Kelly'C

everything changed. The transport kingpin stopped taking his calls and gave his collection territory to a nineteen-year-old boy named Small Jango. The bar owners who used to give him free fish and beer suddenly demanded upfront cash before opening a bottle. The same young boys who used to chant his name on the street corner began to mock his limp behind his back, whispering: "See person wey think say him be god yesterday." Reality hit him like ice water: Street loyalty only lasts as long as your physical utility. Two months ago, I was walking through the market near Alayabiagba in Ajegunle. I saw Scorpion. He was sitting behind a small wooden table under a tattered yellow umbrella, selling roasted groundnuts and peeled oranges in transparent nylon bags. He had a small knife in his left hand, peeling oranges with quiet, painstaking focus. A group of local area boys walked past his stall, laughing loudly, reeking of cheap weed and dry gin, on their way to go enforce collection at the bus stop. One of them saw Scorpion, stopped, and laughed mockingly: "Ah! Baba Scorpion! So the great killer don turn mallam selling groundnut for market? What happened to the war?" Scorpion didn't raise his voice. He didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't even look angry. He carefully finished peeling the orange, placed it neatly on the wooden table, looked the boy straight in the eyes, and said with terrifying calm: "My brother, I used to ride the tiger because I liked hearing the crowd cheer. But when I fell off and the tiger bit my leg, the crowd didn't stop the tiger, they just started cheering for the next rider. I sell ₦200 groundnut today, and my money is small. But tonight, I will sleep in my room with my two eyes closed, and when I hear police sirens on the road, my heart will not skip a beat. Enjoy your ride today. Just pray your leg doesn't slip like mine did." The young boy stopped laughing. He adjusted his trousers awkwardly, looked away, and walked off into the smoke. The street will applaud you while you destroy your future for their entertainment, and replace you five minutes after you fall. Build a quiet life on honest ground. A peaceful piece of bread eaten in safety is worth more than a poisoned banquet inside a warzone.

If you grew up around Boundary in Ajegunle, you know that the quickest way to end your life is not a bullet—it is getting addicted to the applause of boys who have nothing to lose. There was a boy named Tunde, but everyone on the street called him "Scorpion." Scorpion was built like a heavyweight boxer, fearless, and possessed the kind of street presence that made commercial bus drivers quickly pay their extortion dues the moment he stepped onto the road. He was the head enforcer for a political transport kingpin in the area. Whenever there was a turf war over collection points between Oregie and Wilmer, Scorpion was the first man to arrive and the last to leave. If he walked into a local bar, the boys would stand up, raise their bottles, and shout: "Baba! King of the boys! Untouchable!" He lived for that noise. He thought that validation meant he was a king. Then, in 2022, during a violent clash near the canal, a broken bottle slashed the tendon in Scorpion’s right leg. He survived, but the nerve was permanently severed. His days of chasing buses, jumping fences, and fighting on the frontline were over. He walked with a heavy, awkward limp. Within three months.....,