Buzzzzzzz.
Ayo — the King of the Court — stood tall at his dashing 6'5 height.
One could mistake him for a giant king descended from legend, blessed with an unrivaled god-like face.
And yet…
Who would have thought that such a divine face could now be filled with confusion — with a quiet lack of certainty — as he replayed what had just unfolded before his eyes?
Yes, he took the last shot.
Yes, the scoreboard favored them.
But it didn't feel like his victory.
It felt as though he hadn't even been needed.
As though the final outcome…
had already been decided by someone else.
By the Dictator himself.
And what was the Dictator doing?
Jason stood there — calm.
That seductive aura of his radiating outward.
It wasn't loud like Ayo's kingly presence,
but it carried something deeper —
a quiet threat,
something far more dangerous.
Sweat rolled down his face as he waved lightly at the roaring crowd,
acting as if nothing extraordinary had occurred.
As if this was normal.
As if this was expected.
Trying to cover that façade of his.
The crowd was in uproar.
Some screamed in denial.
Some stared at the scoreboard as if it were a lie.
"How?"
"How was it possible?"
"How did the Yankee Brothers win?"
Confusion and excitement clashed in the air.
Some demanded their money back.
Others stood frozen in awe.
Even the commentator struggled to regain composure.
Commentator 1:
"What an unbelievable— how did this even happen?!"
"The match has ended!"
"With the victory of the Yankee Brothers!"
The scoreboard glowed beneath the floodlights:
48 – 50.
Silence fell for a split second.
Then chaos.
"Huhhhhh?"
"What just happened?!"
Ayo's breathing grew heavy.
"Yes…
Yes.
I remember now."
It all started from the moment Jason began acting strangely.
Ayo turned to look at him —
but it felt as though a mountain stood before him.
A height he could not climb.
It was strange.
It felt like he could only see Jason
when Jason allowed himself to be seen.
As if the space around him bent to his will.
Jason… what exactly are you?
Ayo questioned silently,
staring at the man he had always called his best friend.
Twenty minutes to the end of the match.
The evening hung heavy, silver moonlight spilling over the court, casting long, sharp shadows. The scoreboard glowed like a prophecy: 35 – 48.
The second ten-minute round had just drawn to a close, each stretch of play measured precisely—ten minutes ticking away like a heartbeat, marking the rhythm of the court. The third round was already underway.
And now… only twenty minutes remained for a victor to rise.
⸻
Commentator 1: "Ohhh! There we have it, folks! The players are back on the court!"
Commentator 2: "Well… the match is practically decided, it seems. The Igbo Devil is finally showing his true colors."
Commentator 3: "Will you not spoil it? Leave something for the finale! The match hasn't even ended yet!"
⸻
"Ahhhh! Wetin una dey do now? Ayooooo, Jason! Eyin Werey Omo! No forget the money wey I stake oooo!"
Anthony's voice cracked like thunder from the sidelines. The GOAT of seasoned gamblers, as ever, looking like he'd just been crowned king of the universe—or about to be skewered like a goat himself.
"Moti je gbese!" he bellowed, striking a pose like a man owed the world. (Translation: I'm in debt!)
⸻
Chinedu rubbed his neck, arrogance dripping from him in waves.
"To think I'd be forced to use my Giza on a village champion… how low have I fallen?"
Meanwhile, Ayo, the King, stood statuesque. Celestial sweat glinted under the lights. Confidence draped over him like armor—but beneath it, confusion clawed.
How had the Igbo Devil moved with such inhuman precision? How had the impossible become routine for him?
But a King mustn't waver.
He bent, tying his laces, a grounding ritual. Then he rose, towering and resolute.
His eyes sought his partner, Jason.
What was that crooked Dictator scheming?
Jason, with his seductive aura—a weapon on its own—watched the court with calculating intent. He knew the Igbo Devil's strength—but he also knew something more. Something hidden.
⸻
"So that's it, huh?" Ayo muttered under his breath.
"It has come to that. Is this the best I can do? Can't win a third-rate match without using that… pathetic. This won't be enough."
He took his stance, eyes narrowing, mind sharpening.
Jason, the Dictator, had a plan; Ayo, the King, had to trust—but even trust was tested tonight.
⸻
"What are you on about? Let's get this over with already," Chinedu snapped, taking his stance. The Igbo Devil waited, coiled, a predator among men, ready for the buzzer.
"Hah! You fool," Jason whispered, almost teasing.
