Game of deception, p.1
Game of Deception, page 1
Game of Deception
Olajide A. Smith
Published by Olajide A. Smith, 2026.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
GAME OF DECEPTION
First edition. February 5, 2026.
Copyright © 2026 Olajide A. Smith.
ISBN: 979-8233163494
Written by Olajide A. Smith.
GAME OF DECEPTION
A Psychological Thriller of Love, Lies and Betrayal
BY
OLAJIDE A. SMITH
Copyright © 2026 Olajide A. Smith
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review and on blogs with attribution, without permission, in writing form from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, or actual events or locales is used fictitiously. Name, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, locales and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
External cover, internal design and contents Copyright © 2026 Olajide A. Smith
All rights reserved.
The rights to reproduce the work are reserved to the copyright holder.
For permission requests, write to the publisher, Olajide A. Smith.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1 Fearless Heart
CHAPTER 2 Cycles of Rescue
CHAPTER 3 Smouldering Embers
CHAPTER 4 A Lovely Day
CHAPTER 5 The Mission
CHAPTER 6 A Simple, Perfect Thing
CHAPTER 7 Games Without Frontiers
CHAPTER 8 A Can of Worms
CHAPTER 9 Eye of The Tiger
CHAPTER 10 Whispers in the Dark
CHAPTER 11 Innocence Shattered
CHAPTER 12 Ride or Die
CHAPTER 13 Smooth Criminals
CHAPTER 14 The Client
CHAPTER 15 Who’s That Girl?
CHAPTER 16 Dangerous Minds
CHAPTER 17 Threads of Betrayal
CHAPTER 18 All That Glitters
CHAPTER 19 What Lies Beneath
CHAPTER 20 Smelling Out a Rat
CHAPTER 21 In Plain Sight
CHAPTER 22 Desperately Seeking Zainab
CHAPTER 23 The Sucker Punch
CHAPTER 24 Kidnapper’s Lair
CHAPTER 25 The Blueprint
CHAPTER 26 Pathway to Freedom
CHAPTER 27 Fractured Ties
CHAPTER 28 Caught Up
CHAPTER 29 Echoes of Deceit
CHAPTER 30 Party for One
CHAPTER 31 The Sting of Rejection
CHAPTER 32 Die with The Lie
CHAPTER 33 Quiet Storm
CHAPTER 34 Unlocked Secrets
CHAPTER 35 Unravelling Bonds
CHAPTER 36 An Ear to The Ground
CHAPTER 37 Cold Discovery
CHAPTER 38 Entangled in Silk
CHAPTER 39 Spiral into Darkness
CHAPTER 40 A Problem Shared
CHAPTER 41 Shattered Illusions
CHAPTER 42 Heartstrings in Peril
CHAPTER 43 Legal Imperfections
CHAPTER 44 Return to Love
CHAPTER 45 Bad Intentions
CHAPTER 46 Murder for Hire
CHAPTER 47 The Sting of Karma
CHAPTER48 Rita’s Dilemma
CHAPTER 49 On Bended Knee
CHAPTER 50 Murder was the Case
1
FEARLESS HEART
‘Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear.’
—MARK TWAIN
After giving himself a final once-over, Zubby felt confident in his appearance and decided he was ready to head out. Of all the outfits he owned, none seemed more fitting for his rendezvous with Shell Oil than the navy-blue suit, crisp white shirt and black wingtips polished to a mirror shine. Fully aware of the power of a first impression, he paid meticulous attention to every detail.
A two-year stint in a warehouse after graduating from university wasn't the life Zubby had envisioned for himself at 25. As far as he was concerned, he was a master strategist. No way was he about to let life catch him off-guard. Therefore, he planned.
The habit of planning ahead had been ingrained in him since childhood, so he meticulously planned every aspect of his life, approaching it like a skilled architect. He took control and designed the life he believed he was meant to live.
So, why was he working in a warehouse two hours from home? The Nigerian job market was brutally tight and relentlessly competitive—there was no denying that. Still, graduating with a Second-Class Upper degree in Economics should have given him some kind of edge. Instead, it felt almost meaningless, with the way people constantly droned in his ear about how it ‘didn’t matter.’ There was something uniquely exhausting about being Nigerian: always pushing forward, always straining against a system that seemed determined to shove him ten steps back for every one he managed to take.
Gazing into the mirror, he drew a deep breath, allowing for a fleeting moment of introspection. His deep, dark brown eyes held an enigmatic depth, suggesting a reservoir of resilience and inner strength. As usual, his expression remained steadfast and straight, a demeanour often criticized for its unyielding seriousness. His height, a detail he often downplayed, held little significance to him:
‘I’m above average,’ he’d nonchalantly declare, or ‘Five foot nine,’ if pressed.
It was unfortunate that he was constantly at odds with the system. Everyone who knew Zubby recognized the enduring beam of hope he carried within. That was why, despite the endless bills, the struggle to find work that matched his qualifications, and the daily frustrations of life in Lagos, he still woke each morning with purpose and resolve coursing through his veins.
