Lucky was born into the chaos of Abesan, a bustling, low-income community on the outskirts of Lagos. The streets were loud, the homes close together, and the air filled with the scent of frying akara, sweat, and diesel. His father, once a respected mechanic, lost his shop to a gang fire two years ago and had struggled since. His mother, resilient and warm, sold vegetables by the roadside, rising before dawn every day to make ends meet.
At fifteen, Lucky was already taller than most of his age-mates, with bright, observant eyes and a mind that wandered far beyond the dusty roads of his neighborhood. But the environment pressed heavily on him. The boys in his area idolized fast money, flashy clothes, and street power. Education was mocked, and crime was tempting. He tried to resist, but the weight of poverty and peer pressure was a slow, grinding force.
He often climbed to the roof of their one-room zinc house at night, staring at the distant skyline of Lagos. "I wasn't born to be ordinary," he would whisper to the stars. But dreams were fragile things in Abesan.