BANE OF HIS EXISTENCE

Chapter 2:RIDE LIKE A GIRL

DREW.

Conflicted and curious—it's as if these two words barely scratch the surface of my current emotional tempest. Words, in their inadequacy, fall short of capturing the profound complexity of what I’m experiencing right now. Somehow, my emotions are intricately woven together in a chaotic tapestry.

If I were to list my feelings in alphabetical order, anger would undoubtedly sit at the top of that list. It swells within me, a dark force clawing its way to the surface, drowning out any semblance of logic or reason I might cling to. Instead of providing clarity, it mutates into a storm that threatens to overshadow everything else I am feeling.

You’d be just as furious if some phoney, no-name wannabe—dressed in a tacky hooded jacket and riding a souped-up motorcycle—suddenly swooped in and snatched your spot.

The audacity! Amidst the swirling frustration boiling within me, a strange excitement flickered to life. I had finally stumbled upon what seemed to be a worthy adversary, someone almost intriguing enough to capture my attention.

My mind raced with curiosity about who this mysterious figure was. I have to confess, I haven’t experienced this much joy since I packed my bags and headed off to Nigeria ten months ago. Despite that, allowing myself to lose my composure because some reckless brat in a hoodie decided to stir up trouble wouldn’t do me any favours.

“Yo, yo, you! Check these guys out!”

Suddenly, a familiar figure emerged from the crowd—a robust man with a brutish demeanour, his face weathered yet lively. He approached my friends with an unmistakable swagger, his thick Nigerian accent punctuating every word as he animatedly gestured with his hands, weaving a tapestry of excitement around him. His presence alone was enough to draw attention, and the infectious energy radiating from him had the power to lighten the atmosphere instantly.

"The moment we've all been waiting for has finally arrived—the gentlemen of the hour have made their entrance", a cascade of murmurs rippling through the crowd.

“Didn’t I say we wouldn’t start anything until these oyibo guys showed up?” he declared, a grin spreading across his face as he gestured theatrically. The term "oyibo" is a familiar one among Nigerians, often used to describe white people or those born abroad, and it rolled off his tongue with a playful familiarity.

“Let’s get lively, my people! These gentlemen are serious business!” he called out, echoing through the vibrant atmosphere.

As he continued with introductions, my attention waned, and my gaze began to roam restlessly across the room, searching for a face that I could not visualize clearly. How does one look for someone whose appearance remains a mystery, especially when all I had to go on was an assortment of hoodies he often donned? It was a peculiar conundrum. I consoled myself with the thought that I would surely recognize him when he appeared in his signature style—a distinctive ensemble that had come to define his presence in my mind.

“Well, I, for one, am thrilled you all arrived just in the nick of time,” Kuda announced, his voice booming over the crowd, filled with a blend of excitement and urgency. “However, we can’t postpone things any longer than we already have, so let the betting commence!”

He punctuated his declaration with animated hand gestures that conveyed images of cash flowing freely, his eyes glinting with a mixture of mischief and anticipation. A grin crept across my face as my gaze settled on my target for the night. There he stood, isolated from the raucous throng, shrouded in darkness—a long black hoodie obscuring most of his features, making it nearly impossible to discern his identity. He was an enigma, lingering on the outskirts of the chaos, and I felt a spark of intrigue as I prepared to make my move.