FIST OF AFRICA (FIGHT CARD MMA)

by Jack Tunney

  FIGHT CARD MMA:

  FIST OF AFRICA

  ANOTHER TWO-FISTED

  FIGHT CARD STORY

  JACK TUNNEY

  FIGHT CARD MMA: FISTS OF AFRICA

  e-Book Edition – First Published February 2014

  Copyright © 2014 Balogun Ojetade

  Cover by Carl Yonder

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, corporations, institutions and organizations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher.

  Fight Card, Fight Card Now, Fight Card MMA, Fight Card Romance, Fight Card Luchadores, Fight Card Sherlock Holmes, and the Fight Card logo © 2010 Paul Bishop and Mel Odom

  FIGHT CARD MMA:

  FISTS OF AFRICA

  ROUND 1

  ADEWALE WRESTLING COMPOUND

  OSHOGBO, OSHUN STATE, NIGERIA

  2004

  Boom. Clang. Boom-Boom. Clang.

  A powerful din jolted Nick Steed out of a deep slumber. His pleasant dreams of bikini-clad women on South Shore Beach and of devouring stuffed pizza at Uno Chicago Grill faded as the noise increased.

  Boom. Clang. Boom-Boom. Clang.

  The sound of lightning and thunder. The call of the bell and the drum.

  Boom. Clang. Boom-Boom. Clang.

  Nick leapt from his cot, landing on the dirt floor with a dull thud. He felt around in the darkness, his fingertips searching frantically, until they brushed against something soft. The familiar sensation told Nick he had found his training shorts, which he slid over his muscular legs and quickly secured to his waist with the old boot laces he had threaded through the waistband the night before.

  “Dele,” Nick whispered.

  No answer. He figured his roommate must already be outside with the other fighters. He was late – again.

  Nick darted toward a sliver of moonlight creeping through a crack in the screen door. He pushed the door open and sprinted toward a circle of bare-chested men in the distance, his bare feet pounding craters into the red dirt as he increased his pace. He joined the men in the circle, standing between his roommate, Dele and the giant, Akin.

  He prayed the men’s massive frames would hide his relatively small two-hundred fifteen pound body from the view of the elderly man who stood in the center of the circle. The old man was of a slight build and his skin was darker than a million midnights. Nick’s mother looked just like the man – only she was pretty and not scary as hell.

  “Late again, Nicholas,” the old man bellowed.

  “Yes, grandfather,” Nick said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, you are sorry, boy,” the old man replied.

  “It won’t happen again, grandfather,” Nick sighed. “I promise.”

  Nick’s grandfather waved his hand in the air as if swatting away Nick’s words. “Your promises are about as filling as a cup of chicken milk.”

  Laughter erupted from the circle. A hint of maroon tinted Nick’s cheeks as the men, once again, enjoyed a good laugh at his expense.

  The old man raised his fist high above his head. The laughter ceased.

  “Grab a sandbag,” he ordered. “Then give me twenty laps around the compound. Thank Nicholas for the exercise.”

  The old man sauntered away as the fighters each grabbed a large goatskin sack from a pile lying under a palm tree.

  “If you’re late again, Nicholas,” Dele spat, shaking a meaty finger at Nick’s face. “I am going to beat you like your daddy should have when you were a little boy!”

  Fadapo, a man twice as massive as Dele, but whose head only came to Nick’s chest, tossed a sandbag onto his thick shoulder. “Baba Yemi Adewale is not a man to be trifled with. Nicholas, you are his grandson – his blood. If you do poorly, you shame him … and for that, he will make us all suffer ... so, shape up!”

  The fighters took off.

  Nick hoisted a sandbag onto his shoulder, grunting as its weight nearly buckled his knees. He inhaled deeply and then exploded forward, trotting up the dirt road encircling the compound. “Africa sucks,” he hissed.

  The sandbag seemed to slap his back in protest. Nick winced as the heavy bag slammed into his shoulder blades with each step.

