Got it — you want another chapter, this time with *Obi* in the mix. Here’s Chapter 3 for _Alone in Aba_, bringing Obi in:---*Chapter 3: Obi and the Agbero Tax*Obi arrived on a Monday. He stepped out of a danfo with one bag, one pair of sneakers, and eyes that had seen too much Lagos. He was Chike’s cousin from Enugu. Last time they talked, Obi was bragging about “making it” in Yaba. Now he looked broke, hungry, and angry.“Chike!” he shouted across the market. “Na me o!”Chike almost didn’t recognize him. The last time he saw Obi, the boy had gel in his hair and a phone that cost ₦80,000. Now the phone was gone. The gel was gone. Only the attitude remained.“Cuz,” Chike said, pulling him into a one-arm hug. “Wetin happen?”Obi spat on the ground. “Yahoo no gree again. Police catch me for Ikeja. Dem collect everything. I run come Aba. At least here na home.”Chike didn’t ask questions. In Ariaria, you don’t ask how people fall. You ask how they plan to rise.“Where you dey sleep?” Chike asked. “Under bridge,” Obi said. “For now.”Chike looked at his own stall — stall 14C front. It was small, but it was his. Two days ago, he’d added phone cases to his Ankara and shirts. Sales were slow, but steady. ₦4,000 profit yesterday.“You can sleep behind my stall,” Chike said. “But you must work.”Obi grinned. “I no dey lazy, cuz.”That same afternoon, trouble came.Two boys walked into the market wearing red bandanas and carrying sticks. Everyone called them “Agbero.” They didn’t sell anything. They collected money. “Protection fee,” the taller one said, stopping in front of Chike’s stall. “₦2,000 per week. Pay or we carry your goods.”Chike’s stomach dropped. ₦2,000 was half his profit last week. “Mama Ngozi no pay you,” he said. “Mama Ngozi old,” the boy said. “You new. You pay.”Obi stepped forward. “You dey mad? This boy dey hustle clean. No thief, no scam. Why you go collect him money?”The taller boy laughed. “Because we can.” He raised his stick.Chike’s heart pounded. Fight here and the police would take everyone. Run, and they’d come back tomorrow for more. He remembered what Mama Ngozi said: _Market no dey loyal. But brain dey loyal to you._“Okay,” Chike said calmly. “I go pay. But not cash.”The boys frowned. “Wetin you mean?” “I go give you 3 shirts. ₦2,000 value each. You sell am, you get more than ₦2,000. I get customer, you get money. We all win.”The boys looked at each other. It was new. Nobody ever offered them goods before. “Tomorrow,” the taller one said, taking the shirts. “If you lie, we burn this place.”They left. Obi exhaled. “Chike, you crazy? You just give them free goods!” “No,” Chike said. “I give them business. Tomorrow they go come back. Not to collect, but to ask for more goods.”And they did. By Friday, the agbero boys were selling Chike’s shirts in the bus park. They made ₦3,000 profit and gave Chike ₦1,000 for “restocking.” It wasn’t clean. But in Ariaria, clean and alive was better than clean and dead.That night, Obi sat behind the stall and said, “You sabi this game, cuz.” Chike nodded. “I sabi because I had no choice. Alone na teacher.”Obi was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “Teach me too.”Chike handed him the notebook. “Page 1,” he said. “Prices of Ankara in Lagos Balogun vs Aba Ariaria.”---Want me to keep going with Chapter 4 where Obi and Chike try to expand to Onitsha market?

