CHAPTER 2:RIDE LIKE A GIRL

DREW.

Conflicted and curious—it's as if these two words barely scratch the surface of my current emotional tempest. Words, in their inadequacy, fall short of capturing the profound complexity of what I’m experiencing right now. Somehow, my emotions are intricately woven together in a chaotic tapestry.

If I were to list my feelings in alphabetical order, anger would undoubtedly sit at the top of that list. It swells within me, a dark force clawing its way to the surface, drowning out any semblance of logic or reason I might cling to. Instead of providing clarity, it mutates into a storm that threatens to overshadow everything else I am feeling.

You’d be just as furious if some phoney, no-name wannabe—dressed in a tacky hooded jacket and riding a souped-up motorcycle—suddenly swooped in and snatched your spot.

The audacity! Amidst the swirling frustration boiling within me, a strange excitement flickered to life. I had finally stumbled upon what seemed to be a worthy adversary, someone almost intriguing enough to capture my attention.

My mind raced with curiosity about who this mysterious figure was. I have to confess, I haven’t experienced this much joy since I packed my bags and headed off to Nigeria ten months ago. Despite that, allowing myself to lose my composure because some reckless brat in a hoodie decided to stir up trouble wouldn’t do me any favours.

“Yo, yo, you! Check these guys out!”

Suddenly, a familiar figure emerged from the crowd—a robust man with a brutish demeanour, his face weathered yet lively. He approached my friends with an unmistakable swagger, his thick Nigerian accent punctuating every word as he animatedly gestured with his hands, weaving a tapestry of excitement around him. His presence alone was enough to draw attention, and the infectious energy radiating from him had the power to lighten the atmosphere instantly.

"The moment we've all been waiting for has finally arrived—the gentlemen of the hour have made their entrance", a cascade of murmurs rippling through the crowd.

“Didn’t I say we wouldn’t start anything until these oyibo guys showed up?” he declared, a grin spreading across his face as he gestured theatrically. The term "oyibo" is a familiar one among Nigerians, often used to describe white people or those born abroad, and it rolled off his tongue with a playful familiarity.

“Let’s get lively, my people! These gentlemen are serious business!” he called out, echoing through the vibrant atmosphere.

As he continued with introductions, my attention waned, and my gaze began to roam restlessly across the room, searching for a face that I could not visualize clearly. How does one look for someone whose appearance remains a mystery, especially when all I had to go on was an assortment of hoodies he often donned? It was a peculiar conundrum. I consoled myself with the thought that I would surely recognize him when he appeared in his signature style—a distinctive ensemble that had come to define his presence in my mind.

“Well, I, for one, am thrilled you all arrived just in the nick of time,” Kuda announced, his voice booming over the crowd, filled with a blend of excitement and urgency. “However, we can’t postpone things any longer than we already have, so let the betting commence!”

He punctuated his declaration with animated hand gestures that conveyed images of cash flowing freely, his eyes glinting with a mixture of mischief and anticipation. A grin crept across my face as my gaze settled on my target for the night. There he stood, isolated from the raucous throng, shrouded in darkness—a long black hoodie obscuring most of his features, making it nearly impossible to discern his identity. He was an enigma, lingering on the outskirts of the chaos, and I felt a spark of intrigue as I prepared to make my move.

I’m jolted back to reality as the charismatic leader of the underground racing scene launches into his passionate spiel about the evening’s bets and his predictions for the night’s victor. With a knowing smirk, he casually mentions “the oyibo guy,” and I can’t help but acknowledge that he’s referring to me.

I’ve learned that the term "oyibo" isn’t intended to be a derogatory label towards white people; rather, it’s used in a lighthearted, almost affectionate way. Still, its application to our eclectic group doesn’t quite fit, considering that Min, my friend, is Korean-American—making him a blend of cultures, only 50% Caucasian. Hossein, on the other hand, proudly embraces his Egyptian heritage, while I, well, I bring my unique mix to the table as a British Nigerian-Lebanese. What a delightful fusion of backgrounds we are!