He was determined to push back with everything he had. He was driven by the need to hustle and grind. He comforted himself with the thought that, despite all the setbacks he’d experienced in life, a relentless flame of hope and optimism blazed within him, undying and insatiable.
Heaving a sigh, Zubby tugged at his left lapel, ensuring every detail of his appearance was in place. A messenger bag hung over his shoulder, carrying the tools of his impending battle—a neatly prepared CV, an interview letter, and professional references from lecturers and former employers. Documents that could, if all went well, alter the course of his life.
Slowly and carefully, he closed the creaking door behind him, easing it shut until the latch clicked softly into place. He didn’t want to disturb his housemate, Chidi, who still had an hour of sleep before he needed to wake up.
Dawn was close to breaking when Zubby stepped outside, with hues of orange, blue, pink, purple, and red painting the sky in a symphony of colours. There wasn’t even a breath of wind on the calm Tuesday morning in May. Despite his interview being at 11:00 AM, Zubby knew not to wait until dawn to set out considering Lagos' notorious traffic congestion.
A comedian once said most Lagosians would miss God's trumpet call because they would be stuck in traffic. As he remembered the joke, the thought made Zubby chuckle under his breath. Some uptight Christians hadn’t found the joke amusing, but that only made it funnier to him. People really needed to lighten up, he thought. It seemed like people had forgotten how to laugh, and every harmless joke today was taken as offensive.
Outside the gate, the Uber he had booked the previous day was already waiting for him. ‘Right on time,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Good morning, and thank you for arriving on time,’ he said to the driver.
‘Good morning sir,’ the driver replied cheerfully.
Zubby settled into the back seat and began rehearsing the elevator pitch he had so carefully refined. The past few days had been devoted to meticulous preparation; every detail scrutinized in anticipation of the interview.
Research had become his ally. It revealed insights into the hiring manager—her professional history, her interests, even traces of her personality. Twitter, in particular, offered a revealing window into her mindset—what she valued, what irritated her, and what caught her attention. Armed with that knowledge, Zubby mapped out a strategy for a conversation that would rise above the predictable and leave a lasting impression.
He sighed: You can do this, Zubby. You can.
Taking out his phone, he began to scroll through it looking for news that might be of interest.
Suddenly, he paused:
Nigerian chess team beats China to become world champions.
Almost unconsciously, a smile began to spread on his lips, and warmth bloomed in his chest. Tapping the link, he read the full story and again smiled. It was a moment of pride, a reminder of the indomitable spirit that defined Nigerians. If his lips could tear from grinning, they would’ve split into a million pieces. This was what Nigerians embodied: personality, grit, and resilience.
Even when faced with a terrible government, they managed to push back, every single time. They raised their heads above the water, fully committing themselves to the game with unwavering determination. Having to deal with the challenges of being a Nigerian was no easy task.
As the Uber whisked him through the waking streets of Lagos mainland, Zubby sat back and observed peop le go about their daily lives. He wondered what kind of life they led.
Every morning, they set off to work to make their lives meaningful with a resilience that no one could match. Zubby's mind danced with visions of a Nigeria harnessed to its full potential: a world power with unassailable influence.
A short laugh escaped him, echoing his heart's joyous rhythm. ‘One day, Nigeria will be a world-class country,’ he mused, carrying the pulse of hope as he ventured towards a pivotal job interview.
A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, Zubby emerged from the air-conditioned Uber and instantly felt the searing heat of the scorching sun on his skin. Taking a quick glance at his watch, he smiled. Shell Oil was now only a short walk away. With the stakes at hand, he recognised that being a tad too early outweighed the risk of arriving a mere minute late, even if it meant having a few idle hours to kill before the interview.
He planned to manage his time by hanging out at a local café he had discovered when he scouted out the area a couple of days ago. In addition to practicing his elevator pitch, he could enjoy his favourite beverage, black tea, which would keep him focused and alert. Having checked, he found that it was available at the café.
As he made his way, he pushed through hordes of people, taking in the different scents and colours as they blended together. Human bodies en masse, each moving to a different destination. As he trudged on, Zubby clutched his bag tighter to his body. His ears were perked, his back was rigid, and his eyes flickered intermittently.
He decided to cut through the Lekki shopping mall parking lot, a shortcut that promised to shave a solid ten minutes off his journey. Walking in a suit, especially in such extreme heat, was excruciating.
As Zubby crossed the parking lot, he noticed how empty it was—save for one couple locked in a heated argument beside a parked yellow Lamborghini Aventador. The young man wore a bright yellow Nike tracksuit that mirrored the car’s paint, like he’d dressed to match his own ego. In one hand, he held a walking stick topped with a polished gold handle, catching the light each time he shifted his grip.
He vented his rage towards his companion—a petite woman in a neat navy-blue suit that sharpened her professional air. She was small, contained, polished. There was no visible connection between them, no shared rhythm. Zubby couldn’t imagine how they had ended up together—they looked like they belonged to entirely different worlds.
