The night air over Johannesburg breathed of possibility, but it was laced with that same metallic tension Chuka always felt before a fight. The lights were brighter here, almost too bright, as though they were trying to drown the shadows of doubt within him. South Africa had welcomed him with open arms, but in the silence of his apartment, the voice of home still whispered through the walls. He had arrived as a Nigerian boy with jungle instincts and city scars. Now, the continent watched him. And Europe, perhaps, had begun to listen.
Coach Banda, his South African trainer, was strict but respectful. Unlike Olowo's fatherly nature or Raji's street-tough approach, Banda was surgical. Every mistake was a lesson. Every punch analyzed. He didn't coddle. He demanded excellence. Chuka respected that. He needed it now more than ever.
His last two fights had stirred up media chatter. An article from a British sports site called him "The Beast from Odu." He didn't know whether to smile or clench his jaw at the nickname. Still, the recognition meant something. And he needed that distraction—because with every message left on "Read," every moment of silence from Atirola, his heart kept asking questions his fists couldn't answer.
They hadn't broken up. Not officially. But distance had a way of pulling hearts until one thread finally snapped. At first, they had called each other every day. Now, days bled into weeks. The last time they spoke, her voice had sounded different—thinner, like a ghost echoing through the speaker. She had said she was proud of him, that she believed in him. But belief wasn't the same as presence. Pride wasn't the same as love felt through skin and time.
He didn't blame her. Lagos had its own weight, and she was dancing with her own shadows. He remembered the way she had always stood in his corner, both literally and metaphorically. But he also remembered that look in her eyes before he left—the one that said, "I won't wait forever." He hadn't promised forever. He had only promised to try.
Now, he was here, trying. Bleeding, sweating, surviving. Building something in a city where no one knew how close he had come to being nothing.
The call came on a Tuesday. Banda walked into the gym during Chuka's pad session with a short man in a black suit tailing behind him. "Chuka," Banda said in his clipped Zulu-accented English. "Meet Mr. Weathers. He's from the UK. He saw the last fight."
The man extended his hand with a grin that had too many teeth. "You've got something special, lad. We're looking at a potential slot on the undercard of the London Primetime Middleweight Title bout. Two months from now. You'd fight a ranked British contender. Big stage. Big eyes watching."
Chuka blinked. He had expected more steps before this—more trials. Not a jump across oceans. But maybe this was it. Maybe the stars had aligned to test whether he would fly or fall.
After the man left, Banda said nothing for a while. Just stared at him. Then: "Are you ready to stop being promising and start being unforgettable?"
Chuka didn't answer immediately. His hands were shaking. Not from fear—but from the weight of opportunity. He nodded slowly. "I was born for unforgettable."
The next weeks became a blur of harder training, press interviews, and paperwork. South Africa had been his proving ground, but London would be his warzone. Banda shifted his methods. Chuka sparred twice a day, shadowboxed until his muscles screamed, and analyzed opponent tapes late into the night. He slept with a notebook beside him, scribbling footwork patterns and weaknesses he noticed in his dreams.
He still messaged Atirola. Short things. "Landed a possible match." Or "Missing you." She didn't always respond. When she did, it was kind. Distant. Polite. Like a letter from a stranger who once knew you well.
One night, after a particularly brutal spar, Chuka sat alone on the rooftop of his gym. The stars felt farther away here. He thought of his mother's voice—how she used to hum lullabies in Igbo as she cooked. He thought of the hunter who gave him his name. Of Olowo, who once told him, "The ring is honest, Chuka. It doesn't care about your past, only what you bring inside it."
And he thought of her. Not the girl in the city now, busy with dreams that might not include him—but the girl who once leaned against his sweaty chest, whispered "I believe in you," and meant it like a vow.
Would she be watching?
The flight to London was a restless one. Banda sat beside him, snoring softly. Chuka stared at the seatback screen but didn't watch anything. Instead, he imagined the arena. The British press. The unfamiliar crowd. The bell.
He had fought for survival in Odu. For recognition in Lagos. For purpose in Johannesburg. But now, for the first time, he was fighting for legacy.
Landing was chaos. The city pulsed with a rhythm he didn't understand yet. The language was the same, but colder. The people were efficient, polite, and distracted. Banda handled most of the logistics, and Chuka found solace in the gym that had been assigned to him. The bags hit the same. The sweat smelled the same. It was only outside the gym that he felt alien.
During the weigh-in, cameras flashed so aggressively that he almost flinched. The British contender, a man named Callum Brier, smirked at him like he was just another African import. "He looks soft," Callum said aloud, unbothered that Chuka could hear. "Jungle boy won't last four rounds."
Chuka smiled. That smile that used to make Olowo nervous. The one he wore when the storm inside him started to gather.
The night of the fight came faster than he expected. The stadium lights were surgical. The air, thick with anticipation. The announcer's voice echoed like a trumpet from the heavens.
"In the blue corner… undefeated… from Nigeria… the Bush Baby, Chuka Anene!"
They cheered. Not like Lagos. Not like Odu. But they cheered.
The bell rang.
Callum came aggressive. British boxing was polished, sharp. His jabs were textbook, his movement tight. But Chuka had danced with hunger. He had bled with ghosts. He wasn't fighting for fame. He was fighting because life had taught him that standing still meant dying.
Round after round, the tide shifted. By the sixth, Callum's mouth was bleeding. By the eighth, Chuka had found a rhythm that silenced the crowd.
In the tenth, he saw the gap. A lazy cross. A window.
The punch landed clean. Callum's head snapped back like a puppet's. He staggered. Fell.
The referee counted. Ten.
Chuka didn't jump. Didn't roar. He just stood still, breathing. Listening. Somewhere in the crowd, maybe—just maybe—someone with soft eyes and a Lagos voice was watching.
That night, his name trended in four countries. The press hailed him as "Africa's Storm," "Odu's Prodigy," "The Boxer Who Fights Like He's Been Forged in Fire."
But in his hotel room, Chuka stared at his phone.
One message.
From her.
"I saw it. You were… beautiful."
And that was all.
He replied, "I miss you."
No response.
Still, he smiled. Because maybe silence wasn't the end. Maybe it was just the ring taking a breath before the next round.
Outside the window, the London sky blinked with distant stars. Far from Odu. Far from the hunter's hut. But maybe not too far from love, or destiny.
And certainly not too far from the next fight.