The streets of Paris shimmered under soft rain as Chuka sat silently by the hotel window, staring into the night. His breath fogged the glass, but he didn't move. The Eiffel Tower sparkled in the distance like a trophy he couldn't yet touch. Behind him, the room was lavish—dark oak furniture, deep navy carpet, and a bed that could swallow a man whole—but none of it felt like home. The silence gnawed at him. Not the absence of sound, but the absence of her voice. Atirola. He had scrolled through their old chats again and again, heart aching over messages he never replied to, moments he could no longer grasp. Her last voice note still haunted him. "I understand, Chuka. But don't lose yourself chasing the world."
He had lost himself anyway. Or maybe he had become something else entirely. Fame was a double-edged blade, sharp with praise but heavy with isolation. In Europe, he had tasted glory. He had won fights, signed deals, featured in interviews where he was styled in blazers that smelled of money and stiff cologne. But every spotlight left a shadow behind it, and in that shadow, his loneliness nested.
Coach Radek, his new Czech mentor, had entered his life like a whirlwind. Gruff, unbending, precise. A retired Olympic boxer turned elite trainer. It was Radek who saw Chuka spar once at a Marseille gym and insisted, without hesitation, "That boy is a weapon. Give me six months and I'll make him a headline."
Six months had turned into twelve. And now Chuka stood on the brink of the biggest fight of his life: a televised bout in London against a British-Nigerian undefeated sensation named Dimeji "The Dragon" Akintoye. The tabloids had eaten it up. "Two Lions. One Throne." The hype was everywhere—videos of their training montages, deepfake mock-ups of potential KOs, fans screaming in the streets. It was overwhelming, but it was also the very thing he had once prayed for.
He turned from the window and grabbed his journal. He wrote more now—things he couldn't say aloud. Not to the media, not even to Radek.
I can't hear her laugh in my head anymore. I hate that it's fading. It's like I'm winning everything and losing the one thing I thought I'd always have.
There was a knock on the door. He shoved the journal under a pillow. "Come in."
Radek entered, soaked from the rain, his bald head gleaming. He dropped a duffel bag by the door and tossed a banana to Chuka.
"You've eaten like a priest today. This is not fasting camp. You want to make weight, yes. But not kill spirit."
Chuka nodded but didn't eat. Radek walked over, noticed the journal bulge under the pillow, and said nothing. He had learned to respect Chuka's silences.
"She call today?" the older man asked gently.
"No."
"She won't?"
"I don't think so."
Radek sighed, sat on the bed's edge. "When I was twenty-two, my woman left because I said I'd rather die in the ring than live behind a desk. She told me, 'Good. I don't want to date a ghost.' I thought I needed to win for her. But sometimes we must win for ourselves."
Chuka leaned back, the banana untouched in his palm. "I'm scared, Coach."
Radek looked at him. "Scared to lose?"
"No," Chuka whispered. "Scared to win and find out I'm still empty."
The fight was only five days away. London buzzed like a hornet's nest. The O2 Arena posters covered buses, buildings, even airplanes. On arrival, paparazzi met Chuka at Heathrow. Fans screamed his name, but he kept his hoodie low, earbuds in. The press conference was a circus. Dimeji came in flexing in a Louis Vuitton tracksuit, gold chains clinking like war medals. His London accent sliced through the air. "This ain't bush league, bruv. This is my city. I'll send this jungle boy back to Odu with a swollen face."
Chuka didn't respond. He sat with a quiet stare, a stone unmoved by spit. But inside, he was boiling. Not from the insult. But from the weight of expectations—Nigeria watching, Europe watching, maybe even Atirola watching.
Training intensified. Each morning at 5am, he sprinted across Thames bridges with Radek's voice in his ear like an angry conscience. In the gym, he sparred until his knuckles bled through wraps. At night, he lay alone, icing swollen joints, whispering her name under his breath like prayer.
The night before the weigh-in, he received a call. Unknown number. He almost ignored it. Then—her voice.
"Chuka."
He sat up, heart racing. "Ati?"
She hesitated. "I don't know why I'm calling. Maybe I do. I saw the poster. You look… bigger. Like you're carrying the whole world."
He swallowed hard. "It feels like that."
"I'm not mad at you," she said. "I was. But not anymore. I just want you to know, I still believe in the boy I met at the railway. I hope fame hasn't drowned him."
His throat tightened. "He's still here. He's tired. But he's here."
There was silence.
"I wish you luck, Chuka. And peace."
"I wish it too," he whispered.
And the line went dead.
He stared at the phone for hours, the soft blue light casting shadows on the wall. He didn't sleep that night.
Fight night arrived with thunder in the air. The O2 Arena was electric. Backstage, Chuka's hands were wrapped, gloves tightened, robe pulled over his shoulders. The Nigerian flag was stitched into his chest, right beside Odu's emblem—a gift from the villagers before he left home. Radek stood by his side, whispering tactics, reminders, but Chuka heard none of it.
As he stepped into the tunnel, cameras flashing, chants erupting, he felt a strange calm wash over him. Not because he was fearless. But because he had already made peace with his war.
The bell rang.
Round after round, the fight became a brutal ballet. Dimeji was fast, sharp, a snake in motion. But Chuka was stronger. Hungrier. With every punch, he dug into the pain of missing Atirola, the days in the forest, the echo of Coach Olowo's voice. He remembered being called Bush Baby. He remembered how far he'd come.
In Round 7, blood trickled from his brow. The crowd roared. He looked up, sweat and crimson in his eyes, and saw something—an outline in the crowd. He blinked. Was it her? A hallucination?
He didn't know. He didn't care.
He struck.
An uppercut from the depths of his soul. Dimeji hit the canvas.
Ten seconds later, it was over.
Victory.
The lights were blinding. Reporters swarmed. His arms were lifted. A belt placed on his waist. Money flowed. Endorsements lined up. He was officially a European star.
But in the locker room, stripped down to silence, he cried. Alone.
Because glory is loud. But the soul mourns in whispers.