The year is 2000. The Warri air, thick with humidity and a simmering tension, felt different that evening. For eleven-year-old Tony Black, it wasn't just the usual heat. It was a strange energy, a sense of something hidden, dangerous, pulling at him like a strong current. He was squeezed into the back of his cousin, Kene's, beat-up Toyota—the kind of ride that always smelled faintly of old cigarettes and a sweetish odor Tony couldn't quite place. Kene, a few years older and radiating a restless, street-wise energy, drove with a controlled impatience, his eyes sharp on the road.
"Where we dey go?" Tony asked, trying to sound casual, but his voice betrayed a tremor of unease.
Kene glanced back, a tight smile playing on his lips. "Somewhere... you need to understand. Something about how things really work around here."
Tony wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but he wanted to trust Kene. Kene was different from his family, yet he also respected them. His father, Richard, a Yoruba man, stern and meticulous in his expensive suits, genuinely loved Tony, pushing him towards seriousness and focus on the family business, always expecting the best from his bright son. His mother, Clara, an Igbo woman, was often preoccupied with social gatherings and appearances, but her eyes held a flicker of deep concern whenever Tony's name was mentioned, a quiet worry for her youngest. His older brothers, David and Michael, already knee-deep in the family's ventures, saw him as energetic, perhaps a bit wild, but never irresponsible. His older sisters, Sarah and Esther, concerned with their own lives, looked at him with gentle affection. His younger brothers looked up to him with a mix of awe and respect, while baby Ngozi remained oblivious to the subtle currents within the family. Tony, for his part, was an excellent student at school, consistently bringing home top grades, a source of pride for his parents. At home, he was the model child, attentive and respectful.
Kene was different. A distant cousin, he wasn't bound by their expectations. He wore casual clothes, spoke with a confident street swagger, and carried himself with an untamed energy that both intimidated and fascinated Tony. Kene was raw, unfiltered, and seemed to exist outside the carefully constructed, comfortable world of Tony's family.
The car swerved, turning sharply onto a narrow, poorly lit road. The houses here were smaller, crowded together like weary old men. The air thickened with the scent of woodsmoke, frying food, and the metallic tang of something burning.
"Where we dey now?" Tony asked, looking out the window into the encroaching darkness.
Kene chuckled, a short, humorless sound. "A different side of Warri. Where things no dey always so... polite."
The Toyota finally pulled to a stop in front of a dimly lit compound, surrounded by a high, weathered wall. The place was alive with activity. Young men, not much older than Kene, moved with a dangerous purposefulness that made Tony uneasy. There was a palpable sense of brotherhood here, but also a tension, an unspoken readiness for anything.
"Stay close," Kene said, his voice low, pulling Tony through a narrow, almost hidden gate.
Inside, Tony found a gathering of young men. They weren't performing strange rituals; they were engaged in a serious discussion, their faces etched with anger and frustration. The atmosphere was charged with a burning desire for belonging. Tony overheard fragments of their grievances, hushed but intense:
"...them think say dem fit just carry our land..."
"...we go show dem say we no dey back down..."
"...nobody sabi us, na we go dey for ourselves..."
He saw the way these young men looked at Kene—a mix of deep respect and undeniable fear. Kene was clearly the system man here, a leader.
Kene led Tony to the edge of the group. A tall, muscular young man with a prominent scar across his cheek nodded curtly at Kene. "You bring the small boy?"
"Him be family," Kene replied, his voice firm, a subtle warning in his tone. "Him need to understand."
The scarred man's eyes, hard and assessing, bore into Tony. "Him just be pikin."
"Him old enough to see the truth," Kene countered. "Him need to know why we dey do wetin we dey do."
Tony stood there, feeling small and insignificant under their intense gaze. He didn't fully grasp their words, but he sensed the heavy weight of them, the raw anger and desperation that fueled their actions.
Kene turned to Tony, gesturing to the group. "These na my brothers, Tony. We dey look out for each other. Because nobody else go fit." He paused, his voice softening slightly, a rare tenderness. "You see, Tony, things no dey always fair for this city. People like us, we no dey always get the same chances. We go fight for wetin be ours. We go protect ourselves."
He pointed to a large, tattered map spread out on a rough wooden table. It showed the different neighborhoods of Warri, marked with various symbols and lines. "This na our territory," Kene explained. "And these..." he pointed to other markings, "...these na the territories of others. We go defend wetin be ours. We go be strong."
Tony stared at the map, his mind racing. The city he thought he knew, the city of his comfortable home and his privileged school, was suddenly transformed into a battleground, a place of hidden conflicts and shifting alliances, run by these confraternities.
