FIST OF AFRICA (FIGHT CARD MMA)

by Jack Tunney

  Nick nodded.

  “Are you ready, Agbu Tochi?”

  Agbu Tochi tapped his chest twice with his fist.

  Chizo slid her arm between the fighters. “Then, fighters take your places.”

  Nick shuffled backward to his place at the edge of the ring. Agbu Tochi shambled backward to his place, his unblinking gaze locked on Nick’s throat.

  “And now …” Chizo raised her hand high above her head, her fingers pointing toward the clear noonday sky. After a long pause, she brought her arm down sharply, slicing the air with her well-manicure fingers. “Fight!”

  Agbu Tochi lurched forward. Nick charged forward to meet him.

  Nick hammered into Agbu Tochi’s ribs with a volley of heavy right and left hooks. Agbu Tochi staggered backward.

  Nick shuffled forward with a lead-hand hook toward Agbu Tochi’s chin.

  The giant leaned back. The punch shot past his face. He then countered with a fierce cross, catching Nick square on the jaw.

  Nick collapsed to his knees. He shook off the pain and exploded back to his feet, careful not to let his hands touch the ground. Both knees and a hand on the ground at the same time would be a loss by traditional rules.

  Nick’s feet had barely touched the earth when he was lifted high into the air by the giant, who had grabbed him from behind in a tight bear-hug.

  Nick thrust his leg to the outside of Agbu Tochi’s thigh, hooking his foot behind the giant’s knee. With the throw now blocked, Nick bent at the waist as he threw his palms toward the ground, breaking free of Agbu Tochi’s grip.

  Nick thrust back and upward with his left foot, driving his heel into Agbu Tochi’s solar plexus. Agbu Tochi doubled over in pain.

  Nick whirled toward Agbu Tochi, slamming a crushing shin kick into the outside of his thigh. Agbu Tochi’s leg buckled.

  Nick followed with a second shin kick to the inner thigh of the same leg. Agbu Tochi’s leg quivered and he switched feet, bringing his left leg forward to protect his right leg from further onslaught.

  Nick burst forward, wrapping his arms around Agbu Tochi’s waist and pulling him close. The giant thrust his massive right arm between his hips and Nick’s to partially break his grip.

  The men mirrored each other, both holding the others left triceps with their right hand and waist with their left hand. They then fought for superior position, snaking their arms over and under each other in an attempt to grasp the other around the waist with both hands.

  Nick proved to be a bit faster, lithely coiling his arms deep under Agbu Tochi’s armpits and then digging his fingers into the colossus’ sinewy shoulders.

  Agbu Tochi shook furiously, but could not free himself from Nick’s boa constrictor-like control of his upper torso.

  Nick thrust his hips forward as he punched his arms skyward under Agbu Tochi’s armpits, launching the massive wrestler high into the air. Agbu Tochi’s eyes widened. A hush fell over the crowd.

  Nick torqued his hips as he arched backward, increasing the momentum of the throw. Both men struck the ground with a thunderous din. A cloud of sand billowed up from the ring.

  The cloud dissipated. Sand rained down upon both men. Agbu Tochi lay on his back, writhing in pain. Atop him was Nick, who held up a fist in victory.

  The crowd clapped and stomped as they chanted “New Breed! New Breed!”

  Nick leapt to his feet as Baba Yemi and the other fighters from the Adewale Wrestling Compound stormed the ring. Baba Yemi pulled Nick close and embraced him. Nick hugged his grandfather as his fellow jagunjagun brothers and sisters patted his head and back in approval.

  A huge hand smacked Nick on the shoulder. He released his grandfather and turned to see who it was. Agbu Tochi stood before him.

  Nick nodded. “Good fight,” he said in choppy Igbo.

  Agbu Tochi smiled and hoisted Nick into the air, lifting him as easily as a man lifts a newborn baby and sat Nick upon his shoulder. He then strutted around the ring, holding Nick aloft. Nick waved to the adoring crowd.

  “The winner,” Chizo shouted. “And new Iwa Ji champion – Nick New Breed Steed!”

  Nick leapt down from Agbu Tochi’s shoulder and approached the center of the ring. Four men from Agbu Tochi’s camp carried the heavy iron leopard throne into the ring. They placed the throne behind Nick.

