The dawn over Odu did not rise with celebration. It crept slowly, cautiously — as if unsure whether to disturb the heavy silence clinging to the village. The wind, which usually danced freely through the plantain groves, was still. Even the birds, known for their riotous morning chorus, were subdued, their calls brief and half-hearted.
Chuka stood by the edge of the village, beside a worn-out Peugeot 504 with faded green paint, rusted door handles, and an exhaust pipe that wheezed like an old smoker. His hands were tucked into the straps of a brown satchel — all his belongings packed into it: two shirts, a pair of hand-me-down trousers, Baba Gani's bush knife, and a small cloth bundle of roasted yam and dried meat.
His heart was a stone, sinking slowly into the depths of his chest.
Coach Olowo stood beside him, arms folded, brow furrowed. He didn't speak. He knew this was not a time for wisdom or encouragement. Chuka had made his decision, and now the boy faced the abyss beyond the familiar.
From behind them, footsteps approached. Baba Gani emerged, wearing his faded brown cap and the same shirt he had worn the day he found Chuka — as if he were circling the past back to its origin.
"Come," the old man said softly.
Chuka followed him a few steps into the bush, just far enough from the road that the car and waiting people became blurry shapes behind the veil of trees. The forest smelled of damp earth and morning dew. A frog chirped somewhere in the underbrush. Leaves rustled overhead.
Baba Gani handed him a sheathed knife. "This is the same blade I used to cut your umbilical cord. The same blade that fed us. It's not for killing in the ring, but for remembering."
Chuka accepted it with trembling fingers. He could feel its weight — not just physical, but sacred. His voice caught in his throat. "I don't know how to be anyone else."
"You don't need to. Just be yourself — but don't be afraid to become more."
They walked back to the road in silence. The sun now hovered above the horizon, bathing the village in soft gold. A few children stood at a distance, watching the strange event of Chuka leaving. They didn't wave. They didn't smile. They simply watched.
The driver, a toothpick between his lips and eyes half-asleep, started the car with a long sputter. Coach Olowo opened the door. "Lagos doesn't care who you are. You'll have to make it care."
Chuka climbed in. As the car began to move, he didn't look back. The tears that pooled in his eyes were his alone. The forest, his second mother, faded into the rearview mirror.
ArrivalIf Odu was a whisper, Lagos was a shout.
Chuka arrived at Ojota park by early afternoon. The transition was not slow — it was violent. Noise tore through the air: bus conductors yelled destinations, hawkers screamed prices, and engines groaned like wounded beasts. The air was a cocktail of diesel fumes, grilled meat, sweat, and raw sewage.
Chuka stepped out of the car, clutching his satchel like a lifeline. A man nearly bumped into him, shouting, "Comot from road, abeg!" A woman hissed at a bus driver. Someone nearby was laughing so hard it sounded like weeping.
Coach Tolu's gym was in Bariga. Chuka took a danfo, crammed between a woman with a crying baby and a man with fish-smelling fingers. No one spoke to him.
The roads were cracked, and buildings leaned like drunks. Posters for political candidates covered walls beside ones advertising miracle prophets and herbal cures for spiritual attacks.
When he arrived at the gym — if it could be called that — it was behind a welding shop. A crooked sign read Lionheart Boxing Club. Inside were rusted weights, two punching bags with torn leather, and a single ring made from wood and sagging ropes.
Coach Tolu looked like someone who had fought too many times and won too few. He had a swollen eye that never quite healed and a gold tooth that flashed when he scowled.
"This the bush baby?" he asked, chewing gum like it owed him money.
Chuka nodded.
"You strong?"
Another nod.
"Good. Clean the floor first."
ShockThe city didn't try to welcome Chuka — it swallowed him. The bed in his shared room was a slab of foam that smelled like engine oil. The water from the tap was brown. The generator roared each night like a wounded lion. Lagos was a blur of motion — it didn't stop for breath, for hunger, or for grief.
In the gym, the other boxers didn't take kindly to him. They laughed at his accent, called him "Tarzan," or "Baba's monkey." They mocked his sandals, his worn-out shorts, the way he stood too straight, too still.
He ignored them.
They imitated forest sounds when he entered. They threw pebbles. They spat insults. But he didn't react.
Only when he was alone did he whisper to himself in Odu dialect, reminding himself of the forest breeze, the calls of the hornbill, the sound of Baba Gani sharpening his knife at dusk.
The FightIt came unexpectedly.
Coach Tolu burst into the gym on a Thursday afternoon. "Razor's opponent fell sick. We need a replacement tomorrow. Chuka, get ready."
"Me?" Chuka asked.
"Unless you want to mop sweat here for the rest of your life."
The room went silent. Razor, a cocky seventeen-year-old with dyed hair and a smirk too wide, grinned from across the room.
"Hope bush boy knows how to bleed," he whispered.
The next day, Chuka found himself at an open-air fight center — a roofed courtyard with fans hanging crookedly from the ceiling and chairs arranged in half-circles. The ring was real, the lights harsh.
The crowd was loud. Men held plastic cups of beer, shouted names, bet money. Some pointed at Chuka and laughed. A boy in rags? Fighting Razor?
He tightened his gloves. They smelled like old leather and someone else's sweat.
Razor entered to music and chants. He raised his hands and danced. He had flair, rhythm, and a hungry ego.
Chuka stood in his corner, eyes steady.
The bell rang.
Round One.
Razor flew forward like a wasp. Jab. Jab. Hook. Chuka barely blocked in time. The crowd cheered. Razor stepped back, danced, winked.
Another attack. A jab to the ribs. A hook to the ear.
Chuka staggered.
His vision blurred for a second. Noise filled his ears like water.
"You sure you're ready for this jungle boy?" Razor taunted mid-fight.
The words didn't register. What did register was the sound — the sound of an owl at night. Of twigs breaking in the forest. Of silence before a predator strikes.
Chuka breathed.
When Razor lunged again, Chuka shifted.
Step left. Lean. Uppercut.
The punch came from the ground up — like a tree uprooting itself and lashing out.
Razor's body froze mid-motion. His feet left the floor. He crashed onto the mat like a log.
Silence.
Then chaos.
The referee counted. Razor twitched but didn't rise.
"Ten!"
Chuka's arm was lifted, but he didn't smile.
In the corner, Coach Tolu stared like he'd seen a ghost. The other boys whispered. One of them looked at Chuka with something like fear.
ReflectionThat night, Chuka lay in his room, ceiling fan clanking above him. He held Baba Gani's hunting knife close, not unsheathing it, just feeling the old leather.
He thought of Odu. Of the river's patience. Of frogs singing. Of silence.
Lagos was nothing like that.
But for the first time, he had spoken the language of Lagos — not with words, but with fists.
Maybe they laughed at his clothes, his accent, his forest silence.
But they wouldn't laugh at his strength.
He would fight again. And again.
Until they stopped calling him bush baby.
Until they called him something else.
Champion.