One of the young men, a thin, wiry boy with intense eyes, spoke up, his voice rough but sincere. "We no be bad people. We just want wetin be right. We want dem to respect us. But sometimes, you just go take wetin be yours."
Tony listened, trying to make sense of it all. He saw the anger and frustration in their faces, but he also saw a fierce loyalty, a brotherhood that he had never witnessed in his own family. His brothers were distant, his parents preoccupied, his sisters lived in their own social circles. Here, with Kene and these young men, there was a powerful sense of belonging, a sense of purpose, even if it was a dangerous one.
As the night wore on, Tony listened to their stories, their grievances, their plans. He heard about the struggles they faced, the injustices they endured, and the lengths they were willing to go to protect their own. He saw the world through their eyes—a world of poverty, violence, and constant struggle.
That night, Tony's understanding of his family began to shift. He saw his parents' wealth and privilege in a new, alien light—something that separated him from the stark realities faced by Kene and his "brothers." He began to question the values he had been raised with, the comfortable assumptions he had always taken for granted.
He also saw Kene in a new light. He wasn't just the cool cousin anymore. He was a leader, a fighter, someone who commanded respect and wielded power. And Tony, for the first time, felt a powerful, undeniable urge to be like him.
As the night drew to a close, Kene placed a hand on Tony's shoulder, his voice low and serious. "This na our world, Tony. E no always fine, but e real. And na where we belong. Remember wetin you see here tonight. Remember wetin I tell you. And decide where you stand."
Tony didn't answer. He couldn't. His mind was still reeling, processing everything he had seen and heard. The car ride home with Kene was silent, filled with Tony's swirling thoughts. He replayed the faces of the young men, their words echoing in his ears. He thought about the map, the lines and symbols representing territories and conflicts. He thought about Kene, his cousin, who seemed to belong to a world that was both dangerous and compelling.
When they arrived at Tony's house, a large, imposing structure that seemed utterly out of place compared to the compound he had just left, Kene stopped the car.
"You understand now?" Kene asked, his voice softer, a rare hint of vulnerability. "About why we dey do wetin we dey do?"
Tony hesitated, the weight of his new reality settling heavily on him. "I... I think so," he said, unsure. "E just be say..."
"Complicated?" Kene finished for him. "Yeah. E be so. But na also the truth. And you need to sabi the truth, Tony. You no fit live your whole life dey pretend say everything perfect."
Tony looked at his house, the lights glowing warmly behind the tall, imposing gates. It felt alien, distant, like a place he no longer belonged.
"I no sabi," Tony whispered, his voice barely audible. "I no sabi where I belong."
Kene put a hand on his shoulder, a surprisingly gentle gesture. "You go figure am out, Tony. You get sense. You strong. You just need to decide wetin you want. And who you want to be." He squeezed Tony's shoulder. "Just remember wetin you see tonight. And remember say you always get choice."
Tony watched as Kene drove away, the taillights of the Toyota disappearing into the night. He stood there for a long time, staring at his house, at the life he had always known. But it didn't feel like his life anymore. It felt like a stage set, a carefully constructed illusion that was beginning to crumble.
He walked through the gates, the familiar sounds of his home—the soft music playing in the living room, the clinking of silverware from the dining room—sounding distant and unreal. He passed his father, Richard, who was talking on his phone, his face serious and preoccupied. Richard paused his conversation, briefly meeting Tony's eyes, a flicker of paternal concern before he returned to his call. He passed his mother, Clara, who was greeting guests in the hallway, her smile polite but distant, yet she offered a quick, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment to her son. Tony, the good son, returned their unspoken greetings with a respectful nod, his face carefully composed.
He went up to his room, a large, comfortable space filled with expensive furniture and the latest gadgets. He sat on his bed, the soft mattress feeling strange and unfamiliar. He looked around the room—at the trophies on his shelf, the books on his desk, the clothes in his closet. It all felt meaningless, irrelevant.
He remembered the faces of the young men he had met that night: their anger, their desperation, their fierce loyalty. He remembered Kene's words, his talk of fighting for what was theirs, of protecting their own. He remembered the map, the city divided into territories, a place of constant struggle.
He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the images, the sounds, the emotions. But they were all there, swirling inside him, pulling him in different directions. He felt like he was being torn apart, caught between two worlds, two lives.
He didn't know what he wanted. He didn't know who he was. But he knew one thing for sure: he could never go back to being the same boy he was before.
The streets of Warri had claimed a piece of him that night. And he knew, deep down, that they would never let him go.