đ Makoko Safe House, Lagos
đĄ 6:30 AM | Tuesday Morning
Makoko woke gentlyâcanoes sliding across water, oil crackling in frying pans, children shrieking with that morning kind of joy. But inside David's small home, the air felt heavy, thick with fear disguised as determination. The kind of atmosphere where hope and exhaustion sit side by side like unwilling roommates.
Bayo's eyes stung as he read the notification again:
"TUITION PAYMENT OVERDUE. ACCOUNT SUSPENSION IN 48 HOURS."
Even reading the words hurt. Not because he couldn't afford schoolâhe had never once worried about moneyâbut because this was the first time in his life that necessity was louder than privilege. He tried his emergency credit card, pressing the numbers with a silent prayer.
DECLINED.
A hollow feeling opened inside him. Not panicâsomething quieter, more personal. Like shame.
Iya David stood in the doorway, hands flour-dusted from frying akara. She watched him with the kind of gaze only mothers of many battles haveâtired, steady, unblinking.
"Education shouldn't be a weapon," she murmured, sliding a bowl of warm oatmeal toward him. Her tone wasn't pity; it was truth. "In this house, we share everythingâfood, space, problems."
She reached into a drawer and produced an old student bus pass, edges soft from use.
"David's old pass. Still has two months."
Bayo's throat tightened. "I⊠I can't take that."
"You can," she said simply. "The river doesn't refuse the rain because it didn't fall in the right place."
Her words hit something inside himâsomething bruised he hadn't acknowledged since childhood.
David watched silently, his jaw clenched. "I'm sorry, Mama," he whispered as she brushed past him.
She squeezed his cheek. "Some fires are worth the smoke, my son."
The moment settled over them like a blanketâheavy but warm. Bayo felt his pride crumble in the face of real generosity. Not the performative type he'd grown up around, but the kind that asked for nothing in return.
David quietly began transferring files onto Bayo's tablet. "No more cloud access for you," he said lightly, as if this were normal.
Something in Bayo's chest softened. Thisâthis simple assumption that they would share everythingâfelt more valuable than all the accounts he could no longer access.
For the first time since the Alliance war began, he wasn't thinking like a strategist.
He was thinking like someone who had finally learned what it meant to belong.
đ Virtual Operations Center & Global Academic Nodes
đ 9:00 AM | Geneva & Lagos Time
The world map glowed with unreachable promiseâdots representing global networks they couldn't access. Each locked node felt like a door slammed in their faces.
"It's not just code," David muttered, rubbing tired eyes. "It's laws, systems⊠whole histories we don't have the power to rewrite."
Maka stared at the Nairobi node. The quartz stone on her wrist flickered with a faint heat, as if the bracelet sensed her frustration. The glow reflected in her eyes, turning them storm-bright.
"They built walls while we built bridges," she whispered. "And walls⊠walls are winning."
Chioma's image appeared on their screenâglossy, polished, confident. Her office gleamed behind her, all glass and lake views. Even her silence was intimidating.
"You're trying to solve global problems with local tools," she said, not unkindlyâbut without mercy. "People don't want your revolution. They want stability."
The words pierced Maka more than she expected. Not because Chioma mocked themâbut because she sounded like she believed it. Like she pitied them.
When the call ended, the room felt darker.
David's voice cracked. "We're crossing oceans in a canoe⊠while they're building container ships."
His admission wasn't defeatistâit was despair leaking through exhaustion. And that's what scared Maka most. David's spirit was usually the sun in the room. Now it was flickering.
She reached out, touching his shoulder. Not to comfort himâjust to remind him he wasn't alone.
đ Adewale Academy Quad
đ 3:00 PM | Lagos
The legal attacks came like a tidal waveâbut the emotional ones hit harder.
Maka's mother appeared on her screen, teary but trying to smile. "They said the shop may close. Your father⊠he hasn't spoken since."
Maka's breath stilled. Her parents were her grounding. Her anchor. Hearing fear in her mother's voice was like swallowing broken glass.
Layo received a similar message. Her father's suspension letter looked like a death sentence. "Don't worry about meâstay safe," he'd written. But the tremor in his typing told another story.
And then the IT Adminâdragged away in front of everyone. He locked eyes with Maka long enough to send a silent message:
Don't let this break you.
But she felt cracks forming anyway.
Beside her, Bayo watched everything unfold with a numbness that scared even him. He knew these tactics intimatelyâhe'd seen his father use them like tools. But he'd never imagined being on the other side of them.
"He's not trying to win," Bayo said quietly. "He's trying to erase us. The way he erased Aunt Alimotu."
His voice broke on the last syllable.
Maka reached for his hand.
This time, he didn't pull away.
đ Library & Campus Server Room
đ 4 PM to 11 PM | Tuesday
Students removing River Guard pins felt like knives to the chest. Every betrayal echoed louder than the last.
Amina stayed. Even with her family threatened. Her voice wavered, but her eyes didn't.
"My father said he'd rather lose his job than his daughter's soul."
The line hit Maka like a blessing and a burden all at once.
Later, in the dim glow of servers, Maka stared at Alimotu's final protocolâa shimmering map of failure and warning.
"It's not a solution," she whispered. "It's a confession."
David looked at his MIT email, guilt carved into his expression. "I ruined my future for principles that might be breaking families."
Bayo placed a steadying hand on David's shoulder. "You didn't ruin anything. You chose us."
It was the first time Bayo had spoken with certainty all day.
Bayo now moved through campus with the calculated economy of someone who knew the price of everything. The bus fare to Surulere (150 naira), a plate of beans at the campus canteen (300 naira), the exact amount his last Italian leather belt had fetched (a humiliating 8,000 naira). He'd started taking small design commissions through his Lagos Underground contactsâlogos for startups, event postersâthe payments a trickle compared to his old trust fund disbursements, but it meant he could occasionally buy Maka a coffee without feeling the phantom weight of his father's money.
đ Global Deployment
đ 1 AM | Wednesday
Every failed node felt like losing a friend.
The Nairobi market woman's angry message hit Maka hardest. Not because it was criticismâbecause it was justified.
They had promised freedom. But what they delivered was complexity wrapped in hope.
Layo's voice cracked when she said:
"We escaped the dam⊠but became puddles. And puddles disappear."
Her honesty hurt because it was true.
đ Makoko Safe House Rooftop
đ 5:00 AM | Dawn
The sky blushed gold over Makoko as the first real silence of the night settled around them. Exhaustion hung on their shoulders like wet clothing.
Bayo leaned against the rail, eyes hollow but softening as he looked at Maka.
"You don't always have to be the strong one," he murmured.
"And you don't always have to be the one who doesn't break," she answered.
For a moment, neither looked away.
The bracelet glowed againâwarm, steady, hopeful.
Not a victory.
Not a solution.
Just⊠warmth.
Maybe that was enough for this dawn.
Maka exhaled. "Even streams need riverbeds."
Bayo squeezed her handâgentle, grounding.
"And we'll carve ours. Even if it takes everything."
The new day rose around them, imperfect but alive.
Just like their revolution.