FIST OF AFRICA (FIGHT CARD MMA) Read online

  “How is Reese?”

  “He’s fully recovered,” Cupid replied. “You didn’t hurt him as badly as it seemed. I bet he won’t be beating on any girls again, though.

  I hope not,” Nick said. “And the police?”

  “They haven’t asked any questions for months,” Cupid answered. “But, you still need to stay put to make sure Reese’s family doesn’t try to retaliate. I’d hate to have to hurt some folks.”

  “So, when are you coming to visit?” Nick inquired. “The last time mom was here, she told me you’ve finally been cleared to travel.”

  “Yep,” Cupid replied. “We’re planning to visit soon. Maybe early next year.”

  “Maybe sooner, if I can pull your father away from running these streets,” Tai chimed in.

  “Woman, why do you always have to bring up the streets?” Cupid asked.

  “Why do you always have to run them?” Tai responded.

  “You see what I have to deal with, son?” Cupid said. “When you get married, marry you an American girl, or a Brit, or something. Don’t mess up and marry an African, she will just … ouch … why’d you hit me woman? See now, you have to kiss it and make it better!”

  “Not in front of our son and my father, Cupid,” Tai whispered.

  “Oops, sorry,” Cupid’s whispered reply came over the cell phone connection.

  Nick laughed.

  Baba Yemi shook his head.

  “I’m going to let you go,” Nick said. “It sounds like you two are having fun.”

  “Alright, son,” Cupid said. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, dad.”

  “I love you, Nicholas,” Tai said.

  “I love you, too, mommy,” Nick replied. “Bye.”

  “Bye,” his parents said in unison.

  “Thanks, again, grandfather,” Nick said, handing the cellular phone back to Baba Yemi.

  “You are quite welcome, Nicholas,” Baba Yemi said. “Now, take a thirty minute break … consider it my birthday gift to you.”

  “Yes, grandfather.”

  Nick took a deep breath. “Grandfather?

  “Yes, Nicholas?”

  “How does Aunt Layo beat the men who fight for her hand?” Nick asked. “Is it because they are tired from their previous fight? Do you teach her secret techniques because she is your daughter?”

  Baba Yemi chuckled. “There are no secrets, Nicholas. It has nothing to do with a lack of endurance on the part of the men, either.”

  Baba Yemi stepped closer to Nick, lowering his voice to a whisper. “It is because those fighters refuse to connect to their female self that they lose. Our wise ancestors knew that women held the key to superiority in combat.”

  “How so, Grandfather?” Nick inquired.

  “If you want to defeat a man who weighs two-hundred fifty pounds, do you go to a two-hundred thirty pound man for the solution, or do you go to a one-hundred thirty pound woman?” Baba Yemi said. “You go to the woman. The man can rely on strength and aggressiveness. The woman, however, must rely on superior skill and strategy. That is the secret to the Adewale Wrestling Compound’s dominance in wrestling throughout Africa for the past fifty years. Seventy-percent of all our techniques are female.”

  “Thank you, Grandfather,” Nick said.

  Baba Yemi turned and walked up the beach, inspecting and correcting the other fighters who exercised near the crashing waves of the ocean.

  Happy birthday, indeed, Nick thought.

  ROUND 3

  Nick sprang from his bed at the first Boom of the bata drums, snatching his training shorts from under his pillow. He slid the shorts on, tied them and sprinted out the door, joining the other men in a circle around Baba Yemi.

  “Ekaaro, jagunjagun!” – Good morning, fighters, Baba Yemi boomed.

  “Ekaaro, oga!” – Good morning, master, the circle of young fighters replied as one.

  Baba Yemi shot a hard glance at Nick. “What is Ijakadi, Nicholas?”

  Nick snapped to attention, slapping his thighs as he slammed his heels together. “Ijakadi is the best in wrestling, oga!”

  “And what does it mean to wrestle, Nicholas,” the old man inquired.

  “To wrestle means to put your opponent on his back, belly, or side by any means, oga!” Nick replied.

  “Why?”

  “To render him more vulnerable to a finishing technique, oga!”

  “So, are you saying fists, feet, swords, spears and even explosives are all wrestling if they knock one’s opponent off his feet?” Baba Yemi asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “That is exactly, what I am saying, oga!” Nick thundered.