  “Take your seat, champion,” Chizo shouted. “For a year, at least, you are king of the ring!”

  Nick sat upon the throne and the crowd went wild again. The men from The Adewale Wrestling Compound surrounded Nick. Four of them lifted the throne by the iron bars at its base and the entourage jogged out of the ring.

  “Hail to the king!” Baba Yemi shouted.

  Nick and his fellow fighters raised their fists high into the air. “Hail to the king!”

  Nick closed his eyes and inhaled. The smell of barbecued goat, pepper, honey and palm oil greeted him.

  The scent of Nigeria, Nick thought. My kingdom!

  Nick noticed a commotion up ahead. He studied the crowd and recognized a familiar face. It was Nick’s old roommate and now Baba Yemi’s administrative assistant, Dele, pushing his way through the crowd. His face was a mask of worry.

  “Dele? What is wrong?” Baba Yemi inquired.

  “Baba Yemi … Nick …” Dele croaked. “There … there has been a terrible accident. You both must return home, now!”

  ROUND FIVE

  CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, U.S.A.

  2013

  From winter in Nigeria to summer in America. From cool, quiet humid nights to hot, rowdy, humid nights. From dense forest trees to dense city skyscrapers.

  Chicago was a hard city. A city of smoke, steel, and death at the receiving end of a semi-automatic. Chicago was a city forged in blood. The souls of the innocent consumed by the corrupt.

  Nick once called this place his city. Now, he called it the drunken uncle at the family reunion. The one you’d rather ignore, or avoid altogether. But, he was back. Back to bury his parents, who took what they could from this wretched city, but did not let the city take them. They had died out on the Atlantic Ocean, their sailboat capsizing off the Florida Keys.

  Baba Yemi placed a hand on Nick’s shoulder, comforting him as he stood on the sidewalk outside his parents’ house on North Bosworth Avenue.

  Nick took a deep breath before walking up the granite steps. He slipped his key into the brass doorknob and turned it. A familiar click followed as the bolt slid out of the jamb. Nick turned the doorknob and pushed the mahogany door open. The smell of marijuana, leather and palm oil assaulted his nostrils.

  He envisioned his mother shouting, “Cupid, come eat,” as his father sat in the living room in his favorite leather lounge chair, rolling a joint. “Be there in a second, Tai. Did you cook me that burger like I asked?”

  “No, I cooked egusi and pounded yam,” she’d reply – real food.

  “Woman, you’re gonna wake up one day and find me gone!”

  “I’ll just go out and marry Denzel Washington, or maybe even Barack Obama, then.”

  His father would laugh. “I think they are already spoken for.”

  “Then I guess you’d better just stick around and enjoy this good African cooking then.”

  Dinner at the Steed family home was always entertaining. Nick chuckled at the memories, but his happy reminiscing was cut short by an almost inaudible sobbing din. Nick turned toward the sound and found Baba Yemi slumped against the door crying. “Grandfather?”

  “They were going to come see you, Nick. Surprise you,” Baba Yemi cried. “They wanted to tell you that your father had left the seedy business he was involved in and was now investing in Nigerian film distribution.”

  “That’s okay, grandfather,” Nick said, wrapping his arms around the old man’s shoulders. “The thought of my father going legitimate gives me comfort and I’m sure it made mom happy, too.”

  Baba Yemi wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He walked to the center of the room and bowed his head. Nick
followed suit.

  Baba Yemi and Nick began to recite the traditional Yoruba chant used to send one’s loved ones off upon their passing away:

  “Let us not engage the world hurriedly.

  Let us not grasp at the rope of wealth impatiently.

  That which should be treated with mature judgment,

  Let us not deal with in a state of uncontrolled passion.

  When we arrive at a cool place,

  Let us rest fully.

  Let us give continual attention to the future.

  Let us give deep consideration to the consequences of things.

  And this because of our eventual passing.”

  “That was beautiful,” a strong, tenor voice said from behind Nick and Baba Yemi.

  Nick whirled toward the voice. In the doorway stood a tall, thin man with hair the complexion of a ripe carrot and smooth, tan skin. His well-creased shark skin suit matched his navy blue, ostrich-skin shoes.

  “Who are you?” Nick inquired.

  “You must be Nicholas Steed,” the man said, offering his hand with a smile. “I’m Matthew Miller, Esquire. I represent your parents’ estate.”

