alone in aba

alone in aba 3

Got it — you want another chapter, this time with *Obi* in the mix.

Here’s Chapter 3 for _Alone in Aba_, bringing Obi in:

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*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.”

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