Chapter 3: Musa Tang and the Bitter Cup

When Musa Tang call me, I dey drive, dey carry one client go up Umuagu Hill. Musa Tang don drunk, e words dey slur.

The phone dey vibrate for my palm, the network dey chop like Akara for Friday morning. Musa voice come low, like say e dey under rain.

"Long Chukwudi, abeg no forget who dey help you. Na me be your brother, I dey give you way out—"

The way e dey call my name, e get as e be. My chest heavy, I fit smell the cheap ogogoro from my speaker. For my mind, I dey remember when two of us dey under same roof, dey share Nkwobi after job run.

"Oga abeg shift," I talk, hang up, block am sharp-sharp.

I no get time for old story wey don sour. Wetin Musa dey drag again? As I press end, I fit feel small pain for my chest, but I bone am. For road, na only hard mind dey help man survive.

For my mirror, the mama and pikin for back seat dey look scared. I just nod for them, make dem no vex. No be their fault say dem dey fear—I big and tall pass most people. Since I small, people dey say I resemble Baba Ochuko or the old wrestler from Umuola. Now wey I no dey maintain myself, my face full beards, the resemblance come strong.

I gree say my body fit intimidate people, especially when wahala full my face. But I always dey quick smile, dey gist drivers for fuel station. Still, for stranger eye, na like lion I be. Sometimes, I go use soft voice talk make people relax, "No fear, nothing dey happen."