  “Yeah, I’m Nicholas Steed,” Nick said, shaking the attorney’s hand. “Why are you here, Mr. Miller?”

  “I’m here to give you the keys to this house and to your father’s safety deposit boxes at Windham Bank,” Miller replied. “You’ll find sixty-two thousand dollars in precious metals – gold; platinum.”

  “Okay,” Nick replied.

  “I just need to see your identification before I entrust the keys to you.”

  Nick reached into the side pocket of his cargo pants, withdrew his passport and then handed it to Miller.

  “Thank you,” Miller said.

  He perused the passport’s contents and handed it back to Nick.

  Miller reached in the breast pocket of his suit coat and withdrew a letter-sized envelope. He handed it to Nick. “Inside are the keys and your father’s bank information.”

  “Thanks,” Nick said.

  “My pleasure,” Miller replied. “Condolences on the passing of your parents. I worked with them for years. They were good folks. If you need me for anything, just give me a call. My card is in the envelope.”

  The lawyer nodded toward Nick and Baba Yemi and sauntered out of the door.

  “So, what now?” Baba Yemi asked.

  “Now, we go to Vee-Vee’s,” Nick answered, licking his lips. “I’m starving.”

  ROUND SIX

  Vee-Vee’s was packed. The line of men and women spilled out of the Nigerian restaurant and onto the hot sidewalk as the lunch crowd eagerly awaited the mouth-watering, sweet fried plantains, egusi soup with pounded yam and coconut rice.

  Standing in the line, Nick and Baba Yemi still had two customers ahead of them before they were in the door. Nick rubbed his hands in excitement.

  Baba Yemi raised an eyebrow. “Is the food really that good, Nicholas? You look … eager.”

  “You just don’t know, grandfather,” Nick replied. “I haven’t had Vee-Vee’s in over ten years.

  “You’ve had Nigerian food in Nigeria,” Baba Yemi said. “What’s so special about Vee-Vee’s?”

  “It’s Vee-Vee’s,” Nick responded with a shrug.

  Baba Yemi shook his head.

  “Excuse me, you just jumped ahead of me,” a woman’s voice said.

  Nick peered over his shoulder. A rotund woman addressed three young men who stood in front of her in the line.

  “Look, lady, we just want to get some plantains up out of here,” one of the young men – a lanky teen with jeans hanging halfway off his butt – said. “You look like you’re about to order the whole damned menu.”

  The young men laughed heartily and exchanged high fives.

  “Teens today have no respect,” the woman said. “If you are the future, we’re in big trouble.”

  “Shut up, pendeja!” Another young man spat. “That’s moron, in case you don’t know … pendeja!”

  More laughter from the young men.

  “Hold my place in the queue,” Baba Yemi whispered.

  “Grandfather, don’t …” Nick muttered.

  Baba Yemi approached the young men, stopping a few inches behind them. “You are being very rude. This young woman deserves an apology.”

  The teens turned to face Baba Yemi. The largest of the trio, a tall, athletically built young man, who had not yet spoken, looked Baba Yemi up and down.

  “Push on, old man, before you get yourself hurt,” he said.

  Baba Yemi smiled and tapped the young man on his muscular chest. “Hurt? How?”

  The lanky young man with the sagging pants placed a firm hand on Baba Yemi’s shoulder. “Get gone, old dude, before we kick your …”

  The young man hit the pavement with a dull thump.

  “My hand!” He screamed, clutching at his wrist and writhing in agony.

  The Spanish-speaking young man launched an awkward-looking kick toward Baba Yemi’s belly.

  The old wrestler side-stepped to his left, bringing his right arm up to scoop the young man’s leg. Baba Yemi shifted toward the trapped leg, grabbing it with both arms in a tight grip. He ducked under the leg, lifting his arms over his head at the same time.

  The young man’s knee twisted at a sickening angle. He landed next to his friend with the dislocated wrist, who joined him in a chorus of cries, whimpers and yelps.

  Baba Yemi exploded toward the remaining member of the trio.

  The young man stumbled backward, then whirled on his heels and sprinted off.

  The teen with the sagging pants and damaged wrist helped the young man with the dislocated knee to his feet. “Sorry, ma’am,” they said in unison.