  A broad smile spread across Baba Yemi’s face. The old Ijakadi master took a step toward Nick. “Then a wrestler, you must be!”

  A powerful drum beat shook the ground beneath Nick’s feet. Men stepped out of the shadows of the trees, pounding furiously upon bata and dundun drums. Women emerged, rhythmically striking their iron agogo bells with sticks. The sound of thunder and lightning.

  Baba Yemi pointed a finger at Nick with his left hand and simultaneously pointed a finger at Dele. He then pointed down toward his feet.

  It’s my time, Nick thought as he strutted toward the center of the circle.

  Dele danced toward Nick, kicking up little clouds of red dirt as he slid his feet in rhythm to the music.

  For seven months, he had been mocked, teased and been the butt of pranks. For seven months, he had endured bruises, muscle strains and aching joints. And for seven months, he studied the technique of every fighter in the compound as they trained together. He knew every man’s strength, every flaw, every rhythm. He was ready – and it was his time.

  Nick and Dele circled each other, each man’s fists held chin-high before them, seeking an opening.

  Dele burst forward, launching a powerful volley of jabs, crosses and hooks. Nick raised his elbows, his forearms grazing his face, to cover himself against Dele’s assault. Dele’s fists crashed into Nick’s biceps.

  Nick leapt into the air, exploding forward with his rear knee. The crushing blow hammered into Dele’s chin, sending the giant staggering backward. Nick landed just inches from Dele. He wrapped both arms around the goliath’s back, holding him in a tight bear-hug.

  Dele slammed the heel of his palm into the side of Nick’s head. Nick’s vision blurred and the world began to go gray. He beat back the encroaching darkness and thrust his hips forward, hoisting Dele upward with all the strength he could muster. Dele’s eyes widened as his feet left the ground, swinging in a high arch behind him. Nick twisted as he arched his back, taking Dele over his shoulder with a powerful suplex-throw.

  Dele’s back struck the ground with a thud, convulsing as the air whooshed from his lungs.

  Nick rolled on top of Dele, pressing his barrel of a chest against Dele’s torso, preventing breath from returning to the giant. Nick increased Dele’s discomfort by grinding his forearm into Dele’s throat.

  Dele patted Nick’s back, signaling submission.

  Baba Yemi grabbed Nick under the armpits and dragged him to his feet. Dele rolled onto his knees and inhaled deeply, bringing cool air back into his lungs.

  The darkness behind Nick’s eyes slithered back into its hole and Nick, now fully conscious of his victory, danced around Dele as the other fighters cheered him on.

  Dele slowly rose to his feet. Nick stopped dancing. The two men stared each other down for a moment and then Dele grabbed Nick’s wrist and raised his arm in victory.

  More cheers rose from the men. Nick glanced at his grandfather. Baba Yemi beamed with pride.

  The old coach raised his fist above his head and silence followed. “Today, my grandson has proven himself worthy to be called jagunjagun. Today, the long line of fighters of the Adewale clan carries on, stronger than ever. May the heavens smile upon us … and may our opponents tremble!”

  A roar, like that of a thousand lions, rose from the circle of men and thundered across the for
est.

  To hell with Chicago, Nick thought. This is home!

  ROUND FOUR

  2013

  Nick and his fellow jagunjagun stood along the edge of the driveway as Baba Yemi’s van pulled into the compound. The van came to a stop and Baba Yemi leapt out. He nodded toward Nick. Nick slid the van’s passenger door open, revealing ten new fighter candidates – all athletic young men from nearby villages and towns.

  “On your feet,” Baba Yemi commanded.

  Before the candidates could exit the van, the jagunjagun were on them, grabbing them by their ankles and arms and yanking them onto the dirt. Nick reminisced on his first day at the compound – new to the fighter’s life, new to Africa, new to Nigeria and the culture so very different than the one he once claimed as his own.

  Who would have thought the son of an organized crime underboss would end up here? And now, nine years later, it was his turn to help mold these boys into fighting men. “Didn’t you hear Baba?” Nick shouted in perfect Yoruba, which he now spoke as fluently as English. “On your feet!”