Zubby felt heat bloom in his chest.
His jaw tightened.
Something in the way she avoided eye contact, the way her weight shifted subtly away from the man sent a cold knot through his stomach.
His instincts stirred.
Whatever story was playing out here, he knew it wasn’t going to end well unless someone stepped in.
The situation escalated in seconds.
The man’s shouting exploded into violence—a brutal punch to the girl’s stomach, followed by a slap that echoed across the empty carpark with a sickening resonance.
The sound ripped straight through Zubby.
For a split second, he was ten years old again—frozen, helpless, listening to fists meet flesh.
Instinct took over. His body moved first—he was already running.
His shoes slapped against the concrete, breath tearing from his lungs as he closed the distance.
The girl staggered back, folding over with a strangled cry. The man surged after her, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and yanked her upright, his other hand coming down again and again.
She raised her arms, shaking, trying to shield her face. It didn’t help. Tears streamed freely now, her sobs echoing off the walls of the deserted car park.
Zubby felt heat rush through his veins. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
He reached them just as the man drew back for another strike.
Zubby caught his wrist mid-swing and twisted hard, forcing him away. The girl crumbled to the ground; her body wracked with sobs.
Zubby’s body was still buzzing, adrenaline roaring through him. He planted himself between the man and the girl, widening his stance instinctively.
‘What is wrong with you, man?’ he said, staring him square in the face. ‘You can’t do that to a woman! What the fuck’s your problem?’
Sparks exploded from the man's eyes as he raged. ‘Are you crazy? How dare you lay your filthy hands on me and tell me how to deal with my woman! Do you know who you’re fucking with?’
‘I don’t give a damn who the fuck you are. You don’t do that to women.’
‘Fuck You’ the man snarled, his voice quavering with rage.
With explosive force, he lunged violently at Zubby, intending to hit him. However, Zubby was too fast and strong for him. Evading the incoming punch with a dancer's grace, he effortlessly pushed the man away with a controlled force.
The man stumbled backward, tripped over his feet and collapsed onto the concrete. Zubby redirected his attention to the young lady.
Seated on the ground, her face obscured by dishevelled locks, the young lady bore the aftermath of the traumatic encounter. Zubby gracefully squatted in front of her, attempting to comfort her.
‘Are you alright?’
She was still crying, and didn’t look up at him. It was evident from her sobs that she had been badly hurt.
When Zubby heard footsteps shuffle behind him, he quickly looked back to see the man poised to hit him with his walking stick.
In an instant, Zubby sprang to his feet—his left hand seizing the attacker’s right arm mid-strike as his right fist slammed into his jaw.
A brief dance ensued as the man teetered on the edge of equilibrium, his body swaying with a vulnerable uncertainty as he tried to maintain his balance.
Upon steadying himself, he gingerly felt his lip and realized it was bleeding from a cut. With a dark scowl on his face, he growled: ‘Oh, you’ve messed with the wrong man, motherfucker.'
‘Man? I don’t see a man. All I see is a low-life coward who thinks he can brutalize women and get away with it.’
Pointing at Zubby, his index finger wagging in ominous rhythm, he declared, ‘I’m going to teach you a lesson you will never forget in your life.’
Angrily pulling out his phone from his pocket, the man turned his back on Zubby. He dialled a number, waited for it to ring, and then yelled into it as soon as the person answered:
‘Ice! Where are you and Doom right now?’
‘We’re still at Mama Calabar. We’ve just finished eating.’
‘Good. Some punk just attacked me.
‘Attacked you keh?’
‘Can you believe that shit?’
‘Where are you right now, sir?’
‘Lekki Phase 2 Mall. Parking lot.’
‘We’ll be there in less than five minutes!’
Having concluded the call, the man’s menacing declaration sliced through the air like a blade: ‘I'm going to fuckin’ deal with you today,’ he proclaimed again, punctuating his words with a jab of his walking stick directed squarely at Zubby.
Zubby heard the female make a sound, and rushed over to her.
‘Hey, are you okay?' He asked. She had struggled to her feet, and looked up at him. When he saw her face for the first time, his heart skipped a beat. Despite her dishevelled appearance and tears cascading down her bruised cheeks, Zubby thought she was the most strikingly beautiful girl he had ever seen.
Something about the fragility and vulnerability that was etched into her face somehow added to the attractiveness, creating a haunting and flawless beauty that transcended the mere surface, disregarding the apparent, superficial scars she bore from the brutal assault she’d just endured.
Zubby was captivated, feeling a profound urge to shield her from any potential harm, with little regard for his own well-being.
With a trembling voice and trepidation flickering in her almond-shaped brown eyes, she begged, 'please, you need to leave right now.’ The girl had finally found her voice, even though she was still bent over in pain and gasping for breath. ‘This guy is dangerous. Please, just go now...’
Prowling up and down the car park with calculated steps, the man kept an eye out for the thugs he'd just called. Each measured stride he took seemed to echo the mounting tension in the air, as if the very atmosphere bore witness to the impending confrontation.