  Such was a day in the life of a fighter in the Adewale Wrestling Compound. And for Nick, every day in the compound; every day in the town of Oshogbo; every moment in the muggy forests of Southwest Nigeria, was a day in Hell.

  ***

  Nick knelt upon the roof of Baba Yemi’s two-story house, his right hand rubbing a paintbrush up and down across the primed tile. The paint splashed onto Nick’s bare foot, tinting his toes Dartmouth green.

  Nick dropped his brush into a bucket of water and then stood in order to give his knees a break and to admire his handiwork. The roof was almost complete.

  Nick perused the compound. A few yards away, Baba Yemi’s daughter, Layo, led two young men dressed in traditional wrestlers’ garb to the sand-filled wrestling pit, where Baba Yemi stood awaiting them. A headpiece made of criss-crossed, crimson strips of cotton cloth hung over the wrestlers’ foreheads, noses and ears. Three large cowry shells were sewn into the area of the cloth that sat at the crest of their bald heads, and that hung at the center of their foreheads, representing the three levels of consciousness – Ori; Ori Inu; and Ipori – the physical head, or conscious mind; the inner head that leads one to his destiny, or unconscious mind; and the divine head, or connection to the Source of Creation.

  Their cream-colored, cotton loincloths were wrapped around their sinewy thighs and slim waists, forming shorts. The cloth was wrapped and knotted a few inches below the wrestlers’ navels, forming a kind of athletic supporter and providing extra protection to their groins.

  Criss-crossing both young men’s torsos and wrapped around their wrists and biceps, were cream-colored cords from which hung small leather talismans, containing various herbal mixtures and other items.

  A marriage match, Nick thought.

  Marriage matches, demonstrations before kings and matches against other towns and villages were the only time the traditional garb was worn.

  Since, Layo was who led them, it had to be for her hand that the men were fighting.

  The winner would then face Layo in the pit immediately after. If the victor defeated Layo, which was unlikely, her hand would be promised to him. Such matches for his aunt’s hand were legendary. In ten years, since her sixteenth birthday, men had met Layo in the ring and left disappointed.

  Nick wondered what his father had to do to win his mother’s hand. Lucky for his father, his mother had left the compound to attend the University of Chicago, where they met.

  The drummers played a slow, thunderous rhythm, summoning the entire compound to the pit to witness the match.

  Nick climbed down from the roof and joined the other wrestlers around pit.

  ***

  A month had passed since Layo defeated her twelfth suitor and since Dele threatened to beat Nick senseless if he was late to the circle again. The thought of being pummeled by such a mountain of muscle was motivation enough for any man to straighten up and fly right. Most days, Nick was right on time to the circle and on many days he actually arrived early.

  This day was especially humid and training had been hard, but his body was slowly getting use to the torture to which Baba Yemi subjected them. Nick sat with his back against a palm tree, devouring a meal of peanut stew and pounded
yam. The oily base of the stew was spicy, a perfect balance to the bland pounded yam and the smoky flavor of the grilled chicken in the stew. It wasn’t stuffed pizza from the Uno Chicago Grill, but it was tasty and filling.

  Dele sat beside Nick, his eyes darting from side to side as if to ensure no one else was listening. “Hey, Nick.”

  “What is it, Dele?” Nick sighed, expecting some threat or taunt, as usual.

  “Relax, little brother,” Dele replied. “Since you’re my roommate, I just wanted to let you know Baba Yemi had a plumber out today. He installed a new shower near the women’s quarters. It has a heater attached, so they get hot water.”

  A gasp escaped Nick’s full lips. He had not had a hot shower since arriving at the compound two months earlier and he missed them dearly. “You’re kidding!”

  “Quiet down, man,” Dele whispered. “I’m gonna sneak over and have my first hot shower this evening before the sisters use up all the hot water.”

  “Thanks, man. I’m not going to risk it,” Nick lied. “But I appreciate you telling me. Well, I’m done. I’m going to go take a cold shower and hit the sack.”

  “You’re going to bed this early?” Dele asked. “Come on, let’s play a few games of ayo.”

