*Chapter 2: Mustapha’s Hustle*
417 Words
Mustapha's day began with dust in his mouth and a foot in his ribs.
“Guy, stand up jare. Sun don high!”
He groaned, rolling over on the thin mat beneath the pedestrian bridge at Oshodi. Another day. Another hustle. No home, no peace—but at least he was breathing.
The boy who woke him—*Small Jide*—was already lacing his half-torn sneakers.
“You dey go Mile 2 today?” Jide asked.
Mustapha nodded lazily. “If dem allow us near bus park today.”
Oshodi was wild. A daily battlefield between danfo drivers, agberos, and tired street boys like him just trying to make a little something—hawking bottled water, cleaning windshields, or chasing after commuters with Gala and recharge cards.
Mustapha washed his face with sachet water, brushing his teeth with a chewed stick. He didn’t complain. He couldn’t remember the last time he had the luxury to.
***
Before, life was different.
He used to be a top student in Kaduna. He even made his WAEC papers. But after his mother died and his stepfather remarried, home became war. At sixteen, he packed one bag, left the North, and headed for Lagos—promised by a distant cousin he would find work.
He never found that cousin.
Lagos had shown him pepper.
But Mustapha adapted. Quickly. He learned where to eat for free, how to avoid LASTMA, when to run from police raids, and how to protect himself from gangs trying to use boys like him for “runs.”
He never stole. That was his one rule.
*“If I die on these streets, I won’t die a thief.”*
***
That afternoon, the sun was wicked. Sweat rolled down his neck as he weaved through traffic near Mile 2, offering chilled water.
“Oga, buy pure water. E cold like your babe heart!” he joked, forcing a grin.
A man in a suit waved him off. Another cursed at him.
By 2 p.m., he had sold only 9 sachets.
He sat under a mango tree, tired and angry. Not because of the hustle—but because he knew he could be more. If life had just given him one fair shot…
Then he saw her.
A girl—alone, walking slowly, her scarf half-off, and confusion written all over her face.
She didn’t belong here.
And in that moment, Mustapha didn’t know it yet…
But Zainab had just walked into his story.
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- Writer