  The candidates scrambled to their feet. Each jagunjagun grabbed a candidate by his ear and dragged him, screaming, off toward their quarters. Nick’s candidate, a wiry young man named Kundo, had a particularly annoying high-pitched wail.

  “You scream like a woman giving birth to ten pound triplets, roommate,” Nick said, shaking his head. “Your one ear certainly cannot hurt half as badly as both of mine are right now!”

  Actually, you’re doing better than me, Nick thought. I cried like those newborn ten-pound triplets when Dele snatched me out of the line. A chuckle almost escaped him, but he caught himself and got back into character, turning his smile into cold, hard stone.

  ***

  Nick stood before Kundo, who held a duffle bag stuffed with rags and pieces of foam against his chest. Nick attacked the bag with a barrage of kicks, punches, knee strikes and elbows. Kundo winced as Nick’s shin slammed into the bag. The candidate was sent staggering backward a few paces.

  Nick wiped a rivulet of sweat from his cheek. “Take five minutes. Get some water and then it’s your turn on the bag.”

  “Can I ask a question?” Kundo said, dropping the duffle bag to the ground.

  “Depends on the question,” Nick replied.

  “Well, I mean no disrespect,” Kundo whispered. “But I heard rumors you were a big gangster in America. Is that true?”

  “If I was, do you think I’d be here?” Nick grunted.

  “I guess not,” Kundo replied.

  “My father is an underboss in the Stokes Family crime syndicate,” Kundo whispered. “He’s a good man, though; a man who would do anything to take care of his family.”

  “Including sending his son all the way to Nigeria?”

  “You said you had a question,” Nick said, snatching the duffle bag from the ground. “Time to get back to work!”

  ***

  Nick, all the other jagunjagun, and the candidates stood at attention around Baba Yemi.

  “Ekaaro, jagunjagun!” Baba Yemi shouted.

  “Ekaaro, oga!” The men shouted back.

  “Once again, the Igbo have invited us to give a demonstration of Ijakadi at their Iwa Ji – the New Yam Festival – in two weeks,” Baba Yemi said. “Also again, one of our jagunjagun will represent the Adewale Wrestling Compound in the fighting competition. This year’s fighter will be Nicholas Steed, who will meet the undefeated Igbo heavyweight champion, Agbu Tochi.”

  Nick’s guts turned somersaults – completely surprised. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead.

  “Agbu Tochi is from Owerri, Imo State,” Baba Yemi said, setting his gaze upon Nick. “Owerri births some of the best fighters the continent of Africa has ever seen. After you defeat him, you will be hailed by many as the greatest fighter in the world.”

  Baba Yemi pointed his finger toward Nick. “You will defeat him, won’t you, Nicholas?”

  Nick snapped to attention. “In that, there is no doubt, oga!”

  “Good!” Baba Yemi said. “Now, give me an hour of pummeling drills!”

  “Yes, oga!” The men boomed.

  The fighters squared with their roommates and locked arms.

  Baba Yemi tapped Nick on the shoulder. “Walk with me.”

  “Yes, oga!” Nick said, walking at his grandfather’s right flank.

  “Dispense with the formalities,” Baba Yemi said.

  “Yes, grandfather,” Nick replied.

  “You seem troubled by the announcement you would fight Agbu Tochi,” Baba Yemi said, peering at Nick over his shoulder. “I thought you would be happy.”

  “As much as I love to test my skills against my brothers in the compound, the fight against Agbu Tochi concerns me,” Nick said.

  “Concerns you; or scares you?” Baba Yemi asked.

  “You know me better than that, grandfather,” Nick replied. “My only fear is I might injure him.”

  “Aah,” Baba Yemi said, raising an eyebrow. “The incident that landed you here.”

  “I hurt that boy badly,” Nick said. “He might never see out of his right eye again.”

  “He was abusing his girlfriend, was he not?”

  “Yes, grandfather.”

  “The loss of his eye cannot begin to repay the young lady he hurt.”

  “Yes, grandfather.”

  Baba Yemi placed a firm hand upon Nick’s shoulder. “Look, Nicholas, an African wrestling contest differs from a street fight in that we have rules and there is an agreement between fighters in such a contest that although they have come to win – to defeat the other in a test of skill, wit, endurance and strength – and while a fighter might injure, or even kill, his opponent in his attempts to win, that is not his intent. A street fight, on the other hand, has no rules and the intent is to inflict great bodily harm or death.”