  “Nah, man,” Nick said, rising to his feet. “You always beat me. I’m more of a chess man anyway.”

  Nick placed his bowl amongst the pile of other dirty ones and then walked toward the showers. When he was out of everyone’s view, he sprinted toward the women’s side of the compound.

  Using the shadows of the trees and buildings as cover, Nick crept up to the women’s showers. Thankfully, none of the women fighters were showering or he would have been beaten to a pulp if caught. Nick perused the area. Dele had been true to his word; a new shower had been built.

  Nick grabbed a large white towel from the line near the showers and then removed his shorts. He hid his shorts and the towel behind the new shower and slid into it. A thick cord descended from the ceiling of the shower that controlled the flow of water. Nick rubbed his hands together in anticipation and then grabbed the cord. He pulled it gently. A sound erupted from above him – “Mm-meh.”

  What the hell?

  No water fell from the showerhead. Nick shrugged and pulled the cord again.

  “Mm-meh.”

  Water sprayed from the showerhead. The water poured over Nick’s head. It was warm and soothing and…smelled funny?

  Nick rubbed his wet face and sniffed his palm. The smell of ammonia assaulted his nostrils.

  The sound above me, Nick thought. The warmth…the smell… Nick felt ill as reality struck. “Goat pee!”

  The shower curtain slid open. Fighters – both male and female – stood before him, tears running down their faces from laughing so hard.

  “Gotcha!” Dele snickered.

  Nick darted out of the shower and peered up at its sheet metal roof. A goat stood upon it. The shower cord was wrapped around the base of its penis.

  Nick pushed past the chuckling crowd, grabbed the towel, wrapped it around his waist and sprinted away, fighting back tears as the laughter echoing across the compound stung his ears.

  ROUND 2

  Baba Yemi’s driver, Shola, whipped the compound’s van into a parking space at the Palms Shopping Mall, the largest and busiest shopping complex in Lagos, Nigeria.

  “You have four hours to enjoy yourselves,” Baba Yemi said. “See a movie; eat some good food; talk to some of the beautiful Lagos women … whatever. Just do not embarrass yourselves or the Adewale Wrestling Compound! Is that understood?”

  “Beeni, oga!” The wrestlers shouted in unison – Yes, master!

  “Does everyone have their share of the allowance, kindly donated to our compound by Nollywood actress Chizo Amarachi?” Baba Yemi inquired.

  “Beeni, oga!” The fighters replied.

  “Good,” Baba Yemi said. “Now, go!”

  The fighters leapt from the van and sprinted toward the mall’s entrance.

  Nick, however, took his time. Part of his enjoyment would entail being away from the teasing and pranks of his comrades. Just one day of being who he wanted to be; doing what he wanted to do.

  Nick sauntered into the mall. It was packed with hordes of shoppers, who bustled from shop-to-shop, buying electronics, all the modern fashions, video games and groceries.

  Just like Chicago, Nick thought.

  A young woman, with the body of a rap video superstar, walked by him. Her smooth mahogany skin bore the scent of jasmine and roses, with a hint of mandarin orange.

  Nick placed a gentle hand on her arm. “Excuse me, beautiful, but I must know your name.”

  The woman smiled. “It’s Abiola. But I really must be going.”

  “Okay,” Nick said. “But let me get your number first.”

  “She said she has to go, akata,” a voice boomed from behind Nick.

  Nick turned to face the voice – to face the man who had called him akata, a Yoruba word used to describe a black person from the Americas who has no knowledge of his history or the cultural practices and values of his African ancestors.

  Standing before him were three athletically built men, all dressed in red and black KFC uniforms.

  “Apologies, brother,” I didn’t know she was with someone,” Nick said. “But I’m no akata – I’m not a lost cat. I know where I’m from.”

  “But do you know where you’re going?” The largest of the three men, whose name tag read Felix, asked.

  Nick shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “I’m not sure what you…”

  “To the hospital, or the morgue, if you don’t leave now,” Felix hissed.

  “I don’t think so,” Nick said.

