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Dollar Bills (Pt 2) | Fiction

dollar bills (a short story)

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(PS: That’s how I almost didn’t update just now. As I write this, its 4:11pm and I’m just eating for the first time today. Final year is a lot of work fam, but I love my awesome readers and comment section gang, so enjoy this chapter. You deserve it!)


Adeola perused his reflection in the side mirror of the lorry. The bottom part of his face, from the bridge of his nose down, was covered with a black skii mask. His eyebrows were bushy. It had been long since he did anything to tidy it up.

His finger nails were long and had deep seated dirt stuck down the nails.

His hair looked as unkempt as the next mad man on the street.

His nearly grey eyes were focused, disturbed, and haunting. The eyes of a man that had snuffed out the lives of many.

The months and weeks of planning of this heist had left him a shadow of himself. Albeit a more alive shadow of himself.

Adeola had missed the rush of these bank robberies. Plain house robbery wasn’t enough for him, anymore than a drop of water could make up the river nile. At house robberies, there was almost no urgency with getting caught or not. Of course, the Nigerian police force already had a good hand in that. He needed something more now and then. So he had suggested and planned another bank heist.

Seven heists he had planned, seven times they were successful, and zero times were they ever caught. This time, he had planned the biggest heist the country had ever seen in real life. Almost straight out of the future fast and furious 9.

Maybe not the biggest the country had seen, but the biggest he had ever planned.

He was sitting in the drivers seat of a lorry parked two streets away from the biggest bank in Nigeria, waiting for the bullion van carrying fifty million dollars, to turn the corner into the street he was parked in.

The van would be driven by one of his men, dressed in the exact same uniform the real driver was wearing before Adeola slit his throat and left him for dead and buried under a heap of trash in a nearby bush.

His men argued with him not to kill the man, even while the man plead with all his life not to be killed,

“Ugly people like this poor bobo here die anyway. Why not make it now?” Adeola rebutted, sounding bored and with his staple bored look on his face.

He slit the throat of the driver, wiped down the murder weapon on the grass, and then on his trouser. He turned towars the lorry – the getaway vehicle – and stretched his body out with a groan.

“What are we going to do about the body boss?” Sharp, Adeola’s right hand man asked while Adeola was walking back to the lorry. They didn’t plan to kill anybody. There wasn’t meant to be casualties.

Without stopping,his trouser hanging loosely off his waist, and the murder weapon sticking out of his back pocket, he replied, “Just put it under that heap of trash over there.” He waved his hands in no particular direction.

Adeola knew he didn’t have to kill the man, but he needed to. He needed to build momentum for what they were about to do.

“We’re turning the corner in five boss.” Sharp’s voice came through the comm device fixed on Adeola’s right ear, snatching him out of his reverie.

His heartbeat spiked. He could feel the adrenaline pumping though his veins. Or was it the small shot of vodka he had immediately after he killed that driver? The news from the doctor that he had a rare heart condition? He wasn’t quite sure which.

The doctor had informed him that If he stressed himself too much, he could slump and die at any moment, and aside from that he also had a few months to live.

Well, that wasn’t going to ruin the fun he would have while driving that lorry down the streets of Akure, and onward to his getaway.

This would be his last heist. If he was going to die, he didn’t want to die on a job. He wanted to die on an exotic island in Peru, or on a private beach in Miami. His Thirty milion dollar cut from this heist would fund his journey to death.

The lorry shook and bumped while Sharp drove the Bullion van carrying his ticket to his next life, onto the back of the lorry.

“We’re ready to go.” Sharp spoke again.

“Hello Peru, goodbye Buhari.” Adeola Said aloud to himself.

Adeola hit the accelerator and forged on to their warehouse where they would meet the rest of the gang. The wind was wooshing in his ear as the lorry zoomed down the street. Its driver, guiding the lorry between cars and bikes, trying to avoid creating unnecessary casualties while his blood buzzed with the effects of alcohol.

