The Street Boy Final Part: Europe, Here I Come

The Street Boy Final Part : Europe, Here I Come
Credit: flickr

Read The Street Boy Part 7: Ritualists!

“Chukwuma.” My father said, staring wide eyed at me.

I was too stunned to answer. My guys kept looking between us in confusion.

“Boss, you sabi this man?” One of my guys asked.

“Of course.” My father replied. “He’s Chukwuma…”

“My name is Breeze.” I interrupted coldly as I finally found my voice.

My father stopped for a moment, surprised. Then he began to laugh.

“Breeze?” He snorted in between laughs. “What kind of stupid name is that?”

I hadn’t thought much of my father ever since he left. As far as I was concerned, I was better off without him in my life. He was dead to me since the first day I saw him  hit my mother, and then me, when I tried to stop him. And now as I stared at him laughing at me, I couldn’t describe how I felt. I felt like killing him on the spot and at the same time, I was scared. Me, Breeze, the boss of the biggest and the most feared gang in town, scared because my father was laughing at me. How did he do that? I thought. How did he reduce me from feeling like the only boss in the world to a scared little boy with just a simple laugh?

“How is your mother?” He asked, dropping another sore question.

“She’s dead.” I replied coldly.

“Oh,” he said. “What did she die of? Aids?” He chuckled.

“Stop laughing.” My tone was beginning to sound dangerous and he sensed it because he stopped laughing.

“Look, I didn’t mean to sound like that.” He said. “It’s just that your mother wasn’t a good woman. Forget all those things she told you about me.”

“How do you know she said anything about you?”

“I’m sure she must have painted me black in your eyes. But I’m not like that.”

“She didn’t need to say anything. I already know everything about you.”

“Like what? He asked, bristling in silent anger. “By the way, what are you doing here?”

“We came to treat your fuck-up.”

“Fuck what? Why?” He asked, surprised.

“You’re servicing another man’s wife.”

“So? Did I force her? Nwoke m, carry your stupid friends and get out of my house.”

I whipped out my gun and pointed it at him.

Chineke!” He exclaimed, drawing back in shock. “Chukwuma, are you mad? Why are pointing a gun at me, your father? Ngwa put it away.”

“My name is Breeze. You’re not my father. And you’re going to tell me what you’ve been up to since you left.”


Which was a very good question. It wasn’t like I needed to know. The man meant nothing to me. I guess I was just curious. After all, it was his sperm that brought me into this world.

“You don’t ask the questions. I do.” I snapped.

“And if I don’t answer you?”

“I’ll shoot you.”

He scoffed. “You can’t shoot your own father.”

I touched the trigger. He immediately drew up his hands in terror. “Okay, okay! I’ll tell you everything.”

Well, the short story was my father had a serious affair with a wealthy woman while he was still married to my mother. The woman had asked him to choose between her and his wife. He chose her and they ran off to a big city. He didn’t love her, he assured me, he was only interested in her money. The woman introduced him to her wealthy associates and he began to roll with them. Then, he met and started another affair with his girlfriend’s white friend who had come for some holiday in the country.

His new white lover was a divorcee who had won a huge alimony settlement from her ex husband. My father eloped with her to Europe where they got married and lived happily in her home. She somehow died of food poisoning some years later. I didn’t ask who poisoned her. Since she had no living relatives, my father inherited all her properties, sold them and came back to Nigeria a few months ago to flex other people’s wives. Until the one he was flexing now landed him into trouble.

“So you see,” my father continued. “I’m not a bad man. Please put down your gun let us settle. I have plenty Dollars and Euros. I can give you your own share.”

“No problem,” I said calmly. “But first, I gat to treat your fuck up.”

“Which fuck up? Come this boy, it’s like you’ve forgotten who you’re talking to. I’m your father.” He said arrogantly, forgetting who was holding the gun.

“You’re not my father!”

He drew back at my outburst. Then he gave me a nasty smile. “You’re right. I’m not your father. You can’t be my son. Only God knows who impregnated your ashawo  mother and she pinned it on me–”

I shot him and shot the woman, her piercing scream was annoying. Then, I gathered the guys and left.

A few weeks later, the police raided our den. My mumu father had survived and exposed me and my guys! I heard he lost his manhood. The old DPO had been transferred and the new one was one of those stupid people that believed in this yeye country. But I’m a smart guy. I knew a day like this would come. So, I escaped to Badagry and crossed the border to Cotonou inside a big truck at night. From there I found my way to Libya through the dessert. It was a hard journey but I made it.

Right now, I’m preparing to cross the sea to Europe. Everything has been arranged. They say the sea has swallowed a lot of illegal migrants. It’s not my portion. I’m a tough guy. Now, I know I can never be a qualified Engineer. But it’s fine. I can still hustle.. Las las, I will marry one rich oyinbo – age is not a barrier – take her money and come back to Nigeria to establish a business. That is my dream.

So, Europe here I come.

The End

Thanks for reading. Send your stories to [email protected]. Happy New Year!

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