CRACKS AND CODE

The game before the runway

But the clip had threads that tugged at the room. Kefa lingered on a frame where the Maasai and Kikuyu silhouettes slid across the screen. "Those sketches, they line up with our early concepts," he said, cautious.

Opiyo's smile didn't falter. If anything, it bloomed. He rose, moving to the window with an elegant grace, as if the skyline were waiting for his approval. "The thing about art," he said, voice teasing, "is we all drink from the same river. Some of us simply come back with better bottles."

Sifa leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Those designs were made for specific bodies. Take them away, and poof, the spell breaks."

Opiyo turned, hands spread in mock surrender, eyes playful. "Ah. The models." He sauntered back to the table like a cat who had caught a promising toy. "We must remember one truth about models: they are professionals who love opportunity. And I? I am an opportunity merchant. Sifa, remind me to give you a raise," he said with a laugh. "You think like a thief, and I mean that as the highest compliment."

He circled the room, dropping compliments like cosseting coins. "A life-changing look-book feature here, a promise of international runways there, who wouldn't be tempted?" He grinned at Sifa. "You'll draft the invitations. Something intimate. Champagne. A little luxury that tells them the world is waiting."

Zuri's voice was small with ethics. "Opiyo, that's basically"

"a professional courtship," he finished for her, playful and unfazed. "We woo. We don't coerce. Sweet talk, fine dining, a clear offer." He winked, as if the wink alone could iron out any scandal. "We'll give them reasons to say yes that they can't refuse: immediate pay, better fittings, grooming, bookings. And the language we use will be honey, never threats."

He moved through the checklist with a flirt's ease: "We propose a dinner; tasteful, discreet. We mention international scouts. We offer bonuses. We promise a future with my capsule line. We make it feel like a beginning, not a switch."

Sifa hesitated, but her face softened when he stepped close and spoke low, an actor putting the audience at ease. "We do this elegantly. No mud. No headlines. Just possibilities." The comment was casual, but it carried the weight of a pillow landing softly on a fire.

The team left to prepare, some energized by the daring, others unsettled by the ethics. Opiyo stayed for a moment longer, hand trailing along the back of a chair, eyes on his reflection in the glass. He rehearsed lines of charm in his head, the same words he used to convince editors, models, and the occasional sceptical patron. He loved the game: persuasion dressed as generosity.

Yet as he scrolled the comments beneath Kimenia's clip, a few kind words, a handful of curious hearts from stylists and boutique editors, a tiny thread of unease slipped into his thoughts. They owned the concept. Not just the Maasai and Kikuyu pieces, but the idea of blending ten tribes into a modern, cohesive narrative.

He pursed his lips, annoyed by the idea that an underdog could hold such narrative leverage. He dismissed it with a theatrical shake of his head and a suave smile he practiced in the mirror.

Down in Nairobi, Kaitu and the team watched their own clip with a mixture of hope and fear. The models who had come for fittings had been perfect, the garments sat like second skin. They were ready for fashion week.

Six days, Opiyo thought, fingers drumming on the table. Six days to charm, to buy loyalty, to make Lagos sing his name. He loved the idea of turning whispers into applause. He loved that he could make people want him.

He would call the agency that evening. He would host the dinner. He would be flirtatious, a little dangerous, a little tender, and he was certain he would be unforgettable.

Outside, the city moved on, blissfully unaware that a few polite dinners and a tray of champagne could tip a delicate balance between craft and spectacle. Inside, both houses, one polished and practiced, the other small and fierce, prepared for a week that would decide who got to tell the continent's stories.

💌 Dear Codebreakers,

This chapter shifts the lens to the other side of the battlefield; the glossy, glittering world of Opiyo Oloo. And it's important that you see him clearly: charming, magnetic, intoxicating... and dangerously persuasive.

While Kimenia is pouring heart, culture, and lived history into "One Nation, Ten Tribes," Opiyo is orchestrating an entirely different kind of power.
Not force.
Not threats.
Not talent.
But seduction and soft influence.

A dinner here.
A whispered promise there.
A carefully timed compliment.
An offer too enticing for an ambitious model to ignore.

But beneath all that charisma, there is a crack. A flicker. A moment where he sees the truth:
Kimenia owns the story.
They built it from the ground up, from elders' hands to hand-beaded garments.
Narrative is power, and he feels that power slipping.

Six days to Lagos, and both houses are preparing for the same war, but with completely different weapons.

Some questions for you my dear codebreakers:

1. Do you think Opiyo is threatened, or is he just amused for now?

2. Should models be blamed for choosing opportunity, or is the system itself the villain?

3. What do you think will give someone the ultimate edge in Lagos: scale or soul?

Until the next chapter,

With love and the soft glimmer before the storm,
Your fellow Codebreaker 🔍✨
Lody Tales