To kill a man - by Thoughts From Emilia

The Lagos night was thick with heat and the hum of generators. Chinedu crouched behind a rusted danfo bus parked on a littered street in Oshodi, the weight of a battered .38 revolver pulling at his calloused hand. Sweat beaded on his brow, mixing with the dust of the day. Across the road, under the flickering light of a street hawker’s kerosene lamp, stood Emeka “Iron” Okoye, his broad frame unmistakable. He was laughing, sharing a bottle of Star with a group of agberos, his gold chain glinting as he moved. Chinedu wasn’t a killer. He was a mechanic, fixing okadas and taxis in a cramped workshop off Apapa Road. But life in Lagos didn’t care about your trade when debts piled up. Six months ago, Chinedu had borrowed ₦2 million from Alhaji Musa, a loan shark who ruled the underbelly of the city like a silent king. The money had gone to his mother’s surgery—her heart condition was a ticking bomb. Now, Alhaji wanted his pound of flesh. The deal was clear: kill Emeka, the man who’d been skimming Alhaji’s profits, and the debt would vanish. Fail, and Chinedu’s mother would pay the price. Emeka took a swig of beer, his laughter cutting through the noise of honking horns and street vendors calling out, “Buy your gala!” He was a big man in the area, a thug who collected “protection” money from market women and bus drivers. Chinedu had seen Emeka’s work: Mama Ngozi’s stall burned for missing a payment, a conductor’s arm broken for mouthing off. Emeka was no saint. But as Chinedu gripped the revolver, his stomach knotted. The gun was old, scavenged from a contact in Mushin. Chinedu had never fired it, only held it in the dark of his one-room apartment, wondering how he’d ended up here. His mother’s voice echoed in his mind, her words from Sunday service: “God sees all, Chinedu. No sin goes unjudged.” But what was sin in a city like this, where survival demanded blood? Alhaji’s men would come for him if he didn’t deliver. They’d come for his mother, bedridden in their tiny flat in Surulere. Emeka waved off his crew, who dispersed into the night, their banter fading. He stood alone now, checking his phone, the screen’s glow lighting his scarred face. Chinedu’s heart raced. One shot, Alhaji had said. Make it quick. The street was chaotic enough—hawkers, okadas, and late-night hustlers would mask the sound. No one would care about another body in Lagos. Chinedu raised the gun, his hands trembling. He thought of his mother, her frail hands clutching a rosary, praying for him to “make it” in this city. He thought of Emeka’s own mother, maybe somewhere in the East, waiting for her son to send money home. Was Emeka a monster, or just another man caught in Lagos’s grind? The city didn’t care—it chewed up dreamers and spat out survivors. A memory hit him: his mother, years ago, teaching him to fix a bicycle chain. “Do the work right, Chinedu,” she’d said, “or don’t do it at all.” He’d ignored that wisdom when he took Alhaji’s money. Now, with a man’s life in his sights, he wondered what “right” even meant. Emeka pocketed his phone and started walking, his boots crunching on gravel. Chinedu’s finger grazed the trigger. One shot, and his mother would be safe. But the revolver felt like a curse, its weight pulling at his soul. To kill a man was to lose something Lagos couldn’t replace. To let Emeka live was to gamble with everything. The night pulsed around him—highlife music from a nearby bar, the clatter of a late-night buka. Chinedu lowered the gun, his breath ragged. Emeka vanished into the crowd, unaware of the shadow that had spared him. Chinedu leaned against the danfo, the revolver slipping back into his pocket. He’d made a choice, but whether it was courage or cowardice, he couldn’t say. Tomorrow, Alhaji’s men would come. But tonight, Chinedu was still a man who hadn’t killed.

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