"Guy, abeg shift small," a voice grumbled beside him. It was Chidi, the café’s self-proclaimed betting prophet. "You dey block the fan."
"Tunde," Chidi said, his tone losing its playful edge. "You sure say you wan do am? You look like person wey water don pass garri." oidbet-9ja com
Tunde wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He wasn't here to check his email. He was here for the weekend’s "Sure 10." "Guy, abeg shift small," a voice grumbled beside him
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Tunde ignored him. His eyes were glued to the browser bar. He typed in the address with practiced precision: oidbet-9ja com . He never used bookmarks; he liked the ritual of typing it out, a digital prayer before the altar of fortune.
He took a deep breath. He highlighted the games. Delete.
The humidity in the cybercafé on Adeniran Ogunsanya Street was thick enough to chew. It was a Saturday afternoon, and the air was heavy with the hum of generators and the collective anxiety of a dozen young men staring at flickering monitors.