[Music: "Ewo" by Famous Pluto thumps heavy in the background]
Rowe Park Court, Yaba, Lagos.
The court was alive—buzzing under the dying evening sun, shadows stretching long across the concrete. The air carried two warnings: entertainment for the bold… and danger for the uninvited. Nobody stepped in here without backup. Not with Kafia Mafia owning the grounds.
Every year, the gang ran this tournament, their own twisted festival. But this wasn't normal streetball. No—this was Bacoli Rule Basketball, imported from Italy.
The rules were as cruel as the city itself:
• After every win, the weakest player on the team was eliminated.
• By the finals, only two men remained.
• Teammates became rivals, and only the strongest survived.
It wasn't just a tournament. It was a betrayal ritual, wrapped in the sound of bouncing balls and gunshot cheers.
And now, with a ₦1,000,000 prize hanging over their heads, it had come down to the last men standing:
Ayo "The King of the Underworld Court" – the point guard, infamous for his killer 1v1 handles.
Jason "The Dictator" – the small forward, feared for his suffocating offense and cutthroat tactics.
Together, Lagos knew them as The Yankee Brothers.
If they lost tonight, it was over. If they won… well, only two could walk away with the glory.
⸻
The bleachers roared like a storm. The betting pool was chaos, cash flying as spectators screamed over odds. Some bought drinks, others snacks, all waiting for blood on the court.
Commentator 1:
"So, who are we putting our money on? You think the Yankee Brothers can pull another miracle?"
Commentator 2:
"Miracle? Abeg forget. At this point, doubting them is foolishness. They've crushed five teams back-to-back. Nobody else even close. And don't forget—it's Bacoli Rule!"
Commentator 3:
"Exactly. Last year the finals ended without a victor. This time… either they make history, or Rowe Park eats them alive."
⸻
Meanwhile, deep inside the locker room,
As the two players were getting ready
Ayo sat slumped on the wooden bench, jersey clinging to his damp chest, his fists pressed hard against the burning ache inside. Jason had been talking to him since they left the tutorial, trying to soothe his spirit, but Ayo was unreachable—his heart refused peace. Only desire, only Ary, clouded his mind and Jason who had been trying to calm Ayo down ever since they left the tutorial. But no matter what he said, it seemed nothing could soothe Ayo except one thing—getting what his heart stubbornly desired, sat slouched on the bench, jersey clinging to his sweat-drenched chest, arms folded tightly across his torso. His face was hard, but his eyes betrayed him—red, wet, heavy with a storm he didn't want to let out.
Then came a voice—loud, mocking, familiar.
They both turned.
Anthony. The self-proclaimed Gangster King. His entrance was never quiet. At his side stood two shadows: Tayo, the feared Egbon Àdúgbò (Big Brother of the Street), and Samuel, his loyal P.A.
The security guard blocked them at the locker room door, unbothered by Anthony's reputation. Anthony's eyes narrowed.
"E be like say you wan die." His voice was a blade wrapped in laughter. "Lover boy, lover boy—tell this bastard make he clear road. I wan follow you reason."
The guard stayed firm.
Ayo's eyes lit up with anxious energy. "Leave am. We go deal with ourselves," he said quickly.
Anthony smirked. "Lover boy," he repeated, dragging out the words like poison and honey mixed together.
"You are broke," Tayo added, mimicking Ary's insult in mocking laughter.
The room burst into chaos. Anthony laughed. Tayo laughed. Even Jason—supposed to be the comforter—clutched his stomach and cracked up.
"Òmò!" Anthony slapped his thigh. "My guy don chop breakfast!"
(Translation: Bro just got dumped.)
Ayo's jaw tightened. "Talk. Wetin you want?" His tone was cold, wounded, but powerless against the banter of his so-called friends.
Anthony leaned closer, laughter fading like smoke. His voice dropped low, cutting through the noise.
"See me, I no talk say make you dey depress oo."
(Translation: I never said you shouldn't
stay depressed.)
"But I don stake hundred thousand naira for this match."
(Translation: I bet ₦100,000 on this game.)
Ayo's glare sharpened. "Shey nah wetin you wan talk?"
(Translation: So that's what you came here for?)
Anthony's tone changed again, catching everyone off guard. His words weren't those of a gangster now—they carried weight, almost fatherly.
"See, Ayo," he said quietly, "leave this Ary girl. She's not even fine. Wetin you see for am? You fucked up. You're tall, you're handsome. There are plenty fish wey you no fit even count. No let this girl spoil your parol. Don't lose one million naira because of one babe wey rubbish you in front of your friends. And you sef—four years with her, una never even knack. Wetin una dey do?"