  “What!” Felix bellowed.

  Abiola leaned close to Nick and whispered, “Run!”

  But Nick did not run. He was not a coward and besides, he was sick and tired of being bullied.

  The three men took a step forward.

  Nick brought his right foot forward and his hands up to chin height.

  “I’m giving you the count of three to leave,” Felix said. “One…”

  Nick did not budge.

  “Two, three,” a voice boomed from behind Felix.

  Felix turned toward the voice. Standing there was Dele and the rest of Nick’s Adewale Wrestling Compound brothers.

  “Touch him,” Dele said, taking a step toward Felix. “And they will find pieces of you in a bucket with those wings, thighs and breasts at KFC.”

  Felix swallowed hard. “ Oh, yeah?”

  Dele took another step toward Felix.

  Felix took two steps backward. “Let’s go, brothers!”

  Felix and his cronies sauntered turned and walked briskly past Nick.

  “Let’s go, Abiola!” Felix said, snapping his fingers.

  “Bye,” Abiola said, wiggling her fingers at Nick.

  “Bye, beautiful,” Nick replied.

  “Abiola, let’s go!” Felix commanded.

  “Oh, shut up, Felix!” Abiola said, placing her fists upon her full hips. “You’d better start treating me with some respect!”

  “I’m sorry baby,” Felix replied. “You know how hard it is out here for a man who’s making money moves like me. Please, come on ... we’re about to be late for our shift.”

  Felix, Abiola and Felix’s cronies trotted toward the KFC in the distance.

  Dele wrapped his arm around Nick’s shoulders. “Our little brother has heart … and good taste in women!”

  The fighters laughed.

  “Thanks, Dele,” Nick said. “I won’t be getting into anymore trouble. I’m heading straight to the cinema. I’ll see you guys later.”

  “We’ll join you,” Dele said.

  “Come on, Dele,” Nick said. “I just want one day without teasing.”

  “That’s all part of your training, little brother,” Dele said. “Nothing personal. But today is a free day, anyway. I’ll get back to teasing, pranking and bullying
you tomorrow.”

  Nick’s jaw fell slack. Dele’s words had stunned him. Had the big man actually shown a hint of caring?

  “O…okay,” Nick stuttered.

  “Come on, little brother,” Dele said. “The movie is on me.”

  Dele and Nick walked side-by-side with Dele’s arm wrapped around Nick’s shoulders, covering him like a mother eagle takes her fledglings under her wing.

  ***

  Nick locked his arms straight, holding his body in a pushup position in the sweltering sand. He leaned forward – pulling his center of gravity over his hands – and then elevated his feet off the ground. From this position, Nick lowered his body and then raised it, performing a pushup with his legs extended and half a foot off the ground. He performed another such pushup – which Baba Yemi called a planche – then another and another.

  “Your strength and balance is impressive, Nicholas,” Baba Yemi said, approaching him. “Not many students can perform the planche pushups, but those who do usually excel at fighting.”

  “Mo dupe, baba nla,” Nick replied – Thank you grandfather.

  “You have a telephone call,” Baba Yemi said, holding his cellular phone up over his head. “And, by the way, e ku ojobi!” – Happy birthday!

  “Mo dupe!” Nick said, hopping to his feet.

  Baba Yemi handed Nick the cell phone.

  “Hello?” Nick said.

  “Happy birthday to you,” a smooth baritone voice crooned.

  “Happy birthday to you.

  Happy birthday, dear Nicholas.

  Happy birthday to you.”

  “Hey, dad,” Nick said, smiling.

  “Happy birthday, son!”

  “Thanks, dad.”

  “Your mother’s on the phone, too, boy,” Cupid Steed said.

  “Hello, Nicholas,” Tai Steed said. “Happy birthday, sweetheart!”

  “Hi, mommy,” Nick replied. “Thank you!”

  “We hear you’ve been doing pretty well there,” Cupid said. “Adjusting.”

  “I’m doing my best,” Nick replied.

  “Your best is all we require, son,” Cupid said.