The first lie Tunde told wasn’t even a lie. That was the problem.
It was a Tuesday in Ilishan, hot enough that the tar on the road felt soft under their sneakers. Tunde, Emeka, and Lola had been friends since JSS1. They called themselves “The Tribunal” because they judged everything: music, crushes, each other’s terrible ideas.
“Bro, you’ll never believe what happened,” Tunde said, leaning against the gate of Babcock University’s back entrance. He held his phone like a weapon.
Emeka didn’t look up from his noodles. “If it’s about a girl again, I’m not interested.”
“It’s not about a girl. It’s about money.”
Lola’s eyes sharpened. Money always got her attention. Her mom’s shop had been robbed last month. “What money?”
“My uncle in Canada sent me $2,000,” Tunde said. “For my school fees. He overpaid. Said I should keep the rest.”
The number hung in the air. $2,000 was ₦3.2 million. More money than any of them had ever seen in one place.
Emeka finally looked up. “Cap.”
“Facts,” Tunde said, and unlocked his phone. He showed them a screenshot of a bank alert. Credit: USD 2,000.00. The sender: A. Ogunleye. His uncle’s name.
Lola touched the screen. “Why would he send so much?”
“He felt guilty,” Tunde said, and that was the half truth. His uncle had sent $200. Not $2,000. Tunde had added a zero when he edited the screenshot in PicsArt at 2am. He told himself it wasn’t really lying. It was just… stretching. Testing them. Seeing what they’d do.
Because The Tribunal was falling apart and he couldn’t say it out loud.
Emeka’s dad lost his job in January. He’d been quiet since, skipping hangouts, wearing the same shirt three days straight. Lola’s mom’s shop robbery meant she was working evenings now, selling pure water at traffic lights. Tunde was the only one whose parents still sent money every month. And he hated being the one with the least problems. It made him feel invisible.
So he invented a problem he could solve.
“I don’t need all of it,” he said, casual. “Fees are only ₦1.8M. I’ll have ₦1.4M left. We could… I don’t know. Start that podcast we always talked about. Get mics. Pay for studio time.”
Emeka’s face changed. The podcast idea had been his. Three months ago, before his dad’s job. Before the silence. “For real?”
“Facts,” Tunde said again. The word tasted like metal now.
That night, The Tribunal met at Lola’s house. She cleared her mom’s table and brought out a notebook. They wrote names for the podcast. Half Truth, Lola suggested, half joking. “Because we always roast each other.”
Tunde laughed too loud. He bought domain names the next day with money from his actual allowance. He told his mom the podcast was for “school project.” She believed him.
For three weeks, they were The Tribunal again. Emeka researched mics. Lola designed cover art. Tunde paid for everything and said, “Don’t worry about it, uncle’s money.”
The half truth grew roots.
Then Emeka’s sister got sick. Malaria that turned into typhoid. Hospital bill: ₦180,000. Emeka didn’t ask. He just stopped coming to meetings. His WhatsApp last seen: 2 days ago.
Tunde saw him at the campus clinic, buying paracetamol with coins.
“Bro, talk to me,” Tunde said.
Emeka shook his head. “I’m good.”
“You’re not good. You haven’t eaten in two days.”
“I said I’m good.”
That night, Tunde stared at his bank app. Real balance: ₦47,320. Not ₦1.4M. He could send Emeka ₦50K from his allowance. It would hurt, but he could. But if he did, Emeka would ask questions. Why so much? Where from? And then the half truth would crack.
So Tunde did the worse thing. He transferred ₦20,000 and wrote: From uncle’s money. Don’t say no.
Emeka called immediately. “Tunde, this is too much.”
“It’s not. Take it. Pay the bill.”
Silence. Then: “Why are you helping me?”
“Because we’re The Tribunal,” Tunde said. “We don’t leave people behind.”
Another half truth. Because The Tribunal was already leaving people behind. He was leaving Emeka behind by not telling him the real truth.
Lola found out two weeks later. Not about the money. About the screenshot.
She was borrowing Tunde’s laptop to edit the podcast cover. A folder called “Receipts” popped up. Inside: the original bank alert. USD 200.00. Next to it, the edited one. USD 2,000.00. Same timestamp.
She didn’t confront him. She just went quiet, like Emeka had. At the next recording, she didn’t laugh at his jokes. When he said “uncle’s money,” she flinched.
After they wrapped, she waited until Emeka left.
“Tunde,” she said. “Why did you lie?”
“I didn’t lie,” he said, automatic. “I just—”
“Don’t.” Her voice was soft, and that was worse than shouting. “You showed us a fake alert. You let Emeka think you had money you don’t have. He’s using it for his sister’s drugs now. What happens when uncle’s money runs out?”
“It won’t run out,” he said, and realized he believed it. Because admitting it would run out meant admitting he was broke, ordinary, just like them. And he couldn’t bear that.
Lola picked up her bag. “Half truths are worse than lies, you know. A lie you can cut out. A half truth grows into everything. It infects the good parts too.”
She left. The studio felt too big.
The podcast never launched. Emeka’s sister got better, but Emeka stopped replying to the group chat. Lola still said hi when she saw Tunde on campus, but she didn’t stop walking.
Tunde told his mom the project failed. She said, “That’s okay, my son.” He couldn’t tell her why it failed.
Six months passed. Tunde worked part-time at a cybercafé to save real money. He paid Emeka back ₦20,000, cash, with a note: This was mine. Not uncle’s. I’m sorry.
Emeka took the money. Didn’t say anything. Two weeks later, he sent a text: Sister says thank you. Come eat rice this Sunday.
Tunde went. Emeka’s mom hugged him. The house was small and loud and smelled like stew. Normal.
After lunch, Emeka walked him to the gate. “I knew the money wasn’t from your uncle,” he said. “The timing was too perfect. I just… I needed it to be true. For my sister.”
Tunde’s throat closed. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Emeka said. “But next time, just say you’re broke. We’re all broke, bro. That’s why we’re friends.”
Tunde nodded. The half truth had cost him months of friendship. Telling the whole truth felt like stepping off a cliff. But Emeka was still standing there, waiting.
“Can we restart the podcast?” Tunde asked. “No fake money this time. Just… us.”
Emeka smiled, small. “Only if we call it something else. Half Truth sounds like we’re still lying.”
“What about Whole Truth?” Lola said from behind them. She’d been there the whole time, holding a plate of rice. “We can lie about that too. For balance.”
They laughed. Real laughter, rusty from disuse.
The Tribunal started meeting again. No mics. No studio. Just them, on Lola’s mom’s table, judging bad music and worse life choices. Tunde still sometimes wanted to exaggerate, to make his stories bigger. But now he caught himself.
Half truths were easy. They filled silence. They made you look bigger. But whole truths, even the small, boring, broke ones, were what actually kept people.
One night, Lola asked, “Do you regret it? The screenshot?”
Tunde thought about it. “I regret why I did it. I don’t regret what happened after. We’re talking again.”
“Yeah,” she said. “But only because you stopped.”
That was the lesson, slow and sharp like the character 釗. Cut the lie before it cuts you. Tell the truth while it’s still small enough to hold.
The podcast never launched. But The Tribunal did. Again. Whole this time.
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