Jason shook his head, still half-laughing. "No mind am. He dey do like mumu."
(Translation: Don't mind him. He keeps acting like a fool.)
Anthony's eyes hardened. "Listen. If you win—although I no advise you to—you can use that money to get her back. But me, I go help you find better babe."
"You guys won't understand!" Ayo exploded, his voice raw. "You know how much I don sacrifice for this girl? I did everything for her!" His eyes reddened, fighting tears that refused to fall.
To an outsider, he looked pathetic. But Anthony, of all people, understood. Every gangster has, at one point, been reduced to a fool for a woman.
"I know it's hard," Anthony said firmly. "But don't lose this chance. If you can't overcome this, forget about being a star."
Those words sank deep, heavier than any punch Ayo had ever taken. From Anthony—the man who ruled the streets—they felt like scripture.
The locker room grew silent.
Then Anthony leaned close, whispered something into Ayo's ear.
Jason's eyes widened as Ayo suddenly burst out laughing—the first genuine sound of joy since his heartbreak began.
"So now it's him that can make you laugh?" Jason said, feigning jealousy. "Me—your childhood friend of fifteen years—no fit cheer you up, abi?"
Ayo wiped his eyes, still laughing. "Oya now, don't be like that," he said, shoving Jason's shoulder playfully.
Before Jason could reply—
Buzzzzz!
The arena bell rang.
"Will all players move to the court? The game is about to start."
Jason straightened, a mischievous smile on his face. "Anyways… are you ready to take your throne in the underworld again, King?"
Ayo slung a towel around his neck, tying his dreads back with steady hands. His eyes carried both pain and fire.
"Why don't we find out?" he replied.
As they stepped outside, the court gleamed under the dying sun — bright, alive, roaring with chaos.
The crowd screamed their lungs out, phones up, hearts pounding to see the two brothers of fate — Ayo and Jason — walk onto the battlefield once more.
Would tonight mark their rise to glory, or the cruel end of all their effort?
Commentator 1: "Ladies and gentlemen, this is it — the moment you've all been waiting for! The final showdown between the Yankee Brothers and The Rhinos!"
Commentator 2: "It's been years since any team made it to the finals, and the Yankee Brothers have rewritten every rule to get here. But will they make it out alive tonight?"
Commentator 3: "Hmm… depends on how they play. The Rhinos aren't your average street team. They play like madmen — wild, brutal, unhinged! Especially with Chinedu, the Igbo Devil, leading them. Honestly, this might be the end of the Yankees' reign. They only scraped through their last game by a single point!"
Commentator 1: "Well, there's only one way to find out. On one side, the Yankee Brothers — Jason, The dictator , and Ayo, The King Himself!
And on the other, The Rhinos — four beasts of the court:
Chinedu, the Point Guard,
Okafor, the Small Forward,
Tayo, the center ,
And Adamu, the shooting guard !
⸻
"Ah, let's get this over with already," tayo said in his deep, mocking tone. The mountain-like player leaned lazily on his knees, smirking. "You've done your best, but this is where your reign ends, you two cuties. What do you think, Chinedu?"
Chinedu cracked his neck, bored.
"Ah, shut the hell up," Chinedu snapped suddenly, waving him off. "I feel like I'm going to puke." His voice dripped with irritation, clearly uninterested in the pregame chatter.
Okafor, the small forward, chuckled — a sly grin spreading across his face, sharp and deceitful.
"Maybe you shouldn't have drunk that much," he said smoothly, his tone playful yet venomous — the kind of smile that belonged to a hyena right before the hunt.
BZZZT.
The buzzer screamed.
The game had begun.
Let the madness begin!"
"It's time, sir," a quiet voice whispered into the ear of a man who clearly commanded the room without needing to speak.
He sat apart from the crowd, dressed in a sleek black suit that swallowed the light around him. A silver mask hid half his face, sculpted like the grin of a devil. Prestige clung to him like smoke—an aura too heavy to ignore.
He swirled the red wine in his glass, eyes fixed on the glowing court below.
"Do you know something about devils?" he said at last, his tone smooth but unsettling. "When a devil comes out to play, he never plays for fun. No… he plays for purpose. To scout. To manipulate. To see what the world hides beneath its trembling surface."
He paused, a faint laugh breaking the rhythm.
"And in the end… he decides which souls are worth keeping." He tilted his head slightly, the wine catching the light like blood. "Ah, damn it. What am I even saying? I am the devil. Instead of giving a speech, I should just act it."
The man beside him shifted uneasily. "I thought we were here to scout, sir. What's all this about a devil's sermon?"
The masked man chuckled, deep and soft. "Must you always ruin the fun?" He leaned back, tapping his glass against the armrest. "No matter. Let's see how the dragon eggs hatch tonight… if they hatch at all."
