Andrew Adabio sat alone in his mansion in Lekki, surrounded by everything people prayed for. The living room was wide, the chairs soft, the chandelier bright, the marble floor spotless. Outside the glass windows, Lagos glittered and roared with life.
But Andrew felt empty.
At 30, he was already powerful. People respected his name. Some feared him. Many wanted to be close to him. Yet deep inside, he knew most of them were drawn to his money, not his heart.
He thought of Sandra, a woman who used to call him “my king” every morning. The moment he stopped sending gifts, stopped buying her phones, stopped taking her to expensive restaurants, her sweetness disappeared. One night she snapped at him on the phone, “You’ve changed. Are you broke or what?” That was when he understood.
He remembered another night at a party on Victoria Island. Music was loud, perfume expensive, and smiles everywhere looked rehearsed. A woman had leaned toward him and said, “I’ve always wanted to marry a billionaire.” Not him. Just a billionaire.
That memory still stung.
His phone buzzed on the table. A message flashed on the screen:
Good evening, baby. I miss you. When are you sending me something?
Andrew turned the phone face down and asked himself a question that frightened him.
If I remove the money, who will still stay?
The next morning, he called for his driver and assistant, Kunla, a loyal man who had worked with him for years.
“Sit down,” Andrew said.
Kunla looked surprised but obeyed.
Andrew folded his arms. “I want to disappear for some weeks.”
Kunla frowned. “Disappear?”
“Yes.”
“Oga, is everything okay? Should we travel? London? Dubai?”
Andrew shook his head. “Not that kind of disappearing. I want to dress like a beggar.”
Kunla stared at him in disbelief. “Beggar?”
“Yes.”
“Oga, no. That is dangerous. Kidnappers, area boys, armed robbers—anything can happen.”
“I know.”
“People will take pictures. Blogs will carry it. They’ll say a billionaire has gone mad.”
“I don’t care.”
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