I grew up in the slums of Agbogbosha Street where dreams were shattered and scattered by giants who called themselves “the lover of streets,” “protector of the land.” The gutters reeked of urine and the smell of discarded food. The streets echoed with constant grunts of struggle. Laughter and tears mixed, producing a different emotion. Abogbosha Street was a place where the strongest, wisest, and cunniest constantly battled. Life on the street was a survival of the fittest, but within me, glimmered an everlasting hope for greatness.
I moved out of my parents' one-room shack made of wood, cartons, and a few red blocks when I was 15. My dad was a gambler and an alcoholic while my mom worked as a street vendor, selling all she could to cater for my 8 siblings and I. She was a hardworking and powerful woman, but life has a way of keeping people like her at arm's length. I knew I was destined to be great and that the four corners of our one-room shack would be an obstacle to reaching my destined height, so I moved out to start a new life on the street.
Education was a luxury the kids of the Agbgbosha market could not afford. I didn't care about education, I always knew I’d make it big without certificates. My first five months on the street were terrible. The street became my “home sweet home” and the kids in similar situations became my friends and family. We navigated the harsh realities of life together, overcoming whatever obstacles life put in our way. We looked out for one another, kept secrets, and shared whatever we had. Besides the harsh treatment life placed in our ways, we had another major enemy-The giants. The giants raided the street on Thursdays and Fridays, reaping kids of their hard-earned money. The battle on the street was not against hunger and poverty alone, we also battled with the giants. Like us, the giants also grew up on AbogboshaStreet. The group was headed by a fierce leader called Riper. Just like I did, Riper moved out of his parents’ crib when he was 15 years old. He started in the street as a beggar, he later metamorphosed into a car-tape thief. Eight years into his stay on the street, he had become a boss of his own. He had supporters behind him who would do anything to protect his life. These were the people that ruled the Agbogbosha Street and we had no choice but to dance to their tunes.
I was different from the other kids. While my friends wanted to eat, drink, satisfy their cravings, and find somewhere safe to lay their heads, I wanted something else. I wanted to be great. I knew I was destined to be greater than the confines of Agbogbosha Street. A part of me longed to achieve everything. These thoughts kept me awake every night. While my friends snored in their slumbers, I looked up to the sky and told them stories of the things I’d do when I finally fulfilled my destiny.
Everything changed on a Sunday morning. It was indeed a warm Sunday morning. The sun was warm on my shoulders. The air was alive with the chirping of happy birds and the buzzing of busy insects. Unlike the other Sundays, this one was different. The atmosphere was peaceful. I started wandering through the street, praying to my creator to send my helper down from heaven. I stumbled upon a handsome-looking man. He was new to the street. His hair was neatly combed and well-styled. He wore a black tie that almost matched his complexion. His shirt was neatly ironed and well tucked into the trousers he was wearing. He walked briskly like he had a few minutes left on Earth. Something about him was captivating and the most tricky part was that I couldn't figure it out. He was different. Unlike the giants, he looked decent.
I completely forgot he was a human being and that I had been staring at him for a while. He smiled at me and beckoned me to move closer to him. Somehow, I obliged. “What is your name?” he asked with a smile on his face. His voice seemed to come from the depths of the earth, with a loud tone that commands attention from every angle. “Olawale” I replied with my eyes fixed on his dark, full, and neatly shaved beard. “My name is Felix. Come, I’ll teach you how to play a game,” he said. I never liked games. Games are a waste of time. They are unproductive. The outcomes of the games I've played on the street are often determined by luck not skills. “I'm not a kid,” I said to him with a stern look on my face. “Come, this game is different. I'll teach you how to play chess. It is a game for the intellectuals.” He said. I didn't think twice before following him to a shed where he brought out a board game. I had never seen such a game before in my life, nor had I ever heard anyone talk about it.
“I'll teach you how to play chess if you promise to come here every day by5 pm.” He said. This time, the smile on his face was so wild that it cracked his lips a bit. I was so eager to learn how to play this unusual game so I accepted his offer. “I promise,” I said, smiling right back at him. Something about the game made me fall in love with it instantly. Was it the names of the pieces? The distinctive features of each piece? Or the complicated rules that guided the play of the game? This was my part. I felt a gentle flow of air in my body the first time I touched the chessboard. From that moment, I knew I was destined to meet Felix. I knew I was destined to learn how to play chess.
I soon got used to my 5 pm meeting with Felix. Not only did I learn how to play chess, but he also taught me the basic ethics of life. 2 years later, I became a pro at the game. Moving in with Felix was the best decision I ever made. For the first time, I slept on a bed. I slept on a bed in a decent house. A decent house with a roof. A decent house made of blocks. Felix enrolled me in a chess school where I started representing them in inter-school tournaments. As Felix instructed, I didn't let my wins get to my head, I was always focused on the game. I won several medals and trophies.
One Tuesday evening, after my chess classes, I returned home to meet Felix standing outside the house. As usual, there was a big smile on his face. He held out a big letter. “Win tomorrow’s game against the biggest chess Lord in the city and you'll stand a chance to play against Magnus Carlsen in the United States. Everything you need to process your traveling will be settled by the World Chess Organization.” He said. For about 2 minutes, my gaze was fixed on the letter in Felix’s hand. I rushed to him and hugged him. “Thank you, Felix, I whispered in his ears.
First Ending
I spent the night thinking about Magnus Carlsen. I've heard so much about him, meeting him would be a dream come true. “Could all these be a dream?” I asked myself as I dozed off. The next morning, I woke up and found Felix’s letter on my table. I sighed with relief knowing that the previous day was not a dream and that I still stand a chance to meet the world’s greatest chess player.
Second Ending
“Olawale! Olawale! Olawale! Wake up!” Ojo, my friend’s voice. brought me back to life. I slowly opened my eyes and found myself in our one-shack room. “It's Thursday, Riper and his boys will soon be here,” another of my friends said. Felix, chess, and the letter were just a figment of my imagination. The dream felt so real. Disappointed, I walked out of our shack. Throughout the day, I tried so hard to forget all about the dream, but it kept replaying in my head. Even though Felix was a figure in my dream, I still had a glimmer of hope burning in me and maybe one day I'll meet Felix, my chess coach.
NOTE: All images in this post are mine.
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I love the second ending, well done bro.
Yeah? That's great to hear. Thanks for stopping by.
This is great, love the build up
Thank you so much for stopping by.
Dreams have always lived in the mind of this protagonist who remains hopeful for a chance. However, as readers we are disappointed by the second ending that takes away the excitement of imagining how the protagonist's world can change and contrasting the two endings of your story. Thanks for writing, @justfavour. Good reflections and descriptions of poverty.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story and share your thoughts. I'm glad that you found the descriptions of poverty to be meaningful . I love it when it when I leave my stories-open ended, inviting readers to imagine what might happen next.