Fire is made to burn that's it's purpose, so that's what it'll do.
"Dara, come over here."
I slide out from underneath a car in the garage. A tall, skinny man with a scarred face and dyed-orange hair beckons me. I navigate through the maze of vehicles being worked on in this mod shop garage.
It's been ten years since my parents died. I think I've changed a lot since those days—back when I was a sniveling kid, waiting for my parents to show up and tell me it was all just a prank to teach me a lesson. I've gained lean muscle from the work I do. My face is now slender and cut, revealing the good looks my baby fat once hid. I've grown to be 6'1". My parents would've been proud of how I've turned out. My sister would've probably shown me off to her friends.
Doubt they'd be proud of the kind of life their son is living now.
The scarred man, Lemu, leads me to a hidden door and flicks a switch that blends into the wall—only visible if you know what you're looking for. The wall clicks and opens, revealing a perfectly hidden, two-metre-high doorway. We enter, locking the door behind us and hiding the passage once more.
We descend the stairwell next, down to the real operation the garage was built to conceal.
You see, when my uncle took me in, he did all he could for me. But something in me was broken. I couldn't just play along. Started acting out in school—fighting, skipping classes. The space left in me was filled with rage. A spitfire that wouldn't let me be happy, knowing my parents suffered in that fire. So I pushed it out against everybody else.
Two years back, I ran away. My uncle kept trying to help me, and I didn't want to keep lashing out at him, knowing he just wanted what was best for me—just like his brother, my dad, would have.
"Dara, your boys have been doing well," Lemu says, not looking back at me, still leading me somewhere.
We move through the lab, where the cooks whip up batches of the drug we move by the kilogram. Insidious shit. I've seen what it does to people—how they'd sell their own children when they're addicted. Lemu makes sure every new recruit sees it firsthand. He showed me too, back when he found me wandering the streets of Abuja after I'd run away. I was malnourished and ready to go back home. Instead, he gave me a place to stay and put me to work.
I started helping to move the goods, and when he realized I had talent, he put me in charge of my own pack.
"Well, nobody is messing with us anymore," I reply.
"I know you didn't want to do it—you're still a child. But you'll come to realize that in our line of business, examples need to be set."
Somebody had cheated my boy. They placed a big order, took the package, and didn't pay. When Lemu found out, he told me to handle it well—if I wanted to move up. I couldn't just break some bones or cripple him. I had to take a more permanent approach.
It was the first time I'd killed someone. I hadn't felt that empty since the fire. Around here, they call people who've killed stained.
"Your group's sales have been among the highest, and that's why I think it's time for you to take the next step."
Could it be? After that "example," word went around. I think Lemu was responsible for that. We were already popular among college kids looking for a good high, but because of my clout, other groups stopped sabotaging us. My pack stopped taking shit from anyone who tried to dodge payment. Not that they were ready to stain themselves—yet.
"It's time to see whether you're ready to be an Enforcer."
It's the next step in the organization.
I stand barefoot on a wide thatch mat, wearing nothing but my boxers, my hands wrapped in bandages for padding. The mob jostles around me, calling out for blood.
The test to see whether I'm fit to be an Enforcer is a bloody fight between two Stained—no weapons, just your hands. That's why we can't even wear our singlets; they could be used as nooses.
"I have prepared you for this moment. Hit hard, fight mercilessly," Lemu says from behind me. I don't look back. I don't say a word. Too focused on the opponent across from me.
He's big—maybe in his 20s—probably around 6'5", his body made of muscle. His complexion makes him the kind of person who would disappear if you turned off the lights. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, and his gaze is fixed. I would run if I saw this guy charging at me at night—only I might not even see him if he's wearing black.
I've heard of this guy. He works at a shop in the central area. His name is Titus, but they call him Titan. He's been handling odd jobs for the higher-ups, so he has backing from a couple of Enforcers. I'm being served up to him.
If I try to fight this guy recklessly, I'll get destroyed. But I have to fight—it's the only way to become an Enforcer in this organization.
As a mule pushing drugs, we just get a dormitory where we all stay. Just enough food and a meager allowance. It's hardly enough, but we can't complain—they picked us up off the streets, where we would've starved to death.
But if I become an Enforcer, I'd have my own place and a good salary that depends on how well I perform. My boys would rise in the ranks. We could leave that crappy dorm. I won't lose.
"This fight will begin on my mark," Lemu shouts out, his voice managing to quiet everyone else. I am locked in now. I will win this.
"Start."
I don't rush at the monster—that's a sure way to die. I keep my distance and circle. He doesn't let me out of his sight. I'd prefer it if he did.
The crowd shouts for action, I don't entertain them.
He looks off into the crowd. I don't have the liberty to follow his gaze, but something's changed now that he looks back at me. He shifts his stance like he's preparing to charge at me—no more waiting, no more caution.
Before I know it, he's running.
Damn, he's fast—one second we're apart, the next I'm ducking under his arm to escape the clothesline. I try to create distance, but he whips his arm back and makes contact. His fist slams into my shoulder. It hurts.
I find myself at the edge of the mat. I look back, and he's on my heels, running to tackle me. I dive out of the way, and he crashes into the crowd.
I'm on my feet. The people he dove into are groaning on the ground, but he's already up and back on the mat.
He doesn't have any proper fighting training, but with a body like that, I doubt he needs it.
He's charging again, and I know what to do.
I run at him. He smiles, thinking I'm stupid enough to go at him head-on.
When we're in range, he swings his fist at where my head would've been. But I'm already sliding on the ground for a slide tackle, the mat bruising my unprotected skin. He falls.
I get to my feet as quick as I can, before he gets up.
He rolls onto his back so I can't lock him in a chokehold, kicking his long, powerful legs in a frenzy to keep me back.
I don't let the opportunity pass.
I drop to the floor, pivoting with my right hand to avoid his wild kicks.
When I'm in front of him, he swings for my head. I move closer so it doesn't land clean and deliver a powerful blow to his throat.
When someone is hit in the throat—where the windpipe is—you don't think about fighting. You think about living. Getting air.
I'm so close to him, but his brain is in flight, not fight.
He tries to get away, but I don't give him a chance. I'm on top of him, delivering another blow, crushing his windpipe.
The crowd is a lot quieter. I get off him—the fight is over. He'll die soon.
I go to the other side, sit down, and watch the Titan die.
His body fights for air, his hands scratching at his own throat until it's bloody, his legs jerking.
It's a sad struggle to watch—until finally, it's over.
The body is still and lifeless.
"The winner is Dara," Lemu booms.