His heart beat with anticipation for his next life. It beat for the peace of finally being able to escape the sham of a life he had lived all his forty years on earth. For the guilt of being the man who abandoned his wife when she needed him the most. for being the last option of a role model for his son and his daughetr – Chigozie and Ngozi. It beat for the frustration of being a failed father.

But now, Adeola had a thirty million chance at a new life, at a chance to right his wrongs, and at the same time planning his death. He had already planned to give ten million to his wife for the upkeep of his wife and children, and use the rest for the short time he had to live. It seemed like an honorable thing to do. Something to make up for his wrong doing and ease the guilt of what he did.


“Tell your mother that our womens leader in church has been looking for her. She hasn’t been to the market since and she hasn’t been in church for some weeks now, eh. Biko, tell her. I hope she’s ok sha?” Mama Wusilat said as she packed the onions and fresh tomatoes worth more than Chigozie asked for into medium sized nylons.

“She’s fine. I will tell her you asked of her.” Chigozie turned his eyes down to the ground, avoiding the death glares the other market women around the shop were giving him. He straddled his bicycle and anxiously balanced it from side to side.

“Ehen. Greet her for me oh. And tell her i’ll see her on Saturday.”

“Ok ma.” Chigozie turned his bicycle around, still avoiding the eyes of the other market women.

“Look at this one, spoiling another womans business.” The woman in the next shop was talking to a customer, and motioning to chigozie with the tilt of her nose. “Bunch of hungry beggers, looking for the next person to loan them free food.” She eyed him down, drilling anxiety and anger into him.

Chigozie wanted to reply her. He wanted to tell her exactly what he thought of her inability to keep her thoughts to herself and her not being able to stick her nose where she ought to – in her own business. Obviously her business needed some nose sticking, seeing as she barely had wares to sell anymore and most of her goods were getting expired.

Expectantly, the customer she was explaining his life history to didn’t want to buy expired ‘gala’, so she turned around and left. As always, she rained insults at the woman, calling her selfish for not buying anything after coming to her stand.

He didn’t anyway. He didn’t say anything to her. He didn’t want to make a scene and render his mothers efforts at building a life for him and his sister futile. So he took his free goods, his self esteem and his bicycle away from that area and went on his way back home.

Riding on his bicycle, away from the market – Aja Oba it was called – Chigozie found tears rolling down his cheeks and then blown away with the wind.

He remembered the last day he saw his father. The Landlady was demanding for their five months due rent, school fees for him and Ngozi was yet to be paid and they had been at home for almost a month, there was hardly food in the house that period and they were practically living on his mothers meagre income that was already stretched far too thin for extra load.

His father lost his job as a security guard at a bank one year ago and hadn’t gotten a job ever since.

In a nutsehell, things were really bad at home. On top of that, he knew his father had been involved in shady dealings for nearly two months. He always returned home really late. Most times he returned too drunk to even face his mothers everlasting nagging.

The last time he saw his dad, that night, his father came home late and drunk again. His mother accousted him immediately he entered the house and started complaining, nagging and questioning him of his whereabouts. Reminding him once more of what a shame he had become, and how terrible things were at home.

The sad part was that his father never said anything on previous days. He never responded. He took it like he deserved all his wife was giving him. He always took it and remained mute. Until that night.

That night, Chigozie saw his father do something he thought he would never see. Something that made his heart fall into the abyss of nothingness and hurt. Instead of just walking away like he always did, his father slapped his mother. He didn’t just stop there. He continued. He hit her again. And Again…..


This chapter is dedicated to all those currently in abusive relationships (emotional and physical abuse). I hope you find the courage to flee from it.

What are your thoughts guys? What are your theories on this? Let me know in the comment section and don’t forget to share!

Read part 3 here: https://thecreatorspen.wordpress.com/2018/04/27/dollar-bills-pt-3-a-story/

From Russia with Coke,

5 thoughts on “Dollar Bills (Pt 2) | Fiction”

  1. Pingback: Dollar BillS (Part 1)| A Story – The Creators Pen

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