Rafael was a man of timbres and caliber. A man who had grown his fortune by mastering the art of pretending. He had mastered the fake handshakes, the smooth speeches, manipulating numbers so that they danced beautifully on paper but never in real life. A man whose mouth could sell water to a drowning man and gas to a burning man. His office walls were filled with awards for “Excellence in Innovation,” though most of the so-called ideas were either borrowed or even forcefully stolen.
It was as if he owned the Lagos skyline because every one of his counterparts bowed before him. His name was whispered to the ends of the city. A name dipped in gold but laced with lies and the sweat of others.
But that was before the virus came. They called it “The Truth Plague.”
At first, it all started like little gossip in beer parlors and female saloons. It held no water, no ground. Just small, strange stories from across the country. Then it was first confirmed in Kano, Port Harcourt, and then Lagos.
Until sitting politicians began to admit on live TV unconsciously how they had inflated project funds. A preacher broke down mid-sermon and confessed to faking miracles. A man proposed to his girlfriend with the line, “The truth is, I don’t love you, but you’re just a good investment.”
Gradually, people began to avoid speaking on live TV. People began to avoid public events. Nobody knew what was happening. Nobody knew where the truth plague came from or how it was spreading so fast. But somehow, everyone began to catch the flu - the ability not to tell a lie. Not by force, but by some invisible pull from within. Lying began to hurt, like swallowing shattered glass. Like a stab to the chest. The truth felt easier and more satisfying. It poured out daily, raw and very unfiltered.
But there were consequences as jobs were lost. Relationships broken. Marriages crumbled. Families scattered. Deals crashed. Stocks dwindled. The Nation grew quiet, not peaceful — just exposed.
But of course, Rafael never believed it. He laughed when he first heard it.
“Truth virus? Please. People lie too well in this country. It won’t reach me.” He said to his P.A.
But fate had a way of dealing with a proud man. The truth has a strange sense of direction. It located him one early Monday morning as he sat with investors in his conference room. He was pitching new ideas. He looked sleek, with adjusted numbers and sweet lines filled with lies he had prepared the other night.
“Our app has already made a 200% growth in users just in the first quarter.” he tried to say.
But what came out was: “We lost more than we gained. This data was inflated.”
He paused, blinked, and tasted his lips. He wasn't on some alcohol. He was alright and knew exactly what he wanted to say. Why is he deviating?
“Sorry, I meant—” he tried to apologize
But
“No,” he said again, confused. “Exactly what I said. The numbers are fake. We've consistently paid bots to drive out traffic to the moon.”
The room went cold. Someone scraped a chair on the floor trying to adjust. His assistant coughed and cut him an eye. Another closed his laptop.
“Sir,” his assistant said slowly, “are you feeling alright?”
“I... I don’t know,” he muttered. "Maybe we should postpone this meeting to some other time." He grabbed his laptop and stomped off the room.
On the rescheduled date. He tried again. But like last time, same thing. Every sentence he had rehearsed changed as he spoke. It was as if his mouth developed its own conscience without taking his brain along. And like the wind, his news spread fast. His lawyer called it a curse. His doctor called it a psychological reaction. The media called it poetic justice.
But deep down Rafael knew it was the truth plague. it had finally caught up with him.
Then gradually, he watched as his empire crumpled in weeks. His shares dwindled. His face on the billboards was muralled with the words liar. Contracts dried up. Clients cancelled appointments. He avoided the public and his home now felt quieter. He was no longer a king, just some man haunted by the echo of things he could no longer fake.
His assistant had advised they fight back. "Maybe there can be a way we can spin the story?"
He shook his head. “Bola, how do you fight a mirror? It'll always show your real face.”
She was silent.
"Maybe that's how to redeem myself." His eyes lit up. Something in his words shifted in him. "Maybe by being real."
He organized an interview. This time not to win, but to heal. He admitted his mistakes. He promised to return the money he had gotten illegally. He was called mad by some. But others called him brave. He just wanted to be free. But in all these, gradually, people began to listen.
One ordinary afternoon, as he stood on his balcony drowning in his misery. A knock came to his door. He opened to see a man who introduced himself as Tunde.
"I no longer grant interviews. Go away." Rafael tried shutting the door.
“I used to be like you." The man said, holding the door. "I lied my way to the top. But I caught the virus too.”
Rafael raised a brow. He opened the door to let him in. When inside he asked. “And?”
“I started a new clean business. Open contracts but real solutions. We need someone like you. Someone who’s fallen, and still chose the truth.”
Rafael stared at him, quiet. "Why do you think I'm the best fit?"
"I watched your interviews, Mr Rafael."
Rafael looked around his mansion. It was emptier now, but lighter, just like his mind. He needed a new start
“When do we start?.”
They shook hands and walked together to his balcony. Then they stared into the skyline. The city was still buzzing with people and activities. The virus hadn’t gone. But neither had hope.
And for the first time in years, Rafael wasn’t about to sell fake dreams. He was about selling the truth. Presently he was living one. A real, simple truth.