TWO: VICE CITY

Heading to the market square, he cursed what fate caused him to be born to Mr Ahmed, if it weren't for him, he wouldn't be a scavenger on the streets today facing all these dangers. The man had been a chronic drunkard who drank with half the money he made from the sale of his scrabs and motor parts he got cheap from the street pimps who no doubt stole them. Mother would also nag badly whenever he came home drunk which meant he had made a good sale but had squandered it at the bar or the local ‘herbal drinks and pepper soup joint’ and each time a bloody fight would ensue when he tried to beat her up.

Mother is big and bulky and had grown up working at brick factories so she is strong and will always beat him flat out telling him that is his punishment for trying to beat her after squandering money. She would then take the rest of the money from him and starve him for a few days while he begged his lungs weary.

One day, he was outraged after he sobered up to discover a huge bump on his head where he had hit it on the centre table during their scuffle. The alcohol had sapped his strength gradually, making him terribly weak. So when mother had pushed him, he fell and hit his head hard. When he became sober, he was bitter. He felt helpless and threatened, so he left home never to return again.

Mother was devastated, she may look tough and strong on the outside but she's a jelly within. She blamed herself and transferred her aggression and anger to Mary at the slightest provocation. Mary, Akin's elder sister– a pretty light-skinned girl– couldn't bear the constant bruises on her fair skin so she left home and became a street prostitute in no time.

When word of it got to Mother she committed suicide being unable to bear the trauma and depression. Self-guilt drove her to swallow rat poison and she burst open the next day.

Horrified at the sight of his mother's spilling offals, eight-year-old Akin ran off from home and has been surviving on the dangerous streets of Jefferson's Avenue against all odds by picking pockets and scavenging dark alleys and rubbish bins. He was easily the most vulnerable and weakest on the streets of Jefferson's an easy prey to even the smallest of the street rats, but he had adapted quickly learning the secrets of surviving the harsh street life.

If the man he called a father hadn't been such a coward and had stood up to his duties and responsibilities at home, he would not have been subjected to the dangers of living in the streets at so young an age.

But all that was two years ago. Now he had to concentrate on finding something to eat.

Exiting the alley, he came to an open square, a large expanse of land covered in sickly carpet grass, dust, dirt, and trash cans the whole place was filthy. Littered with paper, nylon, and plastics; and arranged all over in a disorganized fashion are stalls and kiosks displaying all types of goods.

He had arrived at the market square. The place is buzzing with activity and on the far side at the immediate entrance to the market is a row of bikes all waiting patiently for the shoppers to call for their services.

Squaring his shoulders, Akin took a deep breath and made his way into the market.

* * * * *

Exhausted, Akin slumped against the red brick wall of a bookshop. He had scoured through the whole market all day and hadn't seen anything to pick even the traders were guiding their wares with jealousy and wouldn't allow you to come too close to their stalls before demanding what you need to purchase and hostility is too mild a word to describe their reaction if you're unable to pinpoint your wants. He had even tried to work as a Potter but none of the women that came to buy things were willing to give their goods to anyone to help them take it to the bike men, most of them were even trekking home quite keen on saving more money that way. The economic recession was really hitting the street rats hard especially those who are trying to earn an honest living, an impossible thing to do at Jefferson's.

Wandering down the square, he had begun to approach residential settlements. Looking at the sky, Akin reckoned it was probably afternoon by now. He's worn out and thirsty sitting under the shed of the second-hand bookshop, he looks at the market in the distance. It was situated right at the centre of Jefferson's Avenue it was originally intended to be a park with lush green grasses and tall trees with an amusement park at the centre of the park along with picnic sheds and park benches but none of those ever appeared at the site till the whole project was abandoned.

Jefferson's was the fancy idea of a wealthy city planner based overseas. Of Nigerian heritage, Anthony Jefferson came to Nigeria with the dream of solving the people's housing problems and improving their standard of living. He set his sights on a slum at Surulere– a ghetto in the overpopulated suburbs of Lagos– and he decided to start his housing program there. Building low-cost houses and high-rise apartment buildings he laid the foundation of an estate that he hoped to expand into a city as the place developed.

In need of funds to further the project, he began to put the buildings out for sale and even though they were cheap those living in the slums were unable to buy them. So rich investors and businessmen began to buy the buildings and let them out to their friends: white-collar working-class citizens. As the place began to grow problems started rising, the thugs in the neighbouring slums invaded the homes and robbed those living in them. The police could not restore order and all security measures put in place by Anthony failed. Gradually the frustrated tenants started moving out of the Avenue, but nothing could be done as the thugs grew bolder and started invading Jefferson's in broad daylight, raiding the builders and carting away building materials.

Anthony hired armed men to protect the builders and the raid ceased but when building materials needed to be brought into the estate the thugs would hijack them along with the vehicle conveying them and sell them off. Anthony became frustrated with the project, he was running low on funds and no one would buy the buildings. So, he abandoned it altogether and moved to the developing urban areas to build low-cost estates and put the houses on exorbitant rent to recoup his losses hoping he would raise enough money to take his project elsewhere within the country in a more peaceful area.

About a year later the thugs moved into Jefferson's Avenue and settled in the classy high-rise Apartment buildings. Later on, more people began to come in from the slums to settle in the unoccupied buildings till the Avenue became overpopulated and transformed into a high-class slum. The thugs made their dwelling off limits and their leader was a guy who had hit the streets at thirteen and is now known as Skull. Feared by all and sundry in Surulere, he became the Street Overlord and his lieutenants, the dreaded Street Lords of Jefferson's Avenue.

With no prospects of getting a meal at the market, Akin wandered deeper into the new street he had found. He has never come this far before, and he is hopeful that this new hunting grounds will hold a better prospect of earning him dinner, as lunch is now out of the question. Turning into a road, he discovered he was moving towards the apartment buildings on the Avenue. He is currently surrounded by a few flats and duplexes, while garden apartments loom before him. In the distance, loud hip-hop music is blaring from a speaker, he realizes he is nearing the infamous restricted abode of the dreaded Overlord. He should turn back now while he still can, but he is curious; he wants to see how high the eight-floor tower the Overlord is rumoured to live in is. He hurried down the road following the music from the blaring speakers he made a right turn and a left turn brought him into a dark alley he raced down the alley and came out onto a long stretch of tiled road with gutters on both sides littered with refuse there is little activity on this road and after every block he passed there's an alley flanking him on the right and left. The buildings here are high, about four to five floors, and are close too tightly together. The music is coming straight ahead of him. Walking tentatively on this ghost road nearing the third alley now, three mean-looking guys slipped out of the shadows and spread out around him: they were lean and long-legged; though the third one that moved to block his retreat was short and bald with yellowed teeth, he is holding a bar wrench. The one in the middle who is apparently their leader wore shredded blue jeans, a black long-sleeved shirt, and a dirty-looking navy-blue armless jacket, his hair dreadlocked in a dirty heap on his broad head. When he smiled or rather leered, he had a chipped tooth and the rest of his teeth blackened from decades of smoking. A wicked-looking knife is in his right hand, with a curved blade and jagged edges. His partner wore a dirty brown top with similar shredded jeans and a scar running from the bridge of his nose down to his slack cheeks. He is fingering a lock picker.

Akin shivered. These are the street pimps.