| Imran Adebayo Ibrahim |

It was everything I'd pictured it to be. A two-bedroom flat apartment that was partially deteriorating, that had graffiti sprayed painted on its wall other than the regular paint work most houses have. From the sight of the house, I could quickly decipher that the house has been passed down from generations to come, it was an heirloom. All the architectural designs used were ancient, the only modern feature was the ghetto mural on the wall.

Perhaps, Omar was probably going to inherit it from his father someday, and he'll have his drug cavern inside the eerie walls of the house. He could organize drug meetings for his junkie friends as well. They would do all the drugs they could get their hands on; from meth to Molly. No one would be present to stop them, or maybe someday they'll be arrested and punished for what they did to me.

I took the whole situation personally. Who wouldn't? Me and my mother are immigrants and not just any immigrants, Nigerians. We were at risk of being deported, yet regardless Omar didn't think about the consequences before posting that video on the internet.

Sahar had seen the worried look on my face and she gave me an assuring gaze. This didn't make my worries vanish, but at least it was something.

We headed to the lawn and spotted a fiery, sporty truck parked in front of the house. The vehicle was revving loudly, as if someone were operating its gears. The thought of Omar embarking on a leisurely afternoon drive in the vehicle prompted me to rush to the driver's side window, slamming my palm against the glass and startling the individual adjusting the gears. It wasn't Omar, but rather an elderly man, likely in his fifties. He was so startled that I could see tiny hairs sprouting on his bald head.

"Hey son, you can't sneak up on folks like that," he said to me, sweat dripping from his brow, his breath coming in quick gasps.

"I'm so sorry, sir." I apologized.

He glanced at me from the vehicle, reading the text on my shirt. "Son, I didn't order coffee. You've got it all wrong," he said, still wearing a slight frown.

I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment as I realized I was still wearing my Starbucks t-shirt. "You must have misunderstood, sir: is your son at home?" I inquired with a stupid grin, hoping to rectify the situation.

Sahar and Francis hurried to my side, saving me from the man who seemed ready to harm me if I misspoke again. His scowl alone could render me speechless. The way he stared at me lacked any hint of compassion, as if he had emptied himself of all empathy. Perhaps he had nothing to feel joy about; I might also be irritable if I suddenly lost all my hair like he had done.

"Salaam, Mr. Alvarez," Sahar greeted with a smile as she looked at the man.

Recognizing him as Omar's father, I began to notice the striking resemblance between them, particularly their ape-like facial expressions.

"Wa Alaikum Salaam, Sahar. How's your father?" he inquired, turning to Sahar with a surprising smile as he stepped out of the car and opened the door. "What's happening? What trouble did Omar get into now?"

Sahar shook her head, expressing disapproval. "He didn't do anything wrong, sir."

Internally, I disagreed, feeling that Omar had caused havoc in my life. I frowned at Sahar and nudged her gently, though she responded with a pinch to my thigh, causing me to wince silently.

"And you must be. . ." Omar's dad paused, addressing Francis, "Francisco, right?"

"Yes," He confirmed, "good afternoon Mr. Alvarez." He greeted, rubbing the back of his head slightly.

He studied me for a moment, then asked; "I don't recall seeing you here before. Who are you?"

The million dollars question: who are you? Though seemingly straightforward, it held layers of complexity. It could be posed with various tones, politely or rudely. Yet, when uttered by the bald man, I struggled to grasp its intent. It felt like a trap, as if my response would be wielded against me indefinitely. I couldn't simply reveal my identity; I needed to craft the perfect reply in my mind. It had to be distinct from the unusual: "I'm Imran Raymond, Nigerian to meet you."

"I'm the new coffee apprentice," I blurted out, the words slipping effortlessly from my lips, though I couldn't shake the feeling of foolishness in my response.

"Hey," Mr. Alvarez's laughter, although contained, was still seeping out, "why didn't I notice?" he inquired, looking at my Starbucks shirt, "so you're the new coffee boi, eh?" The laughter that he tried to contain finally burst out of the corner of his lips.

Like father, like son. Oh yeah, I got the hint of his cheap sarcasm right on my face. My cheeks burned in embarrassment, I had to avert my gaze, before I'd died of embarrassment.

"You're so funny Imran," Sahar said, playfully slapping my shoulder from her laughter, even Francis had a smile plastered on his face.

Although, I couldn't tell whether he was making fun of my introduction or was just trying to make things less awkward.

I glanced at Sahar with a cautious look before turning to Omar's dad. "I'm Imran Adebayo Ibrahim." I formally introduced myself.

He composed himself, suppressing the lingering laughter that had caught in his throat. "That's an interesting alias you've got there," he began.

Before he could finish, I interjected sharply, "I'm from Nigeria," cutting him off.

Sensing my frustration, he took a breath and reached out to touch my shoulder, attempting to ease the tension. "Imran, I was just teasing. I understand; nerves can get the best of us. Besides, I can be intimidating — like a walking Halloween costume, right?" he quipped, chuckling to himself until he realized he was the only one laughing.

"What I'm trying to say is; it's normal to feel nervous, man. Everyone does," he reassured me, offering a smile before retreating into his vehicle. As the window rolled down, he stuck his bald head out of the small gap. "Omar is in," he confirmed, before driving away.

Sahar inquired, "He's cool, isn't he?" She remarked, as she headed to the front door.

I grimaced, replying, "He wishes," as I followed her.

"His jokes can sting sometimes," Francis noted.

"Exactly," I nodded to my mándem. "Thanks, man," before we resumed our task.

