Life in the Black Nation

"Arrgh!" he groaned, awakening with disorientation akin to a zombie. Confusion clouded his mind as he muttered, "What the heck happened to me?" His last recollection was being out clubbing, but now... Oh!

Lying on the floor, he resembled a deflated balloon, entirely unaware of the bloodstains that surrounded him. "But how am I still alive?" he wondered aloud, his voice barely more than a whisper.

His eyes gradually adjusted to the wreckage that engulfed him. "Where am I?" he muttered to himself. The room was a disaster; shattered furniture, a bed in ruins, and a couch that had seen better days.

As he attempted to make sense of the scene, his vision wavered, and an excruciating migraine struck, pinning him to the floor. For what felt like an eternity, he remained immobile, enduring 30 minutes of torment before regaining control of his body.

Jonathan Cole, an African orphan with an elusive past, had known a life of hardship and despair. He began as a beggar, clawing for survival, then evolved into a thief, and eventually, a thug navigating the treacherous waters of politics. His side gig? A professional gambler, though his history was marred by more losses than wins. It seemed as if he was destined to endure perpetual poverty.

But on one fateful evening, J Cole's world changed dramatically.

He was screaming, yes, screaming in sheer ecstasy. The goddess of luck had finally decided to grace him with her favor.

In that electrifying moment, it was as if Jonathan had become Lionel Messi, lifting the World Cup trophy. Only, his prize was a bottle of Heineken and a white slip of a coupon. He screamed with unbridled joy, echoing the roar of a stadium full of fans. Lionel may have triumphed in the World Cup, but J Cole had secured a life-altering opportunity for himself – a staggering 20 million naira in betting winnings.

With Argentina clinching the victory on the field, J Cole crossed the threshold from abject poverty to modest wealth. It was as if destiny had rewritten its cruel script, and the future held newfound promise for this once downtrodden soul.

However, much like the tales of street gospel, news of Jonathan's miraculous ascent from the slums to success spread like wildfire, with each retelling more embellished than the last. Some even claimed that the 20 million naira coupon slip was one of his war trophies, a testament to his former life as a notorious thug.

Yet, as the stories of his newfound fortune made their rounds, the universe seemed to conspire against him. It was as if karma had taken a personal interest in settling old scores.

Jonathan's mailbox became a repository for threatening letters, each more ominous than the last. Unexplained near-death experiences haunted him like relentless specters. Suddenly, everyone wanted a piece of him, to be associated with his newfound wealth.

However, as the saying goes, "Karma is a patient hunter." And it wasn't long before it finally caught up with Jonathan. The very success that had seemed like a miraculous redemption had turned into a double-edged sword, with its newfound complexities threatening to plunge him back into the abyss from which he had struggled so hard to escape.

On a seemingly blissful afternoon, the sun hung lazily in the sky as J Cole found himself dead drunk in a dimly lit club. Like a stereotypical street thug, he relished the sensation of inebriation, lost in a haze of alcohol-induced euphoria, dancing, caressing voluptuous homosapiens and indulging in canal frivolities. However, unlike his usual nights filled with an array of girls of every size, J Cole was now encircled by Homo sapiens of varying degrees of muscularity, quite a perfect model depicting a bouncer. J Cole had unwittingly fallen victim to a sinister plot.... He was kidnapped.

One of the thugs, unmistakably the capon and leader of this formidable group, wore a sinister grin that hinted at a devious plan. He had only one thought on his mind – jackpot!

Who didn't know about the legends of J Cole? Born and discarded on the unforgiving streets, he had earned a reputation as a ruthless and cunning figure, baptized in the blood of countless street battles.

The capon couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of pride as he gazed upon this well-known figure of the streets, now kneeling before him, blindfolded and vulnerable.

"J Cole!" he sneered, the tone laced with a twisted form of respect. "I've got to hand it to you, bro. You've made quite a name for yourself out there. But in the business of making money, respect is trash."

In the ruthless world of power and wealth, honor and respect held no currency. The capon's sinister intent was clear – he saw J Cole not as a legendary street figure but as a valuable commodity, a means to his own twisted ends.

With a casual, yet commanding whistle, the capon summoned his gang of ruthless thugs, who obediently sprang into action. In no time, a seat was brought forward for him, a makeshift throne in this impromptu court of power.

"Now listen," he declared, his voice dripping with menace. "I don't give a damn where you've stashed the rest of that money. You'll spill the beans sooner or later."

He leaned forward, locking eyes with J Cole. "Simple," the capon called out to one of his loyal henchmen, "Remove that damn blindfold. I want him looking at me when I talk."

The blindfold was ripped away, leaving J Cole disoriented, his eyes squinting against the harsh light. He struggled to regain his bearings, feeling an oppressive weight on his chest. Just as he was about to question his surroundings, a vicious blow struck his gut, forcing a pained "ahhh" from his lips.

J Cole crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. His vision blurred as he lay there, the weakness that washed over him felt unnatural, even for a seasoned street thug. "Was I drugged?" he wondered, anger and frustration welling up within him. "Damn you all for hitting a man when he's down."

Before he could make sense of the situation, another brutal punch landed on the back of his head. Everything spiraled into a distant, foggy memory.