The Pen-ultimate Betrayal

 I was dressed for success. Power suit? Check. Confident smile? Practiced in the mirror. Most importantly, in my pocket, a single, flawless PEN. Not just any pen. This was my symbol of authority. This was the instrument of my destiny.

I signed the documents with a flourish, the nib gliding across the paper like a figure skater on fresh ice. The man across the desk, a CEO with a handshake like a vice, smiled. "Congratulations," he boomed. "You'll be credited by end of day."

End of day! Me! The first billionaire in my family! The one who would finally buy my mother that house with the wrap-around porch! The one who would pull up to family gatherings in a car that cost more than some people's homes! All of it, every brick and every horsepower, was a reality I had just sealed with my PEN!

I leaned back, picturing the headline: "Local Pen Enthusiast Becomes Overnight Success." The feeling was so sweet, so real…

BZZZZZZZZT.

My elbow slipped off the armrest of my very real, very broken office chair. I jolted awake. The CEO was a memory, replaced by the flickering fluorescent lights of my cubicle, the colour of a headache. The documents were spreadsheets. The "credited" was my monthly salary, already half-gone.

But I wasn't down. Not really. Because in the real world, I was still prepared. In the real world, I had PENS. Not the cheap, clear-barrel Bic pens that run out of ink if you look at them wrong. No. I had invested. Schneider pens that wrote like butter. Retractable ballpoints with a satisfying, weighty thunk. A sleek black rollerball that made my handwriting look almost artistic.

I opened my top drawer, my personal armoury, to survey my troops.

It was empty.

The pen cup on my desk? Also empty. There was a single, sad paperclip and a dust bunny that looked like it was trying to escape.

My pen collection. Gone. Vanished. Pilfered.

And then I heard it. A voice from the neighbouring cubicle.

"Hey! Got a pen I can borrow real quick?"

I slowly turned. It was Kevin from accounting. He was holding a ₦5, 000:00k latte in one hand and had absolutely nothing in the other. I saw the faint blue smudge on his thumb. My blue. My ink.

"Didn't you take one from me yesterday, Kevin?" I asked, my voice eerily calm.

Kevin's face went blank, a skill he’d clearly perfected. "Did I? Oh, uh… maybe. I think I put it back." He gave a vague, dismissive wave, the kind a king gives a peasant who's bothering him about a missing turnip.

That was it. The final straw. The last drop of ink in the cartridge of my patience.

I made a decision. I stood up, walked over to his desk, and saw my beautiful, midnight-blue rollerball lying casually next to his keyboard, like a hostage that had finally given up hope. I picked it up, not breaking eye contact.

"Kevin," I said, holding it up. "This pen has signed documents that feed my family. It's outlined budgets. It's written down ideas that could change this company. It is not a party favour for your latte-and-forget lifestyle."

Kevin just blinked. "It's just a pen, man."

"Just a pen?" I scoffed. "You people will spend thirty million naira on a car that depreciates the second you drive it off the lot. You'll finance a sofa. You'll Uber Eats a ₦22, 000: 00k meal. But a ₦200: 00k pen? That's where you draw the line? That's the investment you refuse to make?"

I walked back to my desk, my one recovered pen clutched in my hand like a sceptre.

"Go ahead," I said, not turning around. "Buy your cars. Finance your couches. You think you're so smart? You think you're the big investors? But I'm not dumb. My pen, Kevin. This very pen, if I treat it right, will one day sign the documents to my car. To my house. To all the acquisitions you can only dream of. My empire will be built with ink."

Kevin mumbled something about me being "weird about pens" and went back to his screen.

But I didn't care. They don't understand the long game. They see a writing utensil. I see a foundation.

From now on, my pens are for my eyes only. No more borrowing. No more lending. These pens are on a journey, and they're not taking any hitchhikers.

If they want a pen so badly, they can invest in one themselves. After all, the road to being a billionaire is paved with good intentions... and apparently, a whole lot of stolen stationery.