  Baba Yemi laid a hand on the shoulder of the young man with the sagging pants. The young man jerked in fear.

  “Relax,” Baba Yemi said. “Let me fix it.”

  The young man cautiously gave Baba Yemi his damaged hand. The old man grabbed the teen’s fingers and yanked hard. The teen winced at the pain of his wrist sliding back into its correct position.

  “Thank you,” the young man said. “And I … I’m sorry.”

  “What about my knee, sir?” The Spanish-speaking young man inquired, still gasping in pain.

  “That is going to require more treatment than I can do here,” Baba Yemi answered. “Do either of you have a car?”

  “Yes, sir, I do,” the Spanish-speaking youth said.

  “What’s your name, boy?” Baba Yemi asked.

  “Hector, sir,” the young man said.

  “And yours?” Baba Yemi asked the young man with the sagging trousers.

  “Miles,” he answered.

  “Miles, take Hector to the hospital,” Baba Yemi said. “They’ll put the joint back in proper position, then you bring him to me and I’ll really heal him. Talk to my grandson over there. He’ll give you the address.”

  “Yes, sir,” Miles said, approaching Nick.

  “Thank you, sir,” Hector said.

  Vee-Vee’s waitress, who had come outside to see what the commotion was all about, handed Nick an ink pen and an order slip. Nick wrote the address to his parent’s house on the slip.

  The two young men shambled off, Hector’s arm wrapped around Miles’ shoulder for support.

  “Thank you!” The pudgy woman shouted. She wrapped her arms around Baba Yemi’s torso and held him in a warm hug.

  The people in line applauded as Baba Yemi returned to his place in line.

  “We’re running a compound for young thugs out of my parents’ house now?” Nick said, shaking his head.

  “You weren’t so different when you first came to me, Nicholas,” Baba Yemi said.

  “True,” Nick said.

  “So, I ask again,” Baba Yemi said. “What now?”

  ROUND SEVEN

  The doorbell rang, rousing Nick from his nap. He sprang out of bed and reached for his training shorts, then remembered he was no longer
at the compound, he was in his parents’ house. Well, his house, now.

  He bounded down the stairs and darted to the front door. A quick look through the peephole revealed Miles and Hector – the two wannabe thugs – standing on the porch. Nick glanced at the cuckoo clock on the wall in the foyer. It read three o’clock. He opened the door. Miles and Hector greeted him with nervous smiles.

  “Right on time,” Nick said.

  “We did our best to show you we’re serious, bruh,” Miles said.

  “My name’s Nick, not bruh,” Nick said. “And your best would have been early – not right on time.”

  Nick turned away from the two young men and headed toward the living room. Miles shuffled after Nick. Hector followed closely behind them, hopping along on his crutches.

  Nick pointed toward a leather couch. “Take a seat.”

  Baba Yemi sat in the lounge chair that was Cupid Steed’s favorite spot in the house, his feet crossed on the ottoman. “Come in, relax.”

  Baba Yemi pointed at the air cast peeking out from the bottom of Hector’s board shorts. “Take that off and sit on this foot rest.” Baba Yemi removed his feet from the footrest and leaned forward in his chair.

  “Yes, sir,” Hector said, yanking on the Velcro straps securing the cast on his knee. He placed the cast and his crutches on the couch then sat on the ottoman in front of the old man, his injured leg extended out to the side.

  “Bring me the poultice, Nicholas,” Baba Yemi said. “Miles, follow him and bring the towels and plastic wrap.”

  “Yes, grandfather,” Nick replied.

  “Yes, sir,” Miles said, as they headed into the kitchen.

  Nick grabbed a large glass pot off the stove. Steam rose from the reddish brown paste inside of it.

  “Smells like y’all brewin’ up some lean in here,” Miles giggled.

  “Lean?” Nick inquired.

  “You don’t know what lean is?” Miles said shaking his head. “Man, turn in your hood pass.”

  “I turned it in a long time ago,” Nick said. “I’ve lived in Africa for the past ten years.”

  “Aw, snap,” Miles exclaimed. “The motherland? Ten years? Dang! Anyhow, lean is a popular drink out of Houston. It’s a mixture of the prescription-strength cough medicine containing Promethazine with Codeine, clear-colored soda pop and fruit-flavored hard candy.”