He smiled then—slow, deliberate, dangerous.
"Or perhaps," he whispered, voice curling like smoke, "one might just go missing."
The whistle screamed—
a sharp cry that split the air in two.
The ball rose, spinning toward the orange glow of the Yaba sky,
and for a heartbeat, time stopped.
Two shadows leapt—Ayo and Jason—
their bodies suspended like vows to the gods of victory.
But something darker moved faster.
Chinedu.
They called him the madman of the Rhinos,
and tonight, his madness had wings.
Before the ball even brushed human sight,
he was there—
one hand pressed on Okafor's shoulder,
the other cutting through the air like lightning.
He seized the ball mid-flight,
gravity bowing to him like a servant.
The crowd gasped—then exploded.
A thousand voices blending into one:
a hymn to chaos.
Tayo took the pass.
Bounce. Bounce.
Ayo lunged, teeth gritted,
but Tayo's motion was silk—
a quick pivot,
a pass to Adamu, the Rhinos' gunslinger.
Adamu didn't pause to breathe.
A long throw, arching clean toward Okafor.
Jason read the rhythm instantly—
his instincts sharp as broken glass—
and charged like a storm.
The ball hit Okafor's palm.
Jason was already there.
Two wills collided,
muscle to muscle,
silence to thunder.
Okafor twisted.
A feint, a spin.
The air cracked.
Jason blinked—just once—
and the ball was gone,
flying toward the center like a guided prayer.
There—
Chinedu.
The rotation.
The perfect formation.
It was beautiful—terrifyingly beautiful.
Jason darted forward,
a bullet chasing sound,
snatching the ball midair in one fierce swoop.
A backspin flick—
to Ayo.
Gasps rippled across the stands.
Ayo caught it in stride,
his sweat shimmering like molten gold.
He sprinted.
No defenders.
No hesitation.
Bounce once.
Bounce twice.
The third bounce—the call of kings.
He leapt—
dreadlocks floating behind him like a crown of shadows.
A dunk that could've split the heavens.
And then—
Laughter.
Cruel. Calm. Echoing.
"Hahahaha!
You're good… both of you," Chinedu said, his grin feral.
"But did you really think it would be that easy?"
Before Ayo could even descend,
Chinedu was there—
not running, not flying—appearing.
He snatched the ball in midair,
arms stretching like the devil's own trick.
The roar that followed was deafening.
And just like that—
the King had been robbed of his crown mid-flight.
Chinedu tore down the court,
his sneakers screaming against the floor,
and before thought could form—
he shot.
A flash.
A whisper.
The net rippled.
3 – 0.
The crowd became a storm.
Some cursed Ayo,
some bowed to Chinedu.
But those who knew—the veterans, the gamblers, the gangsters—
they only watched in silence.
Because they'd seen this before.
And they knew.
Chinedu was just getting started.
Ayo's fingers trembled.
His breath came short.
He stared at his hands as if they'd betrayed him.
"That speed…" he muttered.
"It wasn't normal."
Jason crouched beside him, voice steady.
"Get up, King. This is just the beginning.
Don't fall out of order."
Ayo let out a low laugh—half madness, half rebirth.
"Ha… can't believe I was actually wasting time trying to figure out what just happened," he said, wiping the sweat from his brow.
"When I can just find out after winning this."
The words carried weight, raw and defiant.
A golden light seemed to spark behind his eyes—
his King's aura returning like a storm remembered.
"Let's see what trick you used after the match," he said,
a grin crawling across his face. "Yes… yes. I'm getting pumped up."
Jason stood beside him, silent at first,
watching the fire reignite in his brother's spirit.
But behind his calm stare, thoughts flickered like hidden blades.
So that's it, he murmured inwardly.
The feeling I had from the beginning… He's an awakened.
The realization didn't bring fear—
it brought something colder.
Anticipation.
Jason's lips curved into a faint smirk.
"This is going to be fun," he whispered under his breath,
his gaze locking on Chinedu—the Trickmaster himself,
the man who played basketball like a god playing dice with fate.
The buzzer screamed again—
Buzzz!
The match restarted.
The scoreboard glowed in defiance:
3 – 0.
The crowd rose like a living ocean, voices blending into thunder.
Some shouted Ayo's name,
others chanted for the Rhinos,
but every soul in that stadium shared one question:
How will this end?
Ayo rolled his shoulders,
Jason cracked his knuckles,
and the air grew heavy with something unseen—
something divine, or maybe demonic.
The court shimmered under the lights,
the ball thumped once,
twice—
and the world seemed to hold its breath.
"Let's dance," Ayo muttered.
To be continued...….