  Nick pulled his grandfather close and hugged him. “Thank you, grandfather.”

  “Thank me by defeating Agbu Tochi,” Baba Yemi said.

  Nick released Baba Yemi and patted his chest with his fist in salute. “Consider it done.”

  ***

  Nick looked up from his seat at the side of the sand-covered ring. Thousands of Igbo, Hausa and Yoruba fans sat in the stands, screaming and stomping in a show of their approval for the fighters from throughout Nigeria as they demonstrated flashy, acrobatic dances, jaw-dropping feats of strength and powerful self-defense techniques.

  Baba Yemi, who sat beside him, was dressed in sky blue, traditional lace garb: shokoto; dashiki, fila and agbada – trousers, and matching shirt, hat and flowing, wide-sleeved robe.

  Nick’s fellow Adewale Wrestling Compound brothers and sisters stood behind him, sporting their compound’s traditional indigo cotton dashiki and shokoto. Nick wore only a pair of indigo cotton wrestling shorts.

  After the performances, the beautiful Igbo actress, Chizo Amarachi – who had generously donated money to the Adewale Wrestling Compound on several occasions – entered the ring, her white dress swaying, accentuating her sensuous curves, with each step. A cordless microphone was cradled between her willowy fingers. “Are you ready, Nigeria?” She shouted in English.

  The crowd replied with whistles, claps, stomps and shouts of approval in multiple languages.

  “To my left,” Chizo said, pointing toward Nick. “Is the American Assassin … the Shark from Chi-Town … the Heavyweight from the United States! Weighing in at ninety-eight kilos and standing six feet, two inches tall … representing the Adewale Wrestling Compound – Nick New Breed Steed!”

  New Breed, huh? Nick thought. I like that!

  He leapt to his feet as his jagunjagun brothers and sisters played his entry song, Orere – a traditional war ballad – on drums, bells and shakers as they sang:

  “Orere…orere O; ile gbogbo l’Ogun wa; Ogun wa nile; Ogun wa l’ona…ile gbogbo l’Ogun wa O!”

  Nick danced into the ring in a low crouch, his shoulders hunching up and down to the rhythm, his feet hammer
ing into the sand. He danced around the circumference of the ring and then circled the lovely Chizo, increasing his pace as the speed of the rhythm sped up. Chizo joined him in the dance and the crowd went wild. Suddenly the music – and Nick – stopped. The crowd roared once more in approval.

  Chizo wiped her brow and then flicked the sweat into the sand at her feet. “Whew! I might have to slip you my number after the fight Nick – if you’re still any good after it, that is.”

  The crowd laughed. Nick lowered his gaze and smiled as his cheeks turned a deep maroon.

  “And now, without further ado,” Chizo shouted into the microphone. “He hails from right here in Owerri. The Igbo who leaves fighters feeble … the Scary Man from Owerri land … standing seven feet, two inches tall and weighing in at one-hundred-sixty-eight kilograms … the undefeated, undisputed Heavyweight champion of the Iwa Ji New Yam Festival, Agbu Tochi!”

  The crowd rose to their feet and, in unison, began to sing the Nigerian National Anthem:

  “Arise, Oh, compatriots,

  Nigeria's call, obey

  To serve our Fatherland

  With love and strength and faith.

  The labor of our heroes past

  Shall never be in vain,

  To serve with heart and might

  One nation bound in freedom, peace and unity.”

  Thunderous applause rose from the dense crowd before Nick. The people parted, revealing a hulking figure sitting upon an iron throne, carved in the shape of a leopard resting on its haunches.

  Agbu Tochi rose from the throne, looming above the crowd like a statue carved from onyx stone. His forearms were as thick as an average man’s thigh and appeared to be as hard as the throne he had just risen from. He slammed his cantaloupe-sized fist into his chest and the crowd roared. Tochi sprinted into the ring, charging directly toward Nick.

  Nick swallowed his fear and stood his ground as the human locomotive called Agbu Tochi sped toward him.

  The colossus stopped just inches in front of Nick, his massive chest almost touching Nick’s nose.

  The giant stood still and in silence.

  “Are you ready, Nick Steed?” Chizo asked.