The streets of Madrid were noisy that morning, but the sound barely reached Chuka through the glass of the luxury sedan. He leaned his head against the window, watching the crowd pass in a blur. A boy in a Ronaldo jersey kicked a half-deflated ball across the pavement. Two women argued over fresh bread at a market stall. Life moved as it always did—noisy, relentless, unaware of the firestorm Chuka had become.
In the backseat, his phone buzzed endlessly. Mentions on Instagram. Twitter tags. Voice notes from journalists asking for interviews. Calls from promoters in Germany and France. Texts from women who claimed to know him. His image was on posters now, graffiti in alleyways, hashtags. They called him "The Thunder from Africa." Others preferred "Bush Baby." He wasn't sure which name he preferred.
What mattered more was that the world was watching now. And they weren't watching by accident.
The past five months had been a whirlwind. From Paris to Berlin, Chuka had taken fights that looked mismatched on paper. European managers thought they were feeding their prized boxers an African underdog to knock around and build stats. What they got was destruction. Precise, devastating, brutal destruction.
He knocked out a Croatian heavyweight in two rounds in Zagreb. In Milan, he delivered a jaw-cracking uppercut that trended for two weeks. In Budapest, the reigning Eastern European Intercontinental Champion had to be carried out of the ring on a stretcher. He barely even celebrated anymore. He just walked away from the chaos he created. That quiet walk-off had become his signature.
His fists made statements. And now, people were listening.
In Spain, he'd just returned from a fight that ended before the bell for the third round. A sold-out arena. Cameras flashing. Another knockout. Another promoter offering more money.
Coach Makena, his new European mentor, sat beside him now in the car, tapping away on his tablet.
"You've been offered a fight in Dubai," Makena said without looking up. "Seven figures. Easy opponent."
Chuka looked away from the window.
"I don't want easy."
Makena chuckled. "You know, most people do."
"I'm not most people."
That wasn't bravado. It was truth. From Odu's dusty roads to Lagos's cold alleyways, from underground fights to European arenas, Chuka had forged himself into something terrifying. The pain of Atirola's silence still followed him like a quiet shadow, but he had turned that ache into power. And the world couldn't ignore it anymore.
Rumors had started in the British tabloids weeks ago. Whispers of a dream matchup. The reigning WBC World Heavyweight Champion—Jordan "Ironjaw" Briggs. Undefeated. Loud. Marketable. Everything boxing's global scene adored. And now, they wanted Chuka to face him.
It started with a single headline:
"Is Africa's Bush Baby Ready for the Crown?"
Then came more:
"Thunder vs Ironjaw: Clash of Empires"
"Briggs Accepts the Challenge?"
"The Most Anticipated Bout Since Fury vs Joshua?"
Soon, podcasts were dissecting Chuka's knockouts. YouTube had compilation videos. Briggs' camp said nothing initially, then finally responded with a dismissive tweet:
"Cute streak. But he's not ready. Levels."
It only added fuel.
Chuka didn't respond. But Makena leaned into it. He scheduled more interviews. He dropped cryptic messages. He played the media like a flute. Soon, #BushVsBriggs trended globally.
"You understand what this means, right?" Makena asked that evening in their hotel suite, his voice low.
Chuka nodded, shirtless, wrapping his hands in gauze after a workout.
"It's not just a title shot," Makena continued. "It's global recognition. The kind of fight that cements legacy. Your name in history books. Endorsements. Documentaries. Movies. Everything changes."
"I didn't come here for anything less," Chuka replied, his eyes like stone.
Makena exhaled, a grin spreading across his tired face.
"You're a madman. But I like it."
London buzzed with energy. As talks between camps advanced, the British media descended like hawks. Old clips of Chuka fighting in Lagos resurfaced. Interviews with Coach Olowo back home aired on Sky Sports Africa. Nigerian newspapers headlined it every day. Bars played his fights on repeat.
Atirola hadn't called. Not once. But Chuka had stopped hoping. She would see him when the world bowed.
The announcement came on a Saturday night, in a dramatic video released simultaneously by both camps. Dark screen. Thunder sounds. Briggs standing in a warehouse, shirtless, punching a bag. Then Chuka, cloaked in shadows, wrapping his hands.
Voiceover: "One is the King of the Ring. The other, a Storm from the Continent. On November 9th… they collide."
And just like that, the world froze.
Tickets sold out in minutes. Wembley Arena. 90,000 seats. Pay-per-view deals in over 50 countries. Press conferences scheduled across Europe.
At the Madrid airport, a young boy asked for Chuka's autograph. His parents stood behind him, unsure. Chuka signed it anyway, his hands trembling slightly. It still felt strange—this love from strangers.
Makena nudged him. "Enjoy this. You earned it."
But Chuka's mind was already elsewhere.
In a gym in Belgium, Chuka trained like a soldier. No distractions. No interviews. Just sweat, pain, and repetition. Makena brought in sparring partners that mimicked Briggs' fighting style. Big men. Sharp chins. Long reach. But Chuka tore through them like paper.
At night, he studied tapes. Not just of Briggs, but of past champions. Lennox Lewis. Tyson. Ali. He wanted to understand greatness—not just fight it.
Meanwhile, the internet exploded.
People debated who would win.
"This guy from Africa is dangerous."
"He hasn't fought anyone like Briggs."
"Briggs is overrated."
"Chuka has a punch like a sledgehammer."
Everyone had an opinion. Everyone picked a side.
Briggs released a video mocking Chuka's accent. It backfired. Africans around the world rallied behind Chuka. Black celebrities endorsed him. Burna Boy tweeted: "All eyes on Bush Baby. Make us proud."
Makena couldn't believe the momentum.
"You're the people's champion before you've even fought," he said in disbelief.
But Chuka only nodded, brushing sweat from his eyes.
He didn't fight for fame. He fought for that boy who was left in the bush. For the father who raised him. For the girl who touched his soul then disappeared. For every child watching, thinking they had no chance.
He was fighting for something deeper than belts.
A week before the fight, they arrived in London. Press swarmed the hotel. Fans cheered from the pavement. Journalists asked questions. Chuka only said one thing at the media face-off:
"I've bled for this moment. Let's see if he's ready to bleed too."
Briggs laughed.
"You'll be unconscious by the fifth round."
Chuka didn't flinch.
The final press conference was held at the O2. Both men sat across each other. Briggs in sunglasses. Chuka in silence.
When asked for final words, Briggs grinned:
"I'll send him back to the bush."
Chuka leaned into the mic.
"I'm not going back. I'm bringing the bush here."
The room erupted.
The world was watching. And it wanted blood.
As the night before the fight arrived, Chuka stood on the rooftop of his hotel, looking out over the London skyline. Neon lights blinked. Cars crawled below. Somewhere in that vast city, Atirola might be watching.
He closed his eyes, wind brushing against his face.
Tomorrow, the world would know who he truly was.