The air in the gym was thick with heat and the stench of effort—sweat, blood, liniment, and something deeper… like the scent of fear baked into the walls. Chuka stepped in and paused, his ears flooded by the slap of leather against pads, the metallic squeal of rusted dumbbells being dropped, and the rhythmic grunts of fighters pushing their bodies past reason. It was chaos, raw and alive, and it thrilled him.
"Five minutes late," Coach Tayo said, without turning from the punching bag he was wrapping with duct tape. "First lesson."
Before Chuka could respond, Tayo threw a skipping rope at his chest. "One hour. No breaks."
Chuka blinked. "An hour?"
Tayo didn't respond. He walked away like the matter had already been settled. It had.
The rope slapped the concrete as Chuka began. The first few minutes were easy—he had stamina, he told himself. But Lagos heat was different. It wrapped around his lungs like wet cloth, and soon, every bounce sent jolts through his calves. Sweat soaked his shirt in sheets, and his breath grew ragged. Still, he pushed. If this was the price of greatness, he'd pay.
Coach Tayo's shadow returned after what felt like forever. "Forty-five minutes," he said. "You're dying too early."
Chuka gritted his teeth. His legs burned, his throat felt like sandpaper, but quitting was not an option. He remembered the voices of Odu—the kids chanting "Bush Baby!" as he walked past, the cold stares of the women in the market, the teachers who pitied him instead of expecting greatness.
He wasn't that boy anymore.
When the hour finally ended, Tayo nodded. "Good. You're still standing. Stretch. Then push-ups. Two hundred."
Chuka collapsed to the floor and began.
Across the gym, other fighters watched. Some smirked. Some shook their heads. A tall, broad-shouldered boy with tattoos on his chest laughed openly.
"Fresh meat," the boy said. "Let's see how long he lasts."
Chuka heard him but didn't look. His arms were trembling now, and sweat dripped from his chin onto the dusty floor. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. His breath was sharp, every push-up a prayer.
Coach Tayo didn't speak much that day. He simply pointed. After push-ups came shadowboxing. Then the heavy bag. Then footwork drills. Then sparring—if it could even be called that.
"Against who?" Chuka asked, breathing hard.
Tayo simply gestured to the tattooed boy. "Jide."
Jide smiled like a shark. "Coach, you sure? He fit die for here o."
Tayo didn't smile. "Teach him control."
Chuka barely had time to blink before Jide was in front of him, bouncing on his heels. He moved like someone born inside a ring—light, fluid, deadly. Chuka tried to mimic what he'd seen in Olowo's compound, but it was like dancing barefoot in fire. Every jab from Jide landed like a message: You're not ready.
The first punch to the ribs knocked the wind from Chuka. The second staggered him. The third dropped him to one knee. The gym roared with laughter.
"Get up," Tayo said.
Chuka spat blood and stood.
Another flurry. Another fall.
"Get up."
Again and again. He lost count. But he always got up.
When it was over, Chuka could barely stand. Jide shrugged. "Not bad for a bush boy," he said, walking away.
Tayo didn't speak for a long time. He just stared at Chuka, who was trembling, face bruised, eyes swollen.
"You still want this?" he finally asked.
Chuka couldn't even speak. He nodded, once.
Tayo walked to the locker room. "Be here at six tomorrow. If you're late again, don't come."
The streets outside the gym were just as punishing. Lagos wasn't Odu. Here, no one offered you palm wine or asked about your mother. You were invisible until you became useful.
Chuka's tiny room behind a car mechanic's shop had no fan, no running water, and one thin mattress. Each night, his body screamed in pain. His wrists felt broken. His stomach growled. But the fire inside him burned hotter than ever.
He saw flashes of Odu in his dreams—Olowo calling out commands, the forest wind, the girl by the river whose name he never asked. He wondered if they'd hear of him one day and remember the boy they left behind.
Lagos didn't care about your past. It only respected scars.
Weeks passed.
Every morning at six, Chuka arrived. Some days Tayo ignored him completely. Other days, he was put through hell. He trained alongside boys who had grown up in Lagos, street fighters hardened by poverty and betrayal. None of them respected him. Not yet.
But something began to shift.
One morning, during pad work, Jide paused. "Your hands… they don't shake anymore."
Chuka didn't respond.
"Not bad," Jide muttered.
Coach Tayo saw it too. Chuka's footwork was tighter. His punches, heavier. His eyes, colder. He bled, but he stopped flinching. He took hits, but he gave some back.
Tayo started pairing him with better fighters. Some nights, he didn't go home. He slept in the gym, body curled on a mat like a wounded animal. But he never stopped.
Then, one rainy evening, after sparring left him dizzy and bloodied, Coach Tayo called him aside.
"Come."
Chuka followed him into the back office. It was the first time he'd been invited in. The room was small, filled with old fight posters, broken trophies, and faded photographs of Tayo in his youth—gloves raised, sweat glistening under stadium lights.
"You think you're ready," Tayo said, lighting a cigarette.
Chuka stayed silent.
"You're not. But we don't wait for readiness here. We throw boys into fire and see if they burn or shine."
Tayo pulled out a small envelope and slid it across the table. Inside was a flyer. Amateur Fight Night. Open slot. One week away.
"You want to stop being a ghost in this city? Win this."
Chuka took the flyer and stared at it. His heart pounded like a war drum.
"Lose," Tayo said, "and they'll forget you before your blood dries on the canvas."
Chuka nodded.
"I'm not afraid," he whispered.
Tayo smiled, a rare thing. "Good. Because Lagos doesn't care."
That night, Chuka walked back through the rain, flyer clenched in his fist, every muscle aching. But his soul felt light. He was stepping into the fire. No more shadows. No more whispers.
Bush Baby was about to roar.