"Do you think you're the only one special? That I'd come to this façade of an event unprepared? The Devil won't settle for less now, would he?"
Before Chinedu could respond, the buzzer screamed—Buzzzzz!
The ball soared.
⸻
Okafor took it first, dribbling forward. He met Ayo head-on. Every human instinct screamed: you cannot pass him.
So Okafor did what any normal man would do: he passed it.
To Chinedu.
All that remained was to get past Jason—and score.
Jason hadn't moved a step since the game began.
"Ayo! Jason! What are you spacing out for?" the King roared.
The Igbo Devil advanced, calculating, lethal. The shot was set.
"Nice speech about being special, Dictator," Jason muttered as he shifted. "It kinda suits me."
⸻
Then it happened.
Jason glowed.
Not like the Igbo Devil. Not the deep, green fire of raw awakened energy.
This was golden, angelic, impossibly superior. His aura shimmered like divine armor, a force beyond comprehension. Only those who could follow his speed—the true awakened—would even notice it.
The court froze.
Ayo froze.
Chinedu froze.
No one could catch him. Only Jason moved—and not in ways the eye could follow.
⸻
"So that's it, huh?" Jason said aloud, calm, almost teasing.
"Your Giza lets your body absorb your aura… giving you super-stretch. How catchy."
Chinedu's hands remained in mid-air, the ball slipping from his grasp.
Jason glided toward the opposing players, guiding them with nothing more than presence.
"And what do we have here? Little friends following the boss? How obedient."
He moved to the basket, golden aura blazing, taking a three-pointer as if time itself had slowed.
Buzzzzzz!
+3 points for the Yankee Brothers.
Score: 38 – 48
The court erupted. A roar like thunder rolled through every corner of Rowe Park. Fans jumped, screamed, and clutched their heads in disbelief. Phones waved in the air like torches in a storm. Every eye burned on Jason, every voice carried awe.
Even Anthony nearly fell off the bleachers.
⸻
High above, in the VIP section, an unknown figure smiled.
"Hey now, there you go. Did you see that?"
The man beside him tilted his head, confused.
"Of course you didn't," the unknown voice hissed, silk and steel.
"You are not me. But I wonder… how much damage did that do to a weakling like him?"
The voice smirked. "Hmmm… I'm impressed."
⸻
Commentator 1: "No one saw that coming!"
Commentator 2: "What just happened? How is this even possible?"
Commentator 3: "Beyond human reasoning… it's—"
Chinedu muttered to himself, humiliated and confused.
"Didn't I tell you… you're nothing special?" Jason quipped, smug.
"Sorry, but this is my night. Maybe another day," he added casually.
Chinedu's laugh was madness incarnate.
"Just one 3-point shot won't save you! Awakened or not, you… won't… do… a thing!"
Bzzzzzzzzt.
⸻
Back to the present.
Chinedu sat in low-level madness, mind scrambled, He had always being of the but
How just one being changed that?
How could a single being be this strong?
Even now, he had never seen another awakened—let alone someone far above him.
The Rhinos couldn't contend with just two players.
Their team crumbled. Haters erupted. Bets were lost. Pride was shredded.
Meanwhile, the main characters reveled.
Jason clapped fans on the back.
Ayo cheered those who never stopped believing.
And yet… the King couldn't shake the questions.
"Nice game. We finally did it," Jason said, trying to draw Ayo out of his endless thoughts.
"Yes… but how did you do that?" Ayo asked, voice wary, the fuse of a true King lit.
The silence hung heavy—until laughter and chaos pierced it.
Anthony and his self-proclaimed P.A., Tayo, swaggered in, beaming like men who'd just won the lottery to paradise.
After all, they had just won two million naira from their bet.
⸻
The locker room buzzed with disbelief, laughter, and triumph.
Yet, somewhere in the corner, two figures—King and Dictator—stood golden, unshakable, and silent.
The game was over. But the story?
That had only just begun.
Anthony grabbed Jason like a man who had just escaped death.
"Omo! If that shot no enter, I for don relocate to Danlingo change name! Two million! TWO! Do you know what that means?!"
Tayo was behind him shouting unnecessary confirmations.
"We never doubted you!"
(A bold lie.)
The locker room shook with laughter and noise.
Victory smelled like sweat and ego.
But in the far corner—
King and Dictator stood quieter than the rest.
The game was over.
Yet something in the air felt unfinished.
21:15
The night had thinned out.
Streetlights flickered lazily. Curfew crept closer like a silent enforcer.
