alone in aba

alone in aba

Here’s the start:

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*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 ₦2,000 each, that was ₦4,000 profit. Double his money in 2 days.

For the first time, he saw it. The way out wasn’t begging. It wasn’t luck. It was math, mouth, and madness.

He was alone. But alone meant no one could hold him back.

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*Chapter 2: The First Hustle*

Chike spent ₦6,000 on two bales of Grade A tokunbo shirts from the back of the market. The seller, a thin man called Baba, almost didn’t sell to him.

“Small boy, you get money?” Baba asked, eyeing Chike’s slippers with holes.

Chike counted the ₦6,000 on the wooden table. Slowly. Letting Baba see every note.

“Count am yourself,” Chike said.

Baba counted. Then he smiled. “Hunger dey teach you well.”

Chike carried the bales to the public toilet behind the market. ₦50 to use the space for 1 hour. He ironed the shirts using a hot stone wrapped in cloth — old Aba method. His hands burned twice, but he didn’t stop.

By 6 PM, 10 shirts were ready. Clean, smooth, smelling of Dettol.

He stood at the entrance of the market the next morning with a cardboard sign: _CLEAN SHIRTS ₦2,000 ONLY_.

People walked past. Some laughed. “Boy, who go buy from you? You no get shop.”

Chike didn’t answer. He just held up a shirt. “Touch the material. Feel am.”

At 10:23 AM, a boy his age stopped. He looked like a yahoo boy — gold chain, clean haircut, but eyes tired.

“How much?” the boy asked.

“₦2,000. Last.”

“₦1,500.”

Chike shook his head. “₦2,000. Ironed well. If it tear in 1 week, I replace.”

The boy bought it. Then his friend bought one. Then a girl buying for her boyfriend.

By 3 PM, 8 shirts were gone. ₦16,000 in Chike’s pocket. He had spent ₦6,000. Profit: ₦10,000.

He sat on the curb and counted the money three times. Not because he didn’t trust it. Because he couldn’t believe it was real.

Ten thousand naira. More than he’d made in 2 months of carrying bale.

“Chike!”

It was Mama Ngozi. She stood across the road, hands on her waist.

“Come here!”

Chike stood up, heart pounding. Had he done something wrong?

She walked up to him, looked at the empty hanger, then at the money in his hand.

“You sell am?” she asked.

“Yes, Mama.”

“All?”

“Eight pieces.”

Mama Ngozi nodded slowly. Then she said, “Good. Tomorrow, I give you space in front of my stall. You no go dey stand for sun again.”

Chike blinked. “Space?”

“Stall 14C front. ₦500 per day. You pay me when you sell.” She turned to go, then stopped. “And Chike...”

“Yes, Mama?”

“Don’t let this money change your head. Market no dey loyal. Today you dey up, tomorrow you fit dey down.”

That night, Chike didn’t sleep under the tarpaulin.

He rented a room in a face-me-I-face-you compound in Ohanku. ₦3,000 for one week. It had a mattress with springs sticking out and a toilet shared by 12 people. It was heaven.

He lay on the mattress and stared at the ceiling.

His father’s face came to him. Not the sick face from the hospital. The face from before — laughing, fixing a car engine, saying “Chike, one day you go drive better car pass this one.”

“I’m trying, Papa,” Chike whispered.

Outside, the rain started again. But this time, it didn’t matter.

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*Chapter 3 Preview: The Agbero Tax*

Chike’s business grows, but so do the problems. The local agbero boys come for “protection money.” Pay or lose everything. Chike has to decide: fight, run, or find a smarter way to win.