Lagos stank of heat, sweat, and motion. Even before Chuka stepped out of the bus, he felt it pressing against his chest like a boulder. The danfo ride had drained him — ten hours squeezed between strangers, with the driver screaming Yoruba curses over afrobeat blaring from a cracked radio. But this was it. The city of dreams, the place of big breaks. Or so he'd heard.
The moment his foot touched the concrete of Ojuelegba bridge, Lagos met him with a slap of chaos. Noise crashed from every angle — horns, hawkers, preachers, buses screeching past like angry beasts. He clutched his small nylon bag to his chest. Inside were his only possessions: two shirts, one pair of shorts, a belt, and the photo of him and Pa Olowo standing beside a smoking pot of bushmeat.
He had no place to go.
He wandered for hours, walking in circles, hoping to see a familiar face or hear a name he recognized. None came. By nightfall, his stomach gnawed at itself, and he found himself beside a gutter, watching people pass. A pepper-seller offered him leftover akara, but when he reached for it, a boy darted from nowhere and grabbed it from his hand. Laughter followed. Humiliation bit deeper than hunger.
That night, he slept under a footbridge near the stadium. No pillow. No mat. Just torn cardboard and the sound of rats chewing through something in the shadows. He stared up at the concrete above him and whispered, "Is this the glory road, Papa?"
The next day, he walked.
He tried to talk to shop owners, offering to lift goods, sweep, carry cement — anything. Most waved him off without a glance. One man at a printing press told him to get lost before "area boys mistake you for one of them."
He found a local boxing gym two streets off the expressway — a rusted zinc building where shirtless boys punched worn-out bags. He watched for minutes, eyes wide. The trainer there, a chubby man with a crooked cap and cigarette in his mouth, saw him and said, "You wan fight?"
Chuka nodded. "Yes, sir."
They laughed.
"You get money to register?" the man asked.
"No."
"Then go punch breeze outside."
Another round of laughter. Chuka turned and walked away, jaw clenched. His fists twitched by his sides. He wanted to scream. He wanted to fight someone — anyone — just to prove he was not what they thought.
By his third night in Lagos, he hadn't eaten anything except some soaked bread a street vendor dropped accidentally. He waited until she wasn't looking before snatching it from the gutter. He hated himself for it, but hunger had silenced pride.
It was that same night he got jumped.
He had wandered into a wrong part of Mushin — looking for a shortcut, or maybe just chasing shadows. Four boys surrounded him. One carried a plank, another had a bottle. They asked for money. He said he had none. They didn't believe him.
The first punch landed on his temple. The second cracked his lip. Then the bottle hit his side and he dropped. They kicked, stomped, laughed. They searched his bag, took his shirts and belt, and left him bleeding in the dirt.
When he opened his eyes again, it was darker. His lip throbbed. His ribs ached. He tasted blood in his mouth. But something else was there too.
Fire.
He dragged himself to his knees and saw the shadow of one of them walking back — probably to check if he was still breathing. Chuka rose.
He didn't wait.
He tackled the boy with a growl, fists flying. He hit like an animal. Over and over. He didn't stop until the boy screamed. Until he heard someone shout, "Hey!" and then the slap of sandals running away.
That was when he saw him.
A dark-skinned man leaning against the wall, watching. He wore joggers, no shirt, and had a whistle hanging from his neck.
"You done?" the man asked.
Chuka, panting, wiped the blood from his mouth and nodded.
The man walked forward slowly. He had sharp eyes — like a hawk — and a jagged scar running down the side of his neck.
"You fight like someone with nothing to lose," he said.
Chuka said nothing.
The man pointed. "There's a gym. Behind this compound. Not one of those fancy clubs. We train dogs there — dogs who want to bite back. You want to bite?"
Chuka nodded again.
"Good." The man grinned. "Name's Tayo. But if you step in, you don't quit. No mama, no tears, no excuses."
Chuka followed him.
The gym was nothing more than a converted shack. No AC. No ring. Just concrete floors, torn pads, and the smell of sweat soaked into the walls. A bulb flickered overhead.
A few men stood in the corner, watching silently.
Tayo turned. "You want to join, you fight first. Right now. No gloves. No rounds. Just pain."
From the back, a boy stepped forward. Lean, fast-looking, eyes dancing with mischief.
"Give him Kola," Tayo said.
Kola smiled.
They squared up. Chuka could barely stand straight, but he raised his fists. Kola darted in — quick jab to the face. Chuka staggered. Another hook hit his ribs. But he didn't fall.
He remembered the forest.
He remembered Pa Olowo saying, "When the bush bites you, you bite back harder."
He exploded.
Chuka's punch landed on Kola's jaw, sending him sideways into the wall. Kola blinked, dazed. Chuka followed, grabbed him by the chest, and threw him down. One punch. Two. Three.
"Enough!" Tayo's voice boomed.
Chuka froze, fists clenched, chest heaving.
Silence.
Then, applause.
Slow. Measured. But it grew. Even the quiet men nodded.
Tayo walked to him, placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're not just hungry. You're starving. Good. I can work with that."
Chuka fell to his knees, every muscle shaking. The blood in his mouth was dry now. He swallowed it like a vow.
That night, he didn't sleep under a bridge. He slept on a torn mat beside the gym, with the distant sound of tires screeching and fists hitting bags. It wasn't peace. But it was purpose.
And for the first time in Lagos, Chuka closed his eyes and dreamed not of home — but of greatness.