Anthony was still narrating the match as they walked.
"You see that last movement? Even me, I no understand am! I nearly faint! My ancestors nearly collect me!"
Tayo added dramatic replays with hand gestures.
Ayo walked slightly behind them, quiet.
His mind replayed the glow.
Jason's movement.
That moment.
He wanted to ask.
But not here.
Not with noise around them.
Headlights suddenly washed over the group.
A black SUV rolled to a calm, deliberate stop.
The laughter died instantly.
The engine remained running.
The back door opened.
A well-dressed man stepped out.
Composed.
Unhurried.
He walked toward them.
"Kafia would like to see you," he said.
Not loud.
Not aggressive.
But final.
Anthony stepped forward immediately.
"See who? Which Kafia?" His voice carried both fear and disbelief.
The man's gaze remained steady.
"Kafia."
That was enough.
Anthony turned sharply to Jason.
"No. No, no, no. We're not going anywhere."
His tone changed completely.
"This is how problems start. Today na match, tomorrow na headline. I no like am."
He faced the messenger.
"Tell am dem dey busy. Tell am tomorrow. Or next week. Or next year."
The man did not move.
"Kafia is expecting them now."
Anthony grabbed Ayo's wrist.
"Omo, make una no go. I'm serious. This kind invitation no dey sweet. Nothing good comes from 'boss wants to see you' at night."
His usual joking energy was gone.
This was raw concern.
Tayo nodded vigorously.
"Yes! Yes! We fit celebrate somewhere else!"
Ayo looked at Jason.
Jason looked back.
Neither of them fully understood what this was about.
But refusing?
That carried its own weight.
Jason gently removed Anthony's hand.
"It's fine," he said calmly.
Anthony's eyes widened.
"Fine? Fine? If that last shot no enter, I for don relocate to Danlingo change name! And now you wan follow SUV enter night like action movie character?!"
Ayo placed a hand on Anthony's shoulder.
"We'll be back."
Anthony shook his head.
"You don't know these people."
The messenger simply waited.
Patient.
Certain.
Jason nodded once.
"We'll come."
Anthony exhaled sharply in frustration.
"Omo… if anything smell funny, just shout. I swear I go gather boys."
No one asked who these boys were.
They shook hands.
Anthony's grip lingered.
Because this time—
He wasn't joking.
The SUV pulled away.
Silence filled the car.
Not dramatic.
Just thoughtful.
Ayo stared ahead.
"You think this is about money?" he asked quietly.
Jason shrugged slightly.
"I don't know."
And that was the truth.
Kafia's headquarters stood solid and calm.
Not flashy from the outside.
But controlled.
Inside was different.
Music vibrated through the walls. Smoke lingered thick in the air. Red lighting washed over everything like a permanent sunset.
Men laughed loudly. Chains glimmered. Cards snapped against tables.
When the brothers entered—
Conversations dipped.
Not in fear.
In recognition.
They were being observed.
They were led down a quieter corridor.
A knock.
The door opened.
Kafia sat behind his desk.
Comfortable.
Unrushed.
The lighting in his office was softer but deliberate — red tones lining the edges of the room.
A framed portrait hung above him.
Younger Kafia.
Victorious.
A silent reminder of authority earned.
He didn't rise.
He didn't glare.
He simply gestured toward the chairs.
"Sit."
They sat.
Ayo leaned slightly toward Jason and whispered,
"Guy… if this na ritual, I blame you."
Jason almost smiled.
"Relax."
But even he was alert.
Kafia folded his hands loosely.
"You gave the park something special tonight," he said calmly.
Not praise.
Not interrogation.
Observation.
"I sponsor that court. I enjoy when talent appears."
His gaze moved between both of them evenly.
No fixation.
No accusation.
"I prefer to know the young men who shake my streets," he continued.
A pause.
Kafia was not a thin man hidden behind power.
He was built like it.
Broad shoulders stretching against his shirt. Arms thick, veins faintly visible beneath dark skin. Not exaggerated — just solid. The kind of body earned through discipline, not decoration.
He leaned back in his chair, red light brushing across his frame.
"You don't need to look tense. If I wanted to make this uncomfortable… it would already be uncomfortable."
The statement was calm.
Factual.
Not threatening.
Outside, music thumped faintly.
Inside, the air remained still.
"You've caused excitement," Kafia added.
"And excitement attracts attention."
He didn't elaborate.
He didn't press.
