PROLOGUE
The sun hung low over Lagos, its golden rays bleeding through the prison bars like the last breath of a dying beast. Chiderra sat on the cold concrete floor, his back against the rough, damp wall. His fingers traced invisible letters on the dusty surface, an old habit from a life that now felt like a distant dream. He had always imagined his words would change the world, but never like this.
He replayed the trial in his mind, every detail etched into his memory like a scar that refused to fade. The judge's gavel striking down like a death sentence, the murmurs of the crowd, the way his mother’s wail had sliced through the air when the verdict was read. Guilty. The word had echoed in his ears long after they dragged him from the courtroom.
The accusation had been swift and ruthless—he was charged with a crime he never committed, a crime so vile and unforgivable that no one cared to hear his pleas of innocence. They had needed a scapegoat, and he had fit the role perfectly—a young man with no powerful connections, no one to fight for him.
Inside these suffocating walls, justice was a forgotten myth. Here, the strong ruled, and the weak became prey in a battle fought with blood and fear. The first lesson had come on his first night.
The moment the cell door clanked shut behind him, Chiderra had felt the air grow heavier. Shadows moved in the dim light, bodies shifting. A towering figure with a scar running from his temple to his chin stepped forward. His teeth glistened as he grinned.
"Fresh meat," the man said, voice thick with amusement. "What are you in for, writer boy?"
Chiderra hesitated. In here, truth wasn’t just useless—it was a weakness. But lying felt like letting them win. "Something I didn't do," he said.
The cell erupted in laughter. The scarred man nodded, stepping closer. "That’s what we all say."
The first blow came out of nowhere, a fist slamming into his ribs and knocking the air from his lungs. He gasped, doubling over, but another kick sent him sprawling. The taste of blood filled his mouth, and he knew—this was only the beginning.
"You learn fast," Scarface muttered, crouching beside him. "No one cares about your innocence here. "You either learned to fight, or you became part of the floor beneath their boots."
A cruel initiation. A warning. The message was clear—if he wanted to survive, he had to become something else.
The prison had its own rhythm, its own gods and devils. The guards were worse than the inmates—corrupt, indifferent, sometimes just as violent. Meals were nothing more than cold slop, barely edible. The air smelled of sweat, urine, and desperation.
Chiderra kept his head down, avoided trouble when he could, but in a place like this, trouble was a shadow that never left.
One evening, he sat in the yard, back against the peeling concrete wall. A man, older, with deep lines carved into his face, sat beside him. His name was Afonja, a former journalist who had dared to write the wrong truth.
"You have fire in you, boy," Afonja said, staring ahead. "I see it in your eyes. But fire without direction burns out fast."
Chiderra exhaled, his breath ragged. "I was a writer once," he admitted. "Now, I'm just trying to survive."
Afonja chuckled. 'They put us in cages not to punish us, but because they fear what we might do if we were free. But a prison cell can’t kill the truth—it only makes it louder. If you want to survive, don’t let them turn you into a ghost. Fight back.'"
Fight back. The words burrowed into his mind like a seed in fertile soil.
One night, he heard whispers through the bars, voices carrying through the darkness. He edged closer to listen.
"They’re moving him tonight," one voice murmured. "They want him dead before morning."
Chiderra's breath caught in his throat. Someone was about to die. And from the hushed urgency in their voices, it wasn’t just another prison brawl. This was something bigger.
Then he heard the name.
Afonja.
His heart pounded. Afonja had been fearless, unbreakable, but that had made him dangerous. And in this place, the dangerous ones never lasted long.
Chiderra knew he had two choices—stay silent and survive, or act and risk everything.
He made his decision before fear could paralyze him.
The corridors were dark, the air thick with the stench of sweat and decay. Chiderra moved quickly, his pulse hammering. He had no plan, no weapon—only desperation and a growing rage that made his hands tremble.
As he turned the corner, he saw them. Three men, creeping toward Afonja’s cell, crude blades glinting in their hands.
Chiderra didn’t think. He lunged.
The first man didn’t see him coming. Chiderra crashed into him, sending him sprawling. The second swung a fist, but Chiderra ducked, his elbow slamming into the attacker’s ribs. A sharp crack. A grunt of pain.
The third was faster, slashing with his blade. Pain seared through Chiderra’s arm as the knife bit into his flesh. He stumbled, blood dripping onto the cold floor.
Shouts erupted down the hall. A whistle. Heavy footsteps. The guards.
The attackers scattered, vanishing like ghosts.
Chiderra collapsed, clutching his bleeding arm. His vision blurred as boots stomped toward him.
"What the hell happened here?" a voice barked.
But Chiderra barely heard them. His body ached, his skin burned, but beneath it all, a strange sense of victory settled in his chest.
He had done something. He had fought back.
As the world tilted and darkness pulled him under, only one thought burned in his mind he would not die in this place.
