Ile la’n wo, ki a to so’mo loruko.

Aptly named Durotimi leisured with fellow footie trainers on a mild Sunday afternoon at the undulating terrain of the football pitch at Martin Jubril College, Agege.

For the past few years, every Sunday, the duty of cooking dinner fell to Duro. Seemingly the remnant of the life he’d once shared with mother and sister Toyosi, the act had evolved into a rite after that night. His father would raise hell if he were indisposed tonight, especially for something as inconsequential as football.

If his father returned home before he did, Duro would be subjected to more than his fair share of loud words that would embarrassingly permeate the thin walls of their tenement into the ears of the neighbours.

Being the laughing stock of the neighborhood did not prevent Duro’s father from preaching the evils of playing football to his small-eared son, however. Footballers only went and got their legs broken all the time, that’s what it was.

Now, out of his teens, Duro did as he saw fit, no longer vulnerable to the whip and crack of his father’s leather belt. No child would remain a child forever. While he’d suffered a few ankle twists, muscle strains, and joint sprains, Joga Bonito had taken a grip of his soul many years ago and continued to hold on firmly. 

Daddy Durotimi had left the house early that morning, the Lord’s Day.  A Moslem by birth, he attended the local C.A.C. church infrequently. The neighbours even whispered of affiliations with the isese people.

No matter.

Most Sundays, he preferred the company of his merry companions three streets away. Knowing his father, Duro had wagered that he had almost five hours to enjoy footie. All he had to do was be home in time to make dinner ahead of his father’s return later that evening.

It would be very loud and uncomfortable indeed if he weren’t. The house would not contain them both.

Daddy Durotimi’s slight frame belied a strong voice. Even here, out on the pitch, away from the house, Duro could almost hear his reedy voice in his head.

“Omo yii, sho fe pe mi ni?” he would inquire bitterly every time Duro did something that frustrated him. Which was all Duro ever did, these days, it seemed. 

At other times, when his son had particularly provoked him, he’d resort to curses.

“Abi aye e fe baje ni?” he would rail.

The curses and comments usually slid off Duro. They didn’t hurt as much as the ones he spewed in the rare times when the juices most strongly blighted his mind, bringing dark thoughts to life.

“You are a bastard, I tell you. You, and your bastard mother, and sister…”

When Duro was younger, such spates were usually enough to drive him to tears, even without the complementary beatings that he only survived because of his mother’s timely interventions. Those thrashings had become more frequent in the years after Mummy Durotimi had packed up half her belongings and secured frail Toyosi firmly on her back with her oja, to leave, never to return.

Duro hadn’t seen his sister in over a decade.

In the years that followed, the blows had fallen the hardest. Duro found out the hard way that there was no escaping his father within the house whenever his drink-induced wrath surfaced.

Soon, he started spending fewer hours in the house, straying further and further away from the near-ramshackle rented abode that he shared with his father. After a few years of trying and failing to secure University admission, Duro resolved that if education would not be his ticket out of his sorry life, he could at least live and enjoy the little life had to offer.

His relationship with his father, already sour at this point, revealed new meanings to unpalatability. But there was nothing Daddy Durotimi could do about it, other than rail and curse. The uneasy relationship persisted on a knife’s edge, and Durotimi had slowly but surely gravitated closer to the streets, joining Babana and his group of boys.

Although Duro never became a member of one of the frequently warring gangs in the area, his adventures with the crew often led to dangerously close brushes with violence. He carried no scars of his own, but market runs never came without their own risks. Whether it was supplying cana and Scottish to Omo Oloja’s clients, or running errands in the lungus, there were faces to be stared down, folk to threaten, and tough men to run from.

All of Isale Oja, Oke Koto, and Orile were Duro’s haunting grounds. When not hustling, he could be found anywhere in town, accompanying the goons on trips to brothels and carnivals.  In time, he’d begun to draw attention for his literacy and quick wit, earning the trust and favor of a few of the senior men. 

Recently, some had even taken to calling him student, even if the nickname hadn’t quite stuck yet. The others would continue to mock him for his poor grasp of Yoruba, which was the lingua franca in these parts, closely followed by the local pidgin.

Despite his father’s failings, Daddy Durotimi had not neglected the education of his son. And, while he was no professor himself, he took an unusual pride in hearing his friends and acquaintances pass remark about his well-spoken, if otherwise malnourished, son.

It was the only thing about him that his father took the remotest interest in.

