Cub: Chapter 6

Lagos, a city that never truly sleeps, stretched before Demola like an endless maze of concrete and chaos. He blended into the throngs of people, trying to lose himself in the heart of the city. But even in the vastness of Lagos, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Kayode was always a step behind, ready to strike.

Desperation drove him to a homeless shelter in a rough part of town. The place was packed, with people of all kinds seeking refuge. Demola found a corner to himself, but sleep eluded him. His mind kept returning to Morayo, to the choices they’d made, and to the knowledge that her father was hunting him with the intent to kill.

For days, Demola roamed the streets of Lagos, his heart pounding with anxiety. He needed to find a way to survive, to hide from the man who had lost everything and now wanted only revenge. He knew he couldn’t keep running forever.

One evening, as the sun dipped low in the sky, Demola’s steps led him to a mechanic's workshop. The place was run-down, the kind of spot where people went to fix their cars without asking too many questions. A man, muscular and covered in grease, was bent over the hood of a battered old Peugeot, his hands busy with tools.

The man looked up as Demola approached. "Wetin you dey find?" he asked, his voice gruff but not unfriendly.

Demola hesitated, then blurted out, "I dey look for work. I fit do anything—just give me chance."

The man straightened up, studying Demola with a discerning eye. "My name na Musa," he finally said, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. "This work no be plenty money, but at least you go chop. If you fit work well, I get one room for the back wey you fit dey stay."

Demola felt a surge of gratitude. "Thank you, oga. I go work hard, I swear."

Musa clapped him on the shoulder. "No wahala. Make we start now. Hold this spanner."

For the first time in weeks, Demola felt a small sense of relief. Musa treated him like a younger brother, never asking about his past, just accepting him as he was. The work was hard, but it kept Demola’s mind off the fear that had become his constant companion. He worked from dawn till dusk, fixing cars and learning the trade. In the evenings, Musa would share stories over a simple meal, telling Demola about his dreams and the struggles that had brought him to Lagos.

But even as he tried to settle into this new life, Demola couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only temporary, that the danger was still lurking just around the corner.

And he was right.

Kayode was relentless in his pursuit. With every contact and favor he called in, he moved closer to finding Demola. His grief had twisted into a single-minded obsession—he had nothing left to live for except his quest for revenge. Lagos was a big city, but Kayode’s instincts and his experience as a former officer gave him an edge. He knew how to navigate the city’s underbelly, how to talk to the right people and extract the information he needed.

It wasn’t long before he received a tip-off. An old friend from the force had spotted a young man matching Demola’s description working at a mechanic’s workshop. The moment Kayode heard the news, his blood ran cold with anticipation. He was close—so close to ending this nightmare.

As night fell, Kayode made his way to the workshop. The gun tucked inside his coat felt heavy, a cold reminder of what he intended to do. He moved with purpose, each step bringing him closer to the confrontation he had been waiting for.

At the workshop, Demola and Musa were winding down for the day, the air filled with the smell of oil and sweat. Musa was in the middle of a story, laughing as he recounted a funny encounter from his past. But Demola was distracted, a sense of dread gnawing at him.

Then, the door to the workshop creaked open.

Demola turned slowly, his heart sinking as he saw Kayode standing in the doorway. The older man’s eyes blazed with a cold fury, and Demola knew, without a doubt, that this was the end.

Musa, sensing the danger, stepped forward, trying to intervene. "Oga, wetin happen? Why you carry gun come here?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

Kayode didn’t answer. His focus was entirely on Demola. With a swift motion, he pulled the gun from his coat, his hand steady as he aimed it directly at the boy who had ruined his life.

Demola’s breath caught in his throat. There was no escape. The man who had once been Morayo’s father was now his judge, jury, and executioner.

As the tension in the room reached its breaking point, time seemed to slow down. Kayode’s finger tightened on the trigger, and Demola braced himself for the inevitable.