"Sure you wanna do this, mate?" Min asked as he and Hossein came to stand by me and I shrugged.

"I don't have a choice now, do I?"

Min regarded me with a mix of concern and determination, his worried gaze cutting through the lingering tension in the air. Hossein stood nearby, his expression as stoic as a statue, his eyes betraying nothing. I managed a reassuring smile for both of them before climbing onto the familiar, inviting leather seat of my bike, the scent of worn leather mingling with the night air. Suddenly, a gruff voice boomed from the speakers, echoing through the dimly lit lot where the adrenaline-fueled crowd had gathered.

''The race is about to begin! Remember the rules: if the cops catch you, we’ve never seen you before, and you don’t know us!''

Oh, did I forget to mention this was an illegal underground race? My bad. Now you know. This pre-race spiel of theirs is a ritual—like a warped insurance policy echoed before each heartbeat of the race.

Reflecting on it, I remembered my first encounter with this speech. I scoffed then, thinking, 'Why reiterate it? It’s not like we’re naive to the illegality we’re indulging in.' But I suppose it’s their way of ensuring we’re all on the same page, wrapped in a cocoon of reckless exhilaration.

To clarify, I’m no stranger to skirting the edges of legality. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve never danced with anything that could pull the cops' attention—never scaled the walls of my discretion to land me behind bars. But the night is still young; perhaps it’s a realization better put aside for now.

Motorcycle racing has always been in my blood; it's pure freedom to me. The thrill of the engine’s growl beneath me, the wind whipping through my hair—nothing compares. People over the years have urged me to go professional, to tether my passion to the constraints of the legal world. But I’ve chosen the underground scene, where the only expectation is to relish the thrill.

You might be wondering why the son of a two-time governor has thrown himself into the chaos of these underground races alongside a motley crew of rebels. The answer? Fun!

Unadulterated fun. There’s nothing that ignites my spirit quite like racing a sleek, brand-new BMW power bike down an empty street while the rest of the city lies in slumber.

''Tonight's race pits our beloved Oyibo against the mysterious hooded rider! What a way to kick-start the night, right? But make no mistake, ladies! Win or lose, that’s on you, but someone here is going home with 3 million naira tonight!''

The announcer's voice crackled with excitement, and I could sense the energy around me spike.

Ah, I neglected to mention—it’s not merely about racing. Well, now you’re in the loop so there's no harm in telling you more! It’s a high-stakes game, fueled by the bets of kids from powerful families in Nigeria. So, while we break the law, we might as well just line our pockets in the process!

''On your mark, ladies!''

The command resonated as our motorcycle engines roared to life—a deep, thrilling symphony of rebellion. I glanced sideways at the hooded rider. He shot me a gesture, his finger curled into a mock gun, and the crowd erupted in wild cheers; the energy was palpable as we peeled off into the ink-black night.

I surged ahead when the race began but the hooded rider swiftly overtook me, vanishing into a shadowy alley as if he were one with the night itself.

That smug bastard knows these streets like the back of his hand.

We launched from the bustling A.Y.A bridge, the traditional starting line of our gritty races, racing towards Babangida’s boulevard in Maitama. The thrill of the detour through the steep slopes of Apo hills was electric, but the familiarity of the terrain eluded me—each twist and turn felt less like a familiar friend and more like a stranger in the dark.

Despite my years of experience, I found myself struggling to gain ground against this elusive figure. Time and again, I surged forward, yet he resurfaced effortlessly, looking as though he were gliding rather than racing. His presence was relentless; I attempted every trick I knew to slow him down, but he maintained both balance and speed, the artistry of his riding undeniable.

The dude rides clean.

No dirty tricks or deceitful manoeuvres—I had to give him that.

As far as I could tell, he was relishing this as much as I was, perhaps even more. His victory—this time by a mere second—wasn’t surprising; he had become a formidable opponent in what felt like an endless chase.

Who the hell is this guy?

And why now?