“Duro, will you come and start teaching my children English Language?” they would ask on their occasional visits. Anytime this happened, Duro’s father would suddenly become inconspicuous, make himself scarce, and leave Duro to deal with their attentions.

Sometimes, they got lucky. Duro would reach an agreement with one of the parents for a sum, and in turn, visit their homes to provide English tutorship services to their children. Though a pittance, the money helped keep them both afloat. Coupled with Duro’s other earnings, the pair mostly got by, consistently keeping body and soul together.

The only wolves they never quite managed to hold at bay were those of the woman from three streets away, who would sometimes raid their home with her two young sons to collect her due from Daddy Durotimi.

Overdue.

It spoke volumes of Daddy Durotimi’s keenness for his children to master the English Language, that Duro had only discovered the meaning of “onigbese” through Mummy Risi, despite excelling in math and economics in school.

Chest heaving, with her two sons in tow, she would descend on their tiny room in temperamental morning raids, cutting through the narrow alley separating the front-facing apartments, to the humbler quarters beyond that shared proximity with the pits and latrines.

There, her loud rattle would wake any co-tenants who weren’t already awake. Sometimes, Duro managed to placate Mama Risi. Money remained her primary goal, but on rare occasion, he was able to turn her attention to his own skills, offering his English language teaching services in exchange for his father’s debt.

But the English Language never helped anyone, as Duro was well aware. He was under no illusion that his linguistic proficiency made him somehow better than the others. So he ran his runs, skirted the edge of the underworld, and took as much booty out of the lion’s jaw as he could manage without getting hurt.

To forget his sorrows and distract himself from the part-thrilling, part-boring life he led, he avidly pursued his passion, football, braving the stern weekly lectures from his father. At least, it was just words now, not whips. Not the leather belt.

Duro’s thoughts drifted from the troubles of home to the present, and he refocused his attentions on the field, where twelve players, including two outfield athletes, slugged it out for domination of the round leather ball they actively gyrated over. Although they’d been at it for almost a quarter of an hour, there had been no goals. This close to the end, the proceeding shouts and frenetic pace of play around the action area was making it a more delightful affair than the borefest of the last few minutes.

Like a creative director perfecting a cliffhanger moment, Senior Man blew shrilly from his whistle.

“Make una commot for here, una no sabi anything,” called Babana in jest, his voice rising from the sidelines, glad to finally be allowed on the pitch for the next set.

His thick northern accent lent an effect more striking to his words than any microphone would ever manage.

Babana would be lining up against Duro. Not for the first nor last time.

In his excitement, leaping from where he perched on the low-hanging branch of a tree near the touchline, ebony-skinned Babana lightly brushed past, knocking over a man’s skushies, the crimson liquid adding a new dimension to the man’s Real Madrid shirt.

Slowly sprinting, unaware of the small accident he’d caused, he headed straight for the ball, attempting to bully it off the small wave of pitch invaders who took turns passing and dribbling.

A loud noise went up from the rest of the players, dramatically heralding the exit of the pair of unvanquished losers as they trudged off the pitch disappointedly, their replacements swaggering contentedly in.

It took Senior Man a full three minutes to get things in order for the restart. He’d bellowed and placated, bidding to restore order while young, cheeky skillers took the chance to run rings around each other with the ball, until finally, threats forced them off. Having ceased their dawdling, the other detractors eventually left the pitch to allow the next set of two teams to do battle.

This dramatic interlude between competing sets would never end, Duro mentally remarked. Except the stakes were higher, and a paid referee roamed the center circle, the players could never be brought to act like professionals.

Duro shook up his limbs, taking his place to the rear of the formation. He was in defense today, a position he played with relish, no matter how often he got injured. 

“Ese re ko ma kan danu ni,” his father’s voice echoed faintly in his memory. “You’ll merely get your leg snapped in half.”

Voices drifted downfield, and Duro snapped out of his stretches. Not again, he groaned. Why couldn’t they keep it together for a few hours?

“..be like say beans dey burn for your brain abi?” came Akapo, his forefinger lightly reclining on his right temple. You no know who you dey follow talk?”

The sound of the retorting voice pulled Duro closer to the two men making honest thoughts known to the other. 

“Who be this guy, shey I resemble your papa mate?”

Senior Man’s mild threats were doing nothing to keep voices and tempers rising. “Play ball, guys”, called Senior Man, trying to cut through the rising heat. He then briefly disappeared from the scene to the sidelines to consult with a man wearing a white shirt, leaving the others to handle the conflict. 

