A DAY IN BARRACK: THE SON WHO BURNED THE THRONE
CHAPTER NINE — STREETS TALK, SOCIAL MEDIA SCREAMS
The morning Lagos woke up, it was louder than usual. Not the usual hustle, not the usual traffic. Today, Lagos was gossiping. Not quietly. Not subtly. Lagos was shouting through its streets, screens, and social media timelines.
Damilare Adekunle woke to the same familiar city, but the city felt different today. Every phone pinged, every notification blared, every headline stared at him like a judge.
"Barrack Boy dey craze!"
"Iron Man my foot!"
"Privilege don spoil am."
He no longer laughed. He no longer scrolled. Peer influence had left him; the Cabinet Boys were silent, absent, evaporated when the world wanted accountability.
The Streets Speak
By 10 a.m., even Lagos streets knew his name. Market vendors, bus conductors, street hawkers, and boda-boda riders whispered, shouted, and laughed:
"See Barrack Boy wey dem dey hype for IG!"
"Omo, dem no fit teach this one sense!"
"Na so dem dey raise children for Barrack… prestige without sense."
Even the drivers honked as Damilare's convoy passed. Some called out, some laughed, some shook their heads. The boy who had once felt invincible now felt the eyes of the city boring into him. Influence, hype, and privilege had nothing against collective judgment.
He glanced at his phone. Notifications piled like stones. Every retweet, meme, and comment amplified the humiliation. He felt exposed in a way he had never felt before.
Father's Strategic Calm
Inside the mansion, Chief Solomon Adekunle's phone never stopped. Calls from political allies, journalists, and media consultants flooded in. He was calm. Always calm.
"Sir, the video is trending again," an aide said nervously.
"Memes are exploding," another added.
Chief Solomon leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Let them talk. We are not responding to ridicule; we are shaping perception. Lagos has eyes, yes. But Lagos also respects strategy. We control the story, and we control the storm."
By noon, the mansion's media team released carefully curated posts: photos of charity work, school visits, community projects. Every post screamed responsibility, discipline, and authority. But Damilare could not hide from the city, no matter how posh the image.
The Cabinet Boys? Gone.
By afternoon, Damilare attempted to call his friends. Seyi? Silence. Musty? Blocked. Deji? Unreachable.
He finally understood: peer influence could hype you, but it could not save you from the world. Friends were gone because fun and thrill end where responsibility begins.
"So na so e go be?" he muttered.
Yes. That was reality. Influence had limits; reality had none.
First Street Confrontation
As the day dragged on, Damilare had to leave the mansion for a brief school engagement — a charity initiative his father had scheduled to counter public scrutiny.
The streets were alive. Children whispered, adults stared, social media clips were replayed by street vendors showing phones to anyone who stopped.
He stepped out. A group of local boys approached, grins wide, confidence bold.
"Omo! Na you be Barrack Boy?" one shouted.
"Wey you dey think say you dey?" another asked.
The laughter was not just mocking; it was judgment from those who felt untouched by privilege.
Damilare froze for a second. Peer influence had hyped him last night, but no hype could save him now. The city, the street, and strangers judged him more brutally than his friends ever would.
He mumbled something under his breath and walked faster. The lesson was sharp: arrogance meets its match in public accountability.
Social Media Storm
Meanwhile, the city's virtual gaze continued. Instagram reels stitched his gestures