The air conditioner wheezes like an old man with tuberculosis. I’ve been sitting in this plastic chair for three hours now, watching the same man check his ticket against the results screen every five minutes. His shirt is damp with sweat despite the struggling AC. His fingers shake each time he unfolds that crumpled betting slip.
I know things. Queer things. Like how this man will lose his wife’s trading money today. Like how the boy behind the counter will steal from the till before the month-end. I look at the screen showing live scores and can already see which matches will disappoint the room full of desperate men.
My own ticket burns in my pocket. Five matches, all carefully selected. I’ve done the math, checked the form, analysed the statistics. But I know it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters in this fluorescent-lit tomb where hope comes to die.
Every time I lose my last card, I charge it to the game. Every last card must check up. “The house always wins anyway,” I whisper to myself, hoping it would somehow justify why I can’t seem to afford rent anymore.
The generator outside coughs and dies. The room plunges into darkness, and someone curses loudly in Yoruba. The attendant, a thin girl who can’t be older than twenty, scrambles for a torch. Her hands are steady despite the chaos. I can tell she’s used to this. I can also tell she’ll be forced to leave soon. The young lady will eventually be taken back by the perversion of half-drunk men, with the confidence of audio money they will probably never have.
“Sorry o, everybody. Light go come back soon,” she announces to the room.
The man with the shaking hands groans. “Abeg, make una check my slip sharp sharp. I need know if I win anything.”
“Sir, I no fit check am without system,” the girl explains patiently.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, and I hear genuine prayer in his voice.
When the lights flicker back on, the results have updated. Match after match falls exactly as I expected. The shaking man checks his ticket one final time, crumples it, and walks out without a word. I know he won’t go straight home. He’ll sit by the roadside for an hour, rehearsing what to tell his wife.
The boy behind the counter – Samuel, his name tag reads – counts the money in the till when he thinks no one is watching. His technique is practised. He palms a thousand naira note and slides it into his pocket with the smoothness of experience.
“Oga, you no wan check your own ticket?” the girl asks me.
I pull out my slip. Even before she scans it, I know. Three matches correct, two wrong. Exactly as I saw it. No winnings. Just another sacrifice to this temple of broken dreams.
“Sorry, sir. Maybe next time.”
“Maybe,” I say, though I know there won’t be a next time. Not for me.
A new customer walks in – a woman this time, which is unusual. She’s well-dressed, nervous, clutching a fresh slip worth five thousand naira. I look at her and know she’s never bet before. I know her husband doesn’t know she’s here. I know she’ll lose everything and return tomorrow with even more money she can’t afford to lose.
The cycle continues. It always does.
I stand to leave, stepping over the crumpled tickets that litter the floor like fallen prayers. Outside, Lagos traffic honks its eternal song. The sun beats down mercilessly, and I wonder if the shaking man has found the words yet to explain to his wife why the children won’t eat meat this week.
I know things. Terrible things. But knowing and changing are different animals entirely.
The Bet9ja shop door closes behind me with a soft chime, already welcoming its next victim.
Adeseto is a Nigerian-born writer whose work explores the intersections of philosophy, emotional interiority, and the absurdities of modern living. Their writing has been described as wry, lyrical, and quietly defiant. They are currently at work on a collection of essays published on Substack. They can be followed on Twitter at @illusionist_126.