It took a few minutes, but at some point, sense reigned, and everyone got back to their positions.

Duro got stuck in, moving mechanically and letting the game take total control of his body. About three minutes into the contest, Duro’s team won a corner.

“Eeees, guy chill, I dey come, Duro said, pumping forward to the center of the opposition goal. An arm brushed him firmly in the face. No ill intent. But aggressive, nonetheless.

Shift!

The ball swung in sweetly off the top of Farouk’s plastic cleats, swerving dangerously to a spot just out of the reach of the short goalie. A goalmouth scramble ensued.

An almighty boney crunch!

There came a scream that drew the attention of the entire pitch, a subconscious call to a halt.

Babana lay groaning on the ground, not even writhing for good effect this time, it seemed. It looked like he’d been done in good.

“You wan kill am ni!”

A pair of hands sprung forth, palms pressing forcefully into another person's chest.

A reluctant punch responded, weaving unconvincingly around the air vacuum where the other man’s head had occupied a second ago.

Now, there was a hubbub.

Men, shirtless, mouthing foul words and spewing hate.

“Be like say Ogun wan kee your papa…”

“Guy, commot for my front, make I burst him brain for am.” Ebony-skinned Ello tried to muscle his way to the front, ending up being aggressively hindered by the arms of peacemakers.

“Shey na ball your papa play for there? Shey you wan kill am ni?”

For the second time that afternoon, Duro was drawn toward the heart of the fracas and the foul that had stopped play.

Who be this guy? No be Akapo be him name? 

Slowly advancing, Duro fell to kneel beside his friend, who grunted in pain, clutching at a knee. From this angle, he couldn’t see how bad it was. He reached for the knee, and was met with an exclamation from Babana.

“Leave am, leave am abeg…” he begged, voice filled with pain and helplessness.  

Duro’s anger grew. He rose to to face the unrepentant sinner, fury fuelling his every motion.

“Which kain yeye tackle be this na? Wetin him do you?”

“Go ask your mama that question, stupid”, came the retort.

“No dey tell me wetin I go do, no go dey whine me!”

A crowd had begun to gather, including the younger audience of street boys and girls ordinarily milling across the edge of the grounds as spectators.

A whisper began to make its way through the small crowd…

“Guy, e don do na…” came a voice in Duro’s ear as he strained earnestly but failed to get past the bulk of strong, Fulani sporting stock who’d positioned himself between him and the foul-assaulter, Akapo, as they exchanged threats.

A burst of lumbar energy, and Duro temporarily broke free, pushing through the pair. A fist caught his opponent in the temple, and the accompanying elbow maneuver slammed into Akapo’s torso, sending him staggering back, before Musa refound his footing, once again restraining him.

“Eeeeeehhhh, eeeehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh” the throng collectively exclaimed as each strike landed.

While it had only taken a few minutes for this sporting incident to escalate from a nasty foul accident to a full-on confrontation between Duro and Akapo, the original victim still lay forgotten in the sand, still writhing as concerned caregivers tried to make him comfortable with water, massages and one hundred suggestions on how to fix ruined knees.

“You wey dey talk, shey you see wetin happen ni?”

Eldest finally pushed to the fore, a swarthy man with a harsh whistle to his speech that half sounded like a screech. A discoloration could be noticed rudely splashed on a portion of his otherwise pristine Real Madrid shirt.

Duro turned to face the newcomer. “Oga no follow me talk…” Duro began, before being cut off.

“You no dey fear Eldest? You get liver o”

Duro stopped in his tracks, his mind scrambling to find the words to say.

“Leave am for me, I go show him papa say him brother no get manners…”

Oh no.

Duro had always found it easy to blame his father, and not the drink, for his uncontrollable temper. Tunrayo had suffered her first miscarriage a few years before his father’s drinking habits had set in. In Duro’s books, his father’s fists of fury would always bear the evidence of the murder.

But the roots do not stray far from the tree…

Temper was temper, and whether it was through the hardness of the fists or the sharpness of the tongue, there were consequences to be had.

Duro looked on in horror as Akapo slowly took off his shirt, every motion full of intent, as the whispers from the crowd grew to a pitch, bits and pieces straying into hearing.

“Eiye…”

“… awon Aiye”

A murmur rose in the crowd as the keen scent of violence grew stronger.