CHAPTER FIVE — THE VIDEO NO DEY LIE
The morning Lagos woke up like every other day, but it was not the same. The city had seen the video. And Lagos never forgets — it remembers, it records, it shares.
By 7 a.m., the video of Damilare Adekunle, son of Chief Solomon Adekunle, standing atop a police vehicle, shouting his father's name, had already gone viral.
Not viral in whispers. Viral in full-throttle, screens-glued, fingers-swiping, gossip-fuelled, social-media-on-fire viral.
On Twitter, hashtags multiplied faster than Lagos traffic jams:
#AdekunleSonAssaultsPolice
#BarrackBoy
#IronManFail
#LagosPrivilege
Instagram reels stitched the clips, slowed down his gestures, zoomed on his smug face, added commentary. Facebook debates exploded: politicians arguing, youths laughing, elders shaking heads. WhatsApp groups forwarded it until every phone in the city carried the image of the boy — arrogant, untouchable, exposed.
The video did not lie. It captured a moment of truth. The kind of truth that no amount of money, influence, or spin could erase.
Inside the Adekunle mansion, the tension was palpable. Chief Solomon Adekunle's phone had been ringing since sunrise. Journalists, political allies, police chiefs, and even international media wanted comments. His aides scurried across the mansion, papers and phones in hand, trying to control what could not be controlled.
"Sir, the video… the public is—" one aide started.
"I know," Chief Solomon interrupted, calm as ever. "I am aware. Let me speak when necessary. For now, control the narrative. The boy is not the story. The story is what we choose it to be."
He was the Iron Man, yes — disciplined, precise, untouchable. But even the strongest armor had a weak spot, and today, that weak spot was a child who had never been taught the full cost of privilege.
Meanwhile, Damilare sat in the private lounge, phone in hand, scrolling. His pulse raced, stomach twisted. Notifications stacked like bricks. Comments ranged from mockery to outrage.
"Omo, na so dem go do your papa?" one read.
"See wetin bad boy fit do if dem dey pamper am."
"Iron Man my foot! Na barrack nonsense dem dey teach their kids."
Every ping, every notification, every tag was a reminder that peer influence only works so far. Friends hyped him, cheered him, made him feel untouchable. But the world? The world was watching. And the world did not care about friendship.
He tried calling Seyi, Musty, and Deji. No answer. Peer influence had evaporated. What remained was the cold reflection of his own recklessness, magnified by the viral lens.
At the same time, the political machine started moving. Chief Solomon convened an emergency strategy session at his office, bringing in media consultants, social media experts, and trusted political allies.
"We need to manage perception," he told them. "Not only the video, but every comment, every blog post, every social media account that references my son. The public must see that we are disciplined, responsible, and composed."
One consultant, a young woman with sharp eyes and faster fingers, nodded. "Sir, we can suppress some content, release clarifying statements, and push charitable engagements. But… the video is already out. It's too late for some damage control."
Chief Solomon's jaw tightened. "Damage control is never too late. It is only a matter of strategy. We will spin this, reframe this. The boy's actions are our opportunity to show leadership."
Leadership. Strategy. Discipline. Words repeated so often they sounded like armor, but the weight behind them was real. Every call, every press release, every social media post had to protect the family name while educating the child in real time — a delicate balance between power and consequence.
By noon, reporters had stationed themselves outside the mansion. Damilare noticed them from the balcony, cameras pointed like hawks. He felt exposed, more than he ever had in his life.
Even the streets talked. Lagosians, known for memory sharper than knives, shouted in markets, buses, and offices. "See barrack boy!" they said. "Na so the son dey behave when papa dey collect power pass him!"
His peers, the Cabinet Boys, were nowhere to be seen. Influence, hype, protection — all evaporated when the public lens focused on him. The lesson was harsh: privilege is temporary when accountability arrives.
By afternoon, social media analysts were calling it a "PR nightmare in motion." Opposition politicians began to spin it for their gain:
"If discipline starts at home, why is the Iron Man's son above the law?"
"Leadership is not inherited," one senator said publicly.
"Is this the behavior we should condone for children of our leaders?"
Every statement landed like a weight on Chief Solomon's shoulders. Every camera frame of Damilare laughing, shouting, or drinking in the video was now a symbol, weaponized against the family's carefully built image.
Damilare sat quietly in his room, phone on mute. The world was watching, and for the first time, peer influence felt like a curse. His friends had cheered him, recorded him, made him feel immortal, and now the city was ready to burn that illusion down.
He thought of last night: the thrill, the adrenaline, the laughter. The confidence they had pressed into him. The sense of untouchable power. It all felt like a dream. A dangerous, expensive, viral dream.
He finally understood: influence can hype, but it cannot protect.
Even money, even name, even power — none of it mattered when the public lens decided to focus.
By evening, Chief Solomon had organized a press briefing. The mansion's media team crafted every word: measured, posh, and controlled. Damilare was called to attend — not to speak, just to be seen.
"This is the face of responsibility," the press release read. "We acknowledge the actions of a young man, a child, but assure the public that the values of discipline and accountability remain firm in our household and administration."
The boy walked in, tall but hesitant. Cameras flashed. Microphones jostled for the perfect angle. Every shutter click felt like a verdict. Every lens a jury. Peer influence was gone. Name alone was the shield, and even that felt fragile under scrutiny.
After the press briefing, the Cabinet Boys finally reached out. Seyi called:
"Guy, you okay? The video…"
"Don't call me now," Damilare said. His voice was flat. "You think this is funny?"
Silence on the other end. Influence, he realized, had limits. Loyalty only lasts when the spotlight is away.
By nightfall, the mansion felt like a battlefield. Chief Solomon met with Damilare in private. No cameras. No aides. Just father and son.
"Do you understand now why this matters?" the father asked.
Damilare nodded. He had begun to grasp something his peers had never shown him: every action has consequences, and privilege only delays them.
"Peer influence," the father continued softly, "can make you feel untouchable. It can make you laugh when others would cry. But the world… the world does not care about friends. It only sees results."
Damilare swallowed. The lesson was harsh, but necessary. Influence and wealth had created a bubble, and now that bubble had burst violently in public view.
"Tomorrow," the father said, "you will face more than the city. You will face your peers, your friends, and ultimately yourself. The Iron Man does not punish publicly, but consequences… they come in other ways."
The boy understood. Not fully, but enough to feel the weight of what had begun.
By midnight, Damilare sat by the window, watching Lagos flicker below. Streetlights, cars, neon signs — life moving on without pause. He had been taught power, privilege, and influence. But today, he learned accountability. The world had no mercy for those who abused advantage, no patience for arrogance, no forgiveness for ignorance masked as confidence.
The viral video was a lesson — relentless, public, and unforgettable.
And in the quiet of the night, Damilare understood something terrifying: he had made mistakes that even his father's power might not fully shield.