The cold of Vienna struck differently. Not like the sharp, brittle air of Johannesburg that came with the scent of ambition and dust, or the thick wetness of Lagos, where sweat was a second skin. Vienna's cold carried silence, a kind of hush that made Chuka feel like he was inside a snow globe, separate from the world he once knew. As the airport doors slid open and he stepped into that foreign air, there was a moment he paused—not from the cold, but from the unfamiliar weight in his chest. The kind that came when you had everything ahead of you, but no one from home to witness the climb.
Atirola wasn't there. Hadn't been for months now. Their last conversation still echoed sometimes in the quiet. The night he called her after his first European sparring win—her voice soft, almost hesitant, telling him to chase his dream, but never really asking where that left them. He had promised to call more. She had promised to wait. Promises, it turned out, could stretch thin when stretched across oceans.
The man waiting for him at the gate was stiff-backed, bald, dressed in a black turtleneck and long coat. There was something hawk-like in his stare, something precise and cold. Niklas Van der Reitz. They said he once trained champions who wore belts like second skins, and others who disappeared after the first cut. He was known for making stars and breaking bones, sometimes both.
"You're late," Niklas said, checking his watch. "Even flights have no excuse."
Chuka didn't flinch. He had learned not to.
"Time's relative in Nigeria," he replied dryly, wheeling his lone bag beside him.
Niklas gave a tight nod, then turned. "Good. You'll need that mouth when the cameras come. Come."
The days blurred into drills. Chuka ran before the sun cracked the frost, his shoes kissing cobblestone paths lined with silent statues. He punched leather until his knuckles peeled. He watched tapes in the dark—fighters faster than him, stronger, taller. Niklas never gave praise, only silence, and then corrections. But behind that silence was approval, even if it came laced with cruelty.
"Stop waiting to be liked," Niklas said one day, watching Chuka strike at a pad with too much hesitation. "Nobody cares if you're humble. The crowd wants blood. The sponsors want sweat. You want legacy? Then punch like the world insulted your mother."
Chuka did.
With each passing week, the transformation was becoming undeniable. He moved with more clarity, more control. He wasn't just fighting opponents anymore. He was mastering himself. But there were nights—nights when Vienna slept and the only sound was the wind rattling the old window frames—when he missed the scent of palm oil in the air, the way Atirola's fingers would rake through his hair, the sound of her laughter, even her anger.
He thought of her every time he wrapped his hands. With each loop, he imagined binding the memory of her around his fists, like she was still holding him together.
The day of the fight came with a strange quiet. The venue wasn't massive, but prestigious—a high-stakes private circuit event that Niklas had secured to test Chuka's rising European reputation. The crowd was wealthy, international, connected. Deals were made over champagne, and fighters became commodities with one good round.
"Do not win small," Niklas said in the locker room, taping Chuka's wrist tighter than usual. "Make them remember your name when they cash their bets."
Chuka stood in the ring under glaring white lights, his opponent a seasoned Eastern European brawler with a jaw like a slab and arms like cables. But the fight wasn't just fists. It was performance. Theatre. Chuka remembered Coach Olowo's voice in his head: Boxing is war, yes, but also dance. You give pain with grace.
The bell rang.
He didn't just win. He dominated. Five rounds in, his opponent was bleeding from the nose and gasping for breath. Chuka's footwork sang, his jabs a steady drumbeat. When he landed the right hook that ended the fight, the room didn't erupt—it exhaled. Shocked. Awed.
Afterward, in the locker room, Niklas handed him a folded envelope.
"Your cut," he said. "Twenty-five thousand euros. Sponsorship offers by morning, maybe more."
Chuka stared at it. The paper was thin. The ink smudged. But the weight in his hand was heavier than anything he had carried. Money from blood. From sweat. From everything he had sacrificed—including her.
He wanted to call Atirola that night. Wanted to tell her he finally saw what boxing could give. That it wasn't just survival anymore—it was opportunity. But when he reached for his phone, he stopped. What would he say? That he missed her? That he still loved her? That she should come? None of those things felt fair anymore.
Instead, he sent a short message: Won. 5 rounds. Hope you're well.
She didn't reply.
Weeks passed. Endorsement talks began. A small sportswear brand in Germany sent him trial gear. His name started appearing on underground European fight blogs. In the gym, younger fighters whispered when he passed. He was no longer the bush boy from Odu. He was a rising star—lean, lethal, enigmatic.
But all that glimmered didn't always fill the silence. One evening, after training, Chuka sat alone in a Viennese café, watching couples stroll past the glass. He stirred his coffee slowly, the clink of the spoon against the porcelain like a heartbeat.
"You're brooding."
He looked up.
Across the table sat Lara, one of Niklas' assistants. Blonde, blunt, clever-eyed. She had a way of showing up without announcement.
"Thinking," he said.
"Same thing."
She sipped her wine, eyes scanning him. "You've got the world opening for you, and you look like someone stole your shadow."
Chuka didn't answer. She reached forward, fingers grazing his wrist.
"Tell me something," she said. "Have you ever been loved more than you loved yourself?"
Chuka stared at her.
"Yes," he said quietly. "And I left her behind."
Lara didn't ask more. She didn't have to.
The night unfolded slowly. Conversation softened, drinks turned warm, and when she leaned over to kiss him—soft, curious, unhurried—he didn't stop her. It was not love, not even longing. It was loneliness meeting loneliness, bodies asking questions words couldn't.
They ended up in her apartment, the space dimly lit, her hand tracing the scars on his torso. Chuka's touch was tentative at first, then firmer, then desperate. Their bodies moved in rhythm—not wild, not forceful—just two people seeking solace, not answers. The night didn't erase his ache for Atirola, but it did mute it.
And in the stillness after, when Lara lay with her head against his chest, her fingers absently drawing lines on his arm, Chuka stared at the ceiling and whispered a silent apology to a girl he hadn't held in months.
Back in the gym, the training intensified. Niklas began lining up bigger events. London. Amsterdam. Madrid. With each fight, Chuka earned more. Fame crept in like fog, blurring the edges of who he was. Interviews came. Cameras followed him outside gyms. Brands smiled at him with dollar-shaped eyes.
But with every win, the distance from Atirola grew. He no longer knew how to reach for her. And she, it seemed, had stopped reaching back.
Then came the call.
Niklas had arranged a London fight—televised, ticketed, sold-out. The opponent? A British-Nigerian knockout artist known as Rex Fury. It was a gamble. A win would launch Chuka into global contention. A loss could undo the fragile crown he was building.
"Are you ready to stop being promising and start being real?" Niklas asked him.
Chuka clenched his jaw.
"I'm ready," he said.
But in the quiet that followed, he thought of Atirola again. Of her laughter. Her softness. Her fire. And he wondered, not for the first time, whether every step toward the world was also a step away from home.
Still, he would fight.
Because the ring had become his language. And through it, he would speak loudly enough for even silence to hear.