Chapter 9 – When the Fire Returns
Peace no dey last long for men wey Lagos mark. Even when you dey miles away, the street get long memory. Na like smoke — e fit fade, but the smell still hang for air.
For weeks, me and Samson dey live normal. The boys we dey train don start small hustle for themselves. Our workshop don dey known for Bodija side — people dey call us The Lagos Mechanics. That name sweet for ear, but e still get shadow behind am.
One evening, Pastor Ade organize youth service for the area. We help arrange chairs, connect small sound system. Everybody dey smile. Na small joy after long pain.
As I dey plug cable, one of the street boys, Tunde, run come. "Bros Seyi! Some men dey outside dey find you."
My heart skip. "Which kind men?"
He whisper, "Dem no look like customers."
I and Samson exchange look. No words, but we both understand. Trouble don knock again.
We step outside. Three men dey stand by one black Camry. The tallest one wear black face cap and gold chain. When he turn, I freeze.
Lekan.
He clap small. "I talk am. Lagos no dey lose track of her children."
I try keep calm. "Lekan, abeg, I no dey that life again. Wetin you dey find?"
He smile. "Baba Eko say make I bring you come back. He say loyalty no get expiry date."
Samson step forward. "We don leave. Tell Baba make e leave us too."
Lekan laugh dry. "You think say you fit wash your hand clean from gutter wey you fetch water from?"
I dey try reason how to end the talk peacefully, when one of his boys push Samson small. Reflex move fast — Samson shove am back. Next second, bottle break, and everything scatter.
I grab Samson, shout, "No fight here! The church dey close!"
But Lekan don pull gun already. The street freeze. Everyone wey dey watch run scatter.
He point am at me. "Seyi, last warning — follow us or you go die here."
Before I fit talk, I hear shout from behind — "Drop that gun!"
Na Pastor Ade. The man stand with two police officers from the area. Lekan curse under him breath. He fire one shot to the ground, then jump inside car. The other two follow. Tyres scream as dem drive off into the dark.
The whole street silent. Only my heart dey beat like drum.
Police chase small but no catch dem. Pastor Ade rush come. "Seyi! You see? Darkness never stop coming, but God still dey cover you."
I nod weakly. "Pastor, I no wan put you for danger."
He hold my shoulder firm. "This place no be for fear. Na for rebirth. If they come again, we go face them with light."
That night, me and Samson no sleep. We sit outside, watching the moon.
Samson talk first. "Guy, maybe we suppose leave Ibadan too."
I shake head. "Run go where again? War go still find us. This time, I go stand."
He look me deep. "You no tired?"
I laugh small. "Tired no dey change destiny."
We sit in silence again. From far, generator hum, dogs bark, life continue.
Two days later, police come workshop take statement. They promise protection but I no trust system wey weak for the root. Still, we no get choice.
The boys we dey train begin fear. Some stop coming. I no blame them. But few remain — Tunde, Wasiu, and one quiet boy wey call himself Stone.
I call them together one morning. "If una wan leave, I understand. But me, I no go stop till we build something clean from dirty past. That's my own redemption."
Stone talk low voice, "Bros, if you stand, we stand. Street no dey fear if leader dey brave."
Those words give me power.
The next week, work slow. People dey avoid our shop because of the shooting. Bills pile up. Samson dey worry.
"Bro, we go soon broke," he talk one afternoon, wiping sweat.
I no talk. I just continue repairing generator. But my head full.
Later that night, I walk alone to the bridge near the market. The moon bright like torch. I remember Lagos — the chaos, the money, the blood.
I whisper to myself, "Is peace really possible for man like me?"
Voice behind me answer, "Yes. But not without war first."
I turn — na Lekan again, standing few feet away, gun for hand.
"Baba Eko say your story must end tonight," he talk cold.
I raise both hands. "Lekan, think am. We don bleed enough."
He shake head. "You broke the street code. Nobody walks away."
Before he fit move, shadow move behind him — Samson! He swing iron pipe hit Lekan arm, gun drop. Dem struggle. I rush help. Gun fall into gutter.
We dey fight like two men fighting ghosts — because truly, we dey fight our past.
Finally, Lekan fall hard, breathing heavy. I stand over him. Samson shout, "Finish am before e rise again!"
But I no fit. I drop my fist, breathing hard.
"I no be killer again," I whisper.
Lekan spit blood, laugh small. "Na why you go die poor."
I look am steady. "At least I go die clean."
We leave him there and walk away.
By the time we reach the church compound, my hand still shaking. Pastor Ade see us. He no ask questions — he just hug us tight.
"Sometimes," he say, "the devil go come back to test if your heart really change. But tonight, you win."
I sit down, tears for my eyes. "Pastor, e no easy."
He nod. "Good things never easy."
Next morning, news spread for area: "One man shot himself near bridge — suspected gang enforcer."
Samson show me newspaper headline. The man picture small but clear — Lekan.
I freeze.
He probably shoot himself after we left.
I no know if I suppose cry or thank God. My mind mix with guilt and relief.
That evening, I walk to the same bridge. I drop small flower there.
"Rest well, brother," I whisper. "Maybe we all just victims of wrong streets."
Days later, work pick up again. People begin trust us back. The small boys return. Even the police respect our story now.
But I know deep down — war no dey finish, e just rest small.
Sometimes at night, I still dream of Lagos — the noise, the blood, the lights. But when I wake, I hear roosters, not gunshots.
And that, to me, mean progress.
One Sunday, Pastor Ade call me to front of congregation. "This young man once lost himself in Lagos darkness. But God use exile to make him a light."
The crowd clap. My eyes wet. I no even fit talk well.
I only say, "If you still dey struggle, no give up. Even gutter fit produce gold."
The whole place shout "Amen!"
Later, as I walk home with Samson, he smile small. "So wetin next for us?"
I smile back. "We build more. We turn this small shop to real company. We show street say second chance no be myth."
He nod, looking proud.
But deep inside, I know the story never finish. Because peace na journey, not destination.
That night, I sit with my journal — the same one I start writing since Lagos. I write:
"The fire return, but this time, it no burn me. It refine me.
Every scar I carry now be signature of survival."
Then I close the book, breathe deep, and whisper, "We go rise, even from ashes."