After that night’s narrow escape, Chuka returned to Onitsha a shadow of himself, bruised, limping, with a long gash running from his cheekbone to his jaw. He didn’t speak much about it at first, but rumors in Onitsha fly faster than a keke on an empty express.
After that night’s narrow escape, Chuka returned to Onitsha a shadow of himself, bruised, limping, with a long gash running from his cheekbone to his jaw. He didn’t speak much about it at first, but rumors in Onitsha fly faster than a keke on an empty express.
By the next market day, whispers began to swirl in bright street: “Dem say Emeka wan use am for ritual…” “Abeg leave matter. Na drunk the boy drunk, e come dey fight for Emeka compound…”
When some of Emeka’s close associates confronted him, he gave his version with the confidence of a practiced liar.
“My people, na drink cause am. I serve am beer, he mix am with palm wine, the guy just lose control. We try calm am down but he attack everybody, even the vigilante wey dey secure the place. Na so dem beat am small before e come cool.”
To make it sound more believable, Emeka even called one of the vigilante men to “confirm” his version and the man, who owed him favors, nodded along.
The market split into two camps. Some traders believed Chuka’s quiet, broken explanation: “Dem wan use me for sacrifice… I no know wetin save me that night.” These were mostly people who knew his humble rise and trusted his character.
Others believed Emeka’s polished defense: “Abeg, Chuka wan form innocent. Na him disgrace himself with drink.” These were often people dazzled by Emeka’s wealth and gifts.
Weeks passed, but the arguments never fully died. Whenever the story came up over bowls of nkwobi or while shedding goods every morning, voices would rise:
“You no know this Emeka wey you dey defend!” “Abeg, na jealousy dey worry una. Na small boy Chuka be, him don wan spoil big man name.”
Through it all, Chuka said little. He focused on his shop, but every time he looked in a mirror and saw that faint scar slicing across his face, the memory burned fresh.
He didn’t seek revenge. He didn’t bother trying to convince the doubters. In his heart, he believed the same unseen force that pulled him from that shrine would deal with Emeka in due time.
And every morning, before opening his stall, he would press play on Mike Ejiagha’s gwo gwo gwo, the guitar chords drifting into the market air. For him, it wasn’t just music, it was a warning to himself and to anyone listening:
Not every celebration is worth attending, and not every friend is worth trusting.
Up till today, the truth of what happened in Emeka’s compound remains a market mystery. But the scar on Chuka’s face is a permanent reminder and, in his mind, a promise from the gods that the matter isn’t over.
@ugbajaogonna I hope I didn’t read a full article that is fictional? Cos I was reading every line waitinh on the next. Very well written. O ngi bu Chuka? Gwakene anyi ezi okwu 😆
@ugbajaogonna Oyi m duu ga ozi ebe m amaro bu agugho. Nice one
@ugbajaogonna It's quite interesting. I enjoyed the read.