Here’s the start:---*Alone in Aba: A Hustler’s Tale* *Chapter 1: The Tarpaulin Bed*The rain in Aba didn’t ask permission. It fell heavy at 11:47 PM, turning Ariaria Market roads into brown rivers that carried plastic, rotten tomatoes, and broken dreams. Chike pulled the polythene bag tighter over his head and pressed himself flatter against the wooden post of stall 14C. “Rain no dey respect nobody,” he muttered to himself. He was 19, and tonight marked 847 nights since he’d slept in a real bed. Not that he was counting. Ariaria Market slept in shifts. The big traders locked their shops at 7 PM and drove home to GRA in their Tokunbo Camrys. The small hawkers packed up by 9 PM and squeezed into buses going to Ohanku, Osisioma, Umuahia. But the ones like Chike — the ones with no house, no family, no “uncle who go help” — they stayed. They became part of the market’s night shift. Mama Ngozi’s stall was his home. Or at least, the 2-foot space under her tarpaulin. She was the only person who didn’t chase him away. “Boy, if rain carry you go, who go carry my goods tomorrow?” she’d said the first night he asked. That was 11 months ago. Since then, “who go carry my goods” had become her way of saying _you’re safe here_.Chike shivered. His only shirt was soaked, sticking to his skin. In the bag beside him were three things: a torch with no battery, a notebook with torn pages, and ₦1,240 in a rubber band. The notebook was the important one. On page 1, he’d written: _Prices of Ankara in Lagos Balogun vs Aba Ariaria_. On page 3: _How Mama Ngozi haggles. Never start with your real price._ On page 7: _When NEPA takes light, generator boys charge double. Sell torch instead._ Chike didn’t go to university. He went to Ariaria University. Course: Hustle 101. Lecturer: Hunger.At 4 AM, the rain stopped. The market exhaled. Dogs barked. The first keke started coughing to life down at the entrance. Chike stood up. His legs were stiff. He folded the tarpaulin neatly — Mama Ngozi hated disorder — and washed his face in the gutter water behind the stall. It was cold and smelled of soap and fish, but it woke him up. “Chike!” He turned. Mama Ngozi stood there with a bucket and a broom, her wrapper tied tight around her chest. She was 58, but she moved like someone 30. “You look like drowned rat,” she said. Not unkindly. “Morning, Mama. Rain strong.” “Strong pass your future?” She shook her head. “Wash your face well. Today I give you work wey get money. Not carrying bale.”Chike’s heart jumped. Carrying bale paid ₦200. “What work, Mama?” “One oyinbo man from Lagos dey come. He dey buy Ankara in bulk. He no sabi price. He go pay well if you help am talk.” “Interpreter?” “Hustler,” Mama Ngozi corrected. “Interpreters get salary. Hustlers get commission.”Chike smiled for the first time in 3 days. Commission meant maybe ₦2,000. Maybe ₦5,000. That was food for a week. That was a new shirt. That was one step away from sleeping on ground.“Thank you, Mama.” “Don’t thank me. Thank yourself. You dey watch, you dey learn. That’s why I no chase you.” She pointed her broom at him. “But if you thief, I go curse you. And my curse dey work.”Chike believed her.By 8 AM, the oyinbo man arrived. He was actually Igbo, from Port Harcourt, but he spoke English with an accent that made him sound foreign. He wore jeans and a Lacoste shirt and smelled like perfume that cost more than Chike’s monthly food budget. “Good morning, ma,” he said to Mama Ngozi. “I need 50 pieces of Ankara. Good quality. My price is ₦3,500 per piece.”Mama Ngozi looked at Chike. It was his cue. “Sir, welcome,” Chike said in English, then switched to Igbo for Mama. “He wan buy 50 pieces for ₦3,500. That one na thief price. Current market price na ₦5,200.” Mama Ngozi nodded and replied in Igbo, her voice loud and sharp. “Tell him if he wan cheap, make him go Onitsha. Here na Aba. Here na quality.”Chike translated, smoothing it out. “Sir, Mama said the fabric is premium. ₦3,500 can’t even buy the cotton.”The man frowned. “Okay, ₦4,000.” Mama Ngozi: “₦5,000. Last.” Chike: “Sir, ₦5,000 is final. But I can help you carry to your car.”They settled at ₦4,800. 50 pieces. ₦240,000. After the man left, Mama Ngozi pressed ₦8,000 into Chike’s hand. “Commission. You sabi talk.” Chike stared at the money. Eight thousand naira. He’d never held that much at once. “Thank you, Mama.” “Don’t spend am all on shawarma,” she said. “Save. Buy your own goods. Stop dey carry my goods forever.”Chike nodded. But as he walked away, his mind was already planning. ₦8,000 could buy 2 shirts wholesale. If he sold them for 2k each that will be 4k profit