He simply watched them.
And because of that—
A situation that could not be ignored had just risen.
The two star players of the match sat still.
Waiting.
Wondering what would come out of him next.
What was he about to say?
The red light hummed softly.
"Well," he continued at last,
"To put it simply… we are in debt because of you two."
The words landed slowly.
Then sank.
Pricking their minds like hooks beneath skin.
Debt?
After five years of predictable outcomes… after five years of carefully maintained champions… a winner had evolved.
Unexpected.
Unscripted.
This wasn't just street basketball.
It was a system.
A game plotted for entertainment.
A tradition borrowed from old Italian underground betting culture.
The Bacoli rule.
The illusion of chance.
The certainty of control.
And tonight—
Control had cracked.
Bets were lost.
Large bets.
Voices were rising.
Some calling it staged.
Some demanding refunds.
Some questioning the Kafians.
Their name — reduced to whispers of doubt.
And beyond that—
The prize money that was meant to be distributed.
Money that no longer sat where it should.
"What to do?" Kafia murmured, rising from his seat.
The chair creaked softly as he stood.
When he walked toward them, the room felt smaller.
His steps were slow.
Heavy.
Measured.
The two boys sat frozen.
Jason kept his composure — face unreadable.
But Ayo?
Ayo felt it.
The weight of the night.
The possibility of how these stories usually ended.
Two talented boys.
Gone quietly.
Just to keep things… quiet.
His heartbeat thudded against his ribs.
But then—
Kafia sighed.
"Will you two calm down already?" he said suddenly.
"You're sweating with the AC on."
He stopped in front of them.
"If I was going to do what you are thinking… it would have been done."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Escaping such things wouldn't be easy anyway. You've gathered fans. Attention. And that thug-like friend of yours…"
A faint smirk appeared.
"He's quite famous among thugs like him."
Anthony.
Of course.
"Which is why," Kafia continued, turning back toward his desk,
"I would rather give you two a chance."
He walked back to his seat.
Sat down slowly.
Rubbed his hands together.
"But don't misunderstand me," he added calmly.
"If you refuse… I can always take another route."
Silence pressed against their ears.
The boys remained frozen, thoughts racing in opposite directions.
How do you leave this room?
How do you leave this night?
Then—
Kafia leaned forward slightly.
"Here is the deal."
The words felt colder than the room.
"Either you boys do a little bid for the Kafians…"
A pause.
"Or you leave this room after taking an oath."
He held their gaze.
"You will not mention a word about the prize money not being awarded."
His voice was even.
Controlled.
"And you will both live."
The word live echoed louder than anything else he had said.
It sank into their heads.
This.
This was what it had always been about.
Reputation.
Money.
Control of narrative.
Kafia continued.
"I'm not sure you can hide something like that from your friend. Or your family."
His tone didn't rise.
It didn't need to.
"Knowing that thug, he would turn it into a huge problem."
He leaned back.
"I also can't guarantee that the Kafians would simply ignore a situation that might drag our reputation into the drain."
His fingers tapped the desk once.
"An oath can be broken anytime."
A pause.
"And what about your families?"
The room felt colder now.
"How will you ensure their safety?"
That did it.
Silence swallowed the room.
Ayo's breathing was uneven now.
Anger and fear wrestling inside him.
"What the hell are you saying?" he burst out, teeth clenched, fists tight against his knees. "Do you know who our master is? He would come—"
"Shut it."
Kafia didn't shout.
He didn't need to.
His voice alone overtook the room.
The air itself seemed to pause.
Even the distant music outside felt like it dimmed.
Kafia leaned back slowly in his chair, broad shoulders stretching against the fabric of his shirt. The red light traced the outline of his muscular frame, casting shadows along his jaw.
"Well," he said calmly, folding his hands together,
"That's it."
His eyes moved between the two of them.
"What will you boys do?"
The question didn't rush them.
It sat there.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
Ayo's mind was racing — escape routes, consequences, faces of people he cared about.
Jason, on the other hand, inhaled slowly.
Fear was there.
But he locked it away.
"What is this bid you speak of?" he asked, voice steady.
Measured.
Controlled.
For the first time since they entered that room, the balance shifted slightly.
Kafia's lips curved.
Not wide.
Not loud.
Just enough.
He leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the desk.
A smirk settled on his face.
"Now…"
He tapped his fingers once against the polished wood.
"We are talking."
The red light flickered above him.
And in that moment—
The game had truly begun.
To be continued...…