The crowd roared like waves crashing against a stubborn cliff. Chuka's glove, soaked with sweat and smeared with remnants of battle, remained clenched even after the referee lifted his hand. Another win. Another knockout. Another cheer. But the applause, once warm and fulfilling, now felt hollow in his chest. From the corner of his eye, he caught a blur of photographers and the flash of cameras—yet the one face he longed to see wasn't in the crowd. Atirola wasn't there.
Earlier, when the fight poster had gone viral, she'd simply smiled and said, "Be safe." That was all. No prayers. No emotional voice notes. Not even a last hug. It was unlike her.
Fame had a strange weight. It filled rooms, silenced old conversations, and bred new ones with strangers who only cared for shine. Lagos embraced Chuka, but not for his heart—only for his fists. Invitations to celebrity events replaced backyard dinners. Women threw themselves at him. Brands approached with endorsement deals. But he missed the simplicity of Odu. Missed the evenings with Coach Olowo by the fire, missed hunting tales, and the peace that came after sparring with trees rather than real opponents. Mostly, he missed Atirola's voice calling him "my forest lion."
She had changed. Or maybe they both had.
Their relationship, once organic and tender, began to feel like a business deal. She was rising too—a fast-growing fashion designer, courted by Lagos influencers. Her clients included rising actresses and the daughters of politicians. Their time together was a series of "maybe laters" and "can we talk tomorrow?" They were two meteors, each carving separate trails across the sky.
The last time they met in person was two weeks ago at her boutique studio in Lekki.
"Chuka," she said, threading a needle, her fingers steady, her eyes distracted. "I got invited to Ghana Fashion Week."
He tried to smile. "That's great. Proud of you."
She looked up then, finally meeting his gaze. "You don't sound proud."
"I am. I just… I feel like we don't talk anymore."
She sighed, putting down her thread. "That's not fair. You think this fame thing is easy for me too? Every time I post your photo, my DM explodes with haters and gossip bloggers. Some even say you've slept with that OAP girl from Cool FM."
He shifted in his seat, jaw tightening. "And you believe them?"
"I didn't say that. But Chuka, your life's changing. And I'm just trying to keep up."
He had stood up then, staring at her with the ache of a boy who'd only ever known sincerity from her. "We used to be one body. Now I don't know if we're even in the same room."
The silence between them was longer than it should've been.
"I need to think," she whispered.
He walked out without another word.
The days after that were blurry. Training. Appearances. Video shoots. More training. The smell of antiseptic in the gym, the thud of gloves against the bag, the fake smiles at press conferences. He was in a machine now. And the machine didn't stop.
Until one night, it did.
Chuka was in his apartment when the call came. It was past 10pm. His coach, Lanre, sounded urgent.
"Chuka, we need to talk."
He met him at the gym's backroom, where only the trusted fighters were allowed.
"What's going on?"
Lanre hesitated. "I've been approached. There's a promoter from South Africa who wants to sign you. Big money. Bigger exposure. But it means relocating."
Chuka didn't answer immediately.
"There's a catch," Lanre continued. "They want you single. No distractions. Clean narrative. No girlfriends. No scandals. Just the golden boy from Nigeria."
He laughed bitterly. "So they want to buy my whole life?"
"Not buy. Shape. You can say no."
But could he?
That night, he drove to Atirola's place. He hadn't planned to. But his heart dragged him there. Her apartment lights were still on. Through the blinds, he saw her laughing with two other women. Her laugh was still magic, even muffled. It used to belong to him alone.
He didn't knock.
He drove back, parked at the edge of the Third Mainland Bridge, and let the Lagos wind slap his face. He thought of his mother. Of Odu. Of the way Coach Olowo once said, "A boxer without peace at home will fight more outside than in the ring."
He needed to choose.
The next morning, he called Atirola.
"Let's meet," he said.
They sat at a small amala joint, a place they used to go before all the noise.
"I got an offer," he told her.
Her eyes dimmed. "I heard."
"It's not just about the money. It's a chance to be great. But they want me to be single."
She didn't cry. She didn't plead. She simply nodded.
"I always knew this day might come," she said. "We were never ordinary. This love… was never ordinary."
He took her hand. "I love you."
"I love you too," she replied, tears threatening but never falling. "Enough to let you go."
He shook his head. "No. I want to find a way. To keep both."
"You can't keep both," she whispered. "Not now. Not yet."
A long silence passed.
And then they both smiled, a sad, mature smile.
"So what happens now?" he asked.
"You go," she said. "You go and conquer. I'll be here. Not waiting. Just living. If the stars bring us back… then we'll know."
He left the amala joint with his heart half full and half broken. But as he stepped onto the plane weeks later, the weight in his chest felt strangely light.
Love hadn't died. It had just been folded carefully, like a letter never sent but never discarded.
As the wheels left Lagos soil, Chuka looked out the window. South Africa awaited.
But so did fate.
And somewhere deep inside, he believed he'd hear Atirola's laugh again—whether on a runway or in a quiet room where love once lived.
Because some hearts, like fists, never forget the shape of the one they once held.