The bush had two faces.
By day, it whispered lessons in peace — the rhythm of birdcalls, the hush of trees swaying in time with the wind, the slow patient teachings of the earth.
By night, it turned into something else. Not angry. Not evil. Just wild. A creature no man could tame. Not even Baba Gani.
And that night, the bush was on fire.
It started like a whisper. A strange crackling in the distance. Too sharp for crickets, too erratic for wind.
Then came the smell — thick and bitter, like roasted palm fronds and burning rubber.
By the time Chuka ran to the edge of their compound, he saw it: a line of orange tearing through the forest, fast as a wild dog, devouring everything in its path.
"Fire!" he screamed.
Baba Gani was already outside, barefoot, clutching his old water calabash and an aging machete.
"We move west!" he shouted. "Now!"
But Chuka stood frozen for a heartbeat. His forest — his training ground, his memories — was choking in smoke. The punching bag. The stone altar. His favorite tree for climbing. All swallowed.
He turned to run, but Baba Gani wasn't behind him.
"Baba!" he yelled.
The old hunter had turned back, slashing at the tall grass behind the hut.
"The bag!" Baba Gani shouted, coughing. "Get your strength! You'll need it!"
Chuka didn't hesitate.
He dove into the smoke, his eyes burning, his chest tight. Inside the hut, flames had begun to crawl along the thatch roof. He grabbed the punching bag — heavy, hot, but still intact — and hurled it out the door before sprinting after it.
By the time they reached the riverbank, the fire had grown tall enough to touch the sky.
They camped near the stream that night, cold and silent.
The stars above blinked like uncertain eyes, watching from a safe distance.
Baba Gani wrapped a cloth around his foot, which had been burned while trying to save a carved staff.
Chuka sat beside him, his knuckles scraped raw from dragging the bag and pulling the old man through a ditch. But his eyes weren't on his wounds.
They were on the firelight across the river — their home, reduced to embers.
"I could've saved more," Chuka said bitterly.
"You saved what mattered," Baba Gani replied.
"The hut?"
"No," he said, eyes on the boy. "You."
In the days that followed, word of the fire spread across Odu like dry harmattan. It wasn't just a blaze — it was the third fire in six months. Some whispered it was angry spirits. Others said oil thieves clearing land. No one had answers.
But everyone noticed one thing: Chuka was different.
He didn't return to school. Not that he had ever gone much. But now he trained harder. Longer. He didn't laugh. Didn't play.
His punches had grown louder.
Heavier.
They said the boy once cracked a tree trunk with a single strike.
They said his hands bled every morning, but he never bandaged them.
They said he no longer feared the fire.
They were right.
One evening, Chuka and Baba Gani went to the edge of Odu town for supplies. It was market day, but more importantly, it was wrestling day — the final round of the local boys' competition.
The village square was alive with drums, sweat, and dust. Boys in loincloths grappled while the crowd roared. It was sport. It was tradition.
And it was rigged.
At the center of it all stood a tall, brawny teenager named Kola — the son of a local merchant. Twice Chuka's size. Three times as arrogant.
He was undefeated.
But what made Chuka pause wasn't Kola. It was the small boy in front of him — no more than ten — trembling as he prepared to face the giant.
The crowd laughed.
Some jeered.
Others booed.
Chuka stepped closer. The child's legs shook as he raised his arms. Kola lunged. Within seconds, the boy was on the ground, wheezing.
But Kola didn't stop.
He kept beating him.
The drummers stopped. The elder referee stepped forward to break it up, but Kola shoved him away.
"Enough!" Chuka's voice rang out.
The crowd turned.
Kola looked up, annoyed.
"Who said that?"
Chuka stepped forward. His shirt soaked from carrying firewood. His eyes burning.
"I did."
Kola laughed. "Bush baby? You want to fight too?"
Chuka dropped the bundle of wood.
Stepped into the ring.
Raised his fists.
It wasn't a fair fight.
But not the way the crowd expected.
Kola charged like a bull, but Chuka sidestepped. The crowd gasped.
Another lunge — Chuka ducked, landed a sharp blow to the ribs.
The big boy stumbled. Turned, furious.
He threw a punch. Chuka blocked. Countered. Uppercut.
Kola hit the dirt like a sack of yam.
Silence.
Then—chaos.
People shouted. Women screamed. Drummers resumed, faster. Some cheered. Others pulled Kola away. But Chuka didn't move.
He stood still, fists lowered, breathing slow. Calm. Like he had just finished washing clothes.
From a corner of the crowd, an older man in dark shades and a worn cap leaned forward.
He hadn't clapped.
He hadn't shouted.
But he had seen everything.
That night, as Chuka wrapped cloth around his bruised wrists, Baba Gani handed him a bowl of steaming pepper soup.
"You disobeyed me."
Chuka kept eating. Silent.
"You let the fire in your fists show too soon."
Chuka paused. "He was hurting that boy."
"And now the whole village is talking about you again."
"Not as a curse," Chuka said quietly. "As a fighter."
Baba Gani studied him.
"You're not a fighter yet," he said. "You're a boy with strength. There's a difference."
Two days later, the man in dark shades arrived at their riverbank hut.
His name was Olowo — a former lightweight boxing coach from Lagos. He had come to Odu to visit his cousin but heard rumors of the "Bush Baby who fights like a lion."
He wasn't tall. He didn't smile much. But he spoke like a man who knew how to spot fire beneath calm waters.
"I want to train the boy," he said.
Baba Gani frowned. "He has a trainer."
Olowo nodded. "I mean… in gloves."
Chuka had never worn boxing gloves.
Never punched inside a ring.
Never trained with pads or counted rounds.
He had only ever fought trees, bags, and silence.
But when Olowo tossed him a pair of tattered gloves, he caught them.
Slipped them on.
And smiled.
For the first time in years, Chuka smiled.
Over the next few weeks, the hut transformed into a camp.
Olowo brought old mitts, a timer, two crates of protein yam powder, and a yellow radio that only played highlife music.
He didn't pamper. He didn't praise.
He pushed.
Jab. Cross. Duck. Uppercut. Breathe. Again.
Chuka learned rhythm.
Baba Gani watched from his stool. Silent. Proud. But cautious.
One night, after a particularly brutal set of hill sprints, Chuka lay on the ground, chest heaving, arms trembling.
"I can't feel my legs," he muttered.
Olowo sat beside him. Lit a cigarette. Didn't smoke it — just held it between his fingers like memory.
"You know what fire is?" he asked.
Chuka blinked.
"It's hunger. With a name. When you use your fists right, that fire in your belly becomes a weapon. Not just to hit. But to rise."
The town noticed.
He grew taller.
His body leaner, harder.
His movement sharper. Calculated.
Some still called him bush baby. But now, they said it with a new tone. Not insult. Awe.
They watched him punch trees for rhythm.
They watched him train under the rain.
They watched him win sparring matches against older teens without showing off.
And soon, they stopped watching.
They started hoping.