying to break his family. He was tired of being an observer in something that might make or break his future. He won the intellectual battle, scoring himself a scholarship. But the financial battle—the real-world conflict—was trying to turn his 'W' to an 'L'.
He wasn't having any of that.
"I have some money saved from managing the cafe and hosting tutorials, papa," he said. Even though he knew what he had was negligible.
"This is not your burden, my son. Don't worry about it. We might just have to sell that land we have at Epe, even though the price right now is unfavorable." His mother said with a sigh.
He looked at his mother's tired expressions, then to the spreadsheet of doom. It was a total failure. Something he failed to account for. His education. His future. It depended on something as basic as money. And the traditional routes that are available are just... too slow and inefficient.
"This is a game theory problem," he thought, his mind phasing back to an analytical simulation, something he prefers to use when attempting to solve problems like this. "The problem is clear. N3,000,000 in three weeks. All traditional methods are not viable. I need a countermeasure."
"I have a potential solution, father. There's a tournament that's going to happen in Ikeja. A. Gaming tournament. The grand prize is three million naira. But the entrance fee is a little steep. 30k. I'm going to need you to prepare a sum for three members," Femi explained to his father.
The silence that followed was heavy. The air felt two times heavier. His father stared at him with an incredulous look after taking off his glasses.
"Games? Gambling? Is this how you want to solve a Harvard problem, ehn Femi?" His voice was low, laced with a lot of skepticism. Maybe a hint of disappointment and frustration, too. "That is not a solution. It is a risk. A stupid one at that. Complete foolishness."
"A mathematical risk, father." He insisted. "What are the odds of us meeting the deadline using traditional methods? I ran the numbers, and we only have a 1.5% chance of making things work." he said. "The probability of me winning this high-stakes tournament is much higher if I execute the right strategy. This is something I've spent years practicing and perfecting. This will work."
His mom stepped forward, her tone laced with worry and doubt. "We're talking about real money here, Adeyemi! Real life. Not some game currency. This is not something you can just press reset and try again. What if it's all a scam? What would you do then? You want to go to Ikeja to meet up with a bunch of hooligans?"
"It's high risk for sure, Mum, but the reward is going to solve all our problems and even put us in the green." Femi countered, knowing he sounded clinical. He reached for his dad's laptop and opened the tournament page for his parents to see. He showed them the sponsors and registered teams.
"They are verified. And my odds are not based on luck. They are based on a proper analysis of the viable options. I'm not letting this slip between my fingers. Not in this lifetime." He said with a resolve that surprised his parents.
His father stared at the screen for a moment, then looked at his son's steady, analytical eyes. He didn't see a boy asking for permission to go play with 100k, but a strategist presenting a solution that posed minimal risk. His skepticism still remained, but the financial desperation was overwhelming.
"Three million naira," his father mused with heavy possibility, "and the risk is just over 100k and less time to find another way." He paused and looked at his wife, who shook her head in silent protest. "If you're going to do this, son, you do this without Tunde, and you do it just for the money. Not for the glory. And you'll walk me through your plan."
Femi felt a surge of adrenaline. Not from the game, but from the real-life stakes.
He had an objective.
"Yes, papa," the passive observer was slowly becoming the protagonist, "I'll let you in on my plans. But I'm gonna play for both the glory and the money," he said while smirking.
.