As we neared the front door, I noticed someone through the closed transparent window. They pulled back the curtain slightly and peeked out. Catching sight of me, they swiftly concealed themselves, and at the same moment, we heard the click of the door's safety lock. Someone had locked the door from inside.

Sahar banged on the door with such fury that I worried for its weak and fragile frame -- it trembled as if on the brink of collapse.

"Omar, I know it's you!" she shouted. "Quit playing around and open the damn door!"

Sahar, the elegant girl I met at a wild party, stood firm like a rock, prepared to defend me. The intensity with which she pounded on the door filled me with an inexplicable joy -- it felt like she cherished my presence in Atlanta and was determined not to let anyone ruin it. Could it be that she harbors feelings for me? Even if it's just a hint of affection, I wouldn't mind.

Sahar urged me to speak, pulling me out of my thoughts. Immediately, an idea struck me. "Omar, we need to talk. My mom has been arrested."

"What?" Sahar and Francis exclaimed simultaneously, even Omar appeared surprised as he unlocked the door. As I pushed it open with all my strength, the sight of him reminded me that my mother might truly be in trouble because of his negative influence. Drawing from my knowledge of anime, I mimicked the technique Mashle had taught us for a flying punch -- I arched my forearm, swung it backward, and unleashed the momentum.

And bam! My fist landed on his fleshy face, breaking his nose instantly.

"Bro, the fuck is wrong with you?" he groaned, pinching his nose as blood streamed out.

"Whoa Imran, take a chill pill, would you." Sahar interjected, brushing past Omar and ignoring his presence as if I hadn't just broken his nose. "That's for locking the door," she added, settling onto the sofa.

Francis followed suit, nodding curtly at injured Omar before joining us on the couch. Sahar sat between us, poised to give Omar a piece of her mind.

But when Sahar started talking, Omar just walked off to the kitchen.

"What's gotten into you, Omar?" Sahar exclaimed.

To our surprise, Omar returned with three cans of chilled Fanta, placing them on the coffee table in front of us and gesturing for us to take one. "The best of the best," he remarked, taking a sip from the already-opened can hidden beneath the table.

The only thing he was mistaken about was claiming that the Fanta he offered was the best. Everyone knows nothing compares to Nigerian Fanta, not even one imported from Mexico. I didn't have time for debate, so I let him have that one and cracked open the can, taking a sip of the cold soda.

Omar leaned in towards us and asked, "So, what's up?" with a bewildered expression on his face.

"What's up?" I blurted out involuntarily, feeling a surge of anger. I couldn't let Sahar keep fighting my battles for me; I was the one in trouble. My fist tightened at the sight of his clueless face, as he sat before us acting as though he hadn't upended my life. "This is what's up!" I exclaimed, slamming my smartphone onto the wooden table.

Displayed on the phone's screen was the video Omar and his group had posted of me.

Omar's clueless expression disappeared instantly, replaced by embarrassment as he rubbed the back of his head. "Did you guys show my dad that?" he asked, pointing at my phone.

"That's not the issue here. How dare you film him and still have the audacity to post it on Instagram," Sahar interjected, rising to her feet. "And to top it off, you shared it in the school's group chat."

"Well, I'm sorry, I didn't post any video," Omar explained. "It's not what you think; Tabby and Matt are behind this."

"This could get me expelled, and here you are making feeble excuses. You knew exactly what you were doing; that's why you pressured me into going to that wretched complex," I yelled, expressing everything I wanted to say.

Omar hung his head low, sighing deeply before lifting it. "Imran, I know you're angry, but I swear, I tried to stop them—"

Before he could finish, I cut him off. "If you tried to stop them, then why did you comment under the post? Stop being a hypocrite and delete it," I said, tears welling up.

Sahar noticed my tears and gently patted my shoulder. "Imran, it's okay."

I brushed Sahar's hands away gently. "It's not okay. You guys have American privileges, while I'm seen as the black boy who's a threat to society. I know it doesn't make sense, but I feel like the blackest among us. What good will a video of a Nigerian boy doing drugs do to his family? Let's not even think about what my mother would do if she saw the video. I'd be totally screwed, yet here you are," I paused to catch my breath, "asking me if I told your dad!"

"Sorry, man. I'm really sorry. You're a good guy, I wouldn't do that to you," Omar apologized, but it was too late for that. "I have no control over the post; Tabby does."

I glared at Omar with disgust, wondering how he could spew such nonsense without even trying. Maybe that was his superpower.

"I think I know what we should do," Sahar began. "Why don't we report the post?"

"That's actually a great idea," Francis agreed, fidgeting with his fingers.

"Let's do that," Omar concurred.

I rose from the sofa, feeling a tightness in my chest and struggling to breathe. I had never felt such intense anger before. All I wanted to do was break down in tears, but I couldn't do that in front of them, especially not Sahar. Deep down, I kept denying the undeniable fact that my inability to let go of the happy memories of my family in Nigeria could jeopardize my mother's stay in Atlanta.

Suddenly, everything hit me at once, and all I wanted to do was cry. I hurried out of Omar's apartment before I could embarrass myself any further.

"Imran, wait!" Sahar called after me, but I didn't stop. I needed to get away from there and apologize to my mother.

Author's Note

Salaam y'all! I know most of your are probably angry at me for not updating regularly, I'm so sorry for that. And for those of you with multiplied anger due to the fact that Imran ran away from his problem like a lil' biatch, I'm sorry as well, I can't find any other way to end the chapter than that. Do read, vote and comment down your thought.

Glossary

1. Mándem: means My gee, My friend