The Data Laws of Number Nine

 This is a work of fiction inspired by recurring themes in today's news. All characters, names, and events are invented and do not depict real people or organisations.

The family plan had thirty gigabytes, six people, and no constitution, until Mrs Adegoke discovered on Tuesday that her phone had stopped working at 2 p.m.

"Who finished it?" she asked, holding the dead screen like evidence.

Nobody answered. Her husband studied the ceiling. Her son Femi, nineteen, suddenly found his sandals fascinating. Her daughter Titi, fifteen, said only, "It might have been the update."

"An update that watched forty-one videos?"

"Some were short."

Mr Adegoke, who had negotiated the plan and considered himself its prime minister, called a meeting that evening. The household gathered in the sitting room with the solemnity of a small parliament and a plate of boiled groundnuts.

"We need rules," he said.

"Rule one," said Mrs Adegoke immediately. "Nobody streams after nine at night. Some people, and I will not say whose names, have been watching football highlights in bed."

"That is a rumour," said Femi.

"Your face is the rumour."

"Rule two," said Titi, who had been waiting, "the person who finishes the data must announce it. Loudly. So everyone can mourn together."

The youngest, eight-year-old Dayo, raised a hand. "Can I be the one who checks the balance?"

"Why you?"

"Because I do not cheat. I just like numbers."

There was a short, suspicious silence. Then, to everyone's surprise, Mr Adegoke nodded. "Appointed."

The first week was difficult. Dayo took his duty with terrible seriousness, appearing at doors with a notebook and the grave expression of a tax inspector. "Twelve gigabytes gone," he would announce, "and it is only Wednesday." Femi accused him of having a vendetta. Dayo replied that a vendetta needed evidence, and he had it.

But the rules, absurd as they were, began to work. They downloaded videos at the office, where the Wi-Fi was free. Mrs Adegoke took to reading messages in the afternoon, when the shop was quiet. Titi found that if she watched her programmes before nine, she could discuss them with friends, which turned out to be half the pleasure.

By the second Sunday, a strange thing happened. Thirty gigabytes were nearly untouched on the twenty-fifth of the month.

"We have never done this," Mr Adegoke said, staring at the notebook. "Not once in four years."

"Because nobody told us what we were spending," Dayo said, sounding like an auditor.

They did not spend the surplus on anything grand. Mrs Adegoke suggested rollover as a joke. Femi suggested a family video call with his grandmother in the village, who had not seen his new haircut. They called her on Sunday night, all six faces crowded into one small screen, and spent an hour listening to her describe her goat's health, which was, she assured them, excellent.

When the call ended, the balance read four gigabytes.

"Worth it," said Titi.

"Worth every byte," said Mr Adegoke, and for a moment nobody argued, which was itself a kind of rare achievement.

The next morning, Dayo taped a sheet of paper to the fridge. In large, careful capitals it read:

DATA LAWS OF NUMBER NINE. 1. NO STREAMING AFTER NINE. 2. ANNOUNCE YOUR DEFEAT. 3. THE ACCOUNTANT IS ALWAYS RIGHT.

Underneath, in his father's handwriting, someone had added: 4. Except about football.

End of fiction. For today's actual headlines, see the link to today's headline post and video