It started with an F. A big red F, circled like a wound on his result slip.

Chuka stared at it in the dim glow of the cyber café monitor, heart slumping like wet paper. That exam was his second chance, the one he stayed up all night for, reading with a flashlight when the power cut out.

He didn’t tell his mum when she called earlier. Just said, “I’m trying.”

She already had enough worries. His younger brother needed new textbooks, and his father hadn’t sent money in weeks. Chuka didn’t have the heart to add failure to the list.

Outside, the clouds were moody. Somewhere far off, a storm was threatening to arrive.

Then came the match.

Captain of his school’s football team, he had led them through sweaty evenings, tight drills, and midnight talks under hostel roofs. This was the final game. His last hope to win something this semester.

They played against a team from a polytechnic. Less skilled. Less practiced.

And still, they lost. 4-1.

Chuka missed two penalties. One hit the bar. One flew into the trees.

His teammates didn’t speak to him after. No blame. Just that empty silence that wraps around disappointment and hangs it like damp clothes.

When he got back to his friend Emeka’s apartment—where he’d been crashing since the school hostel plumbing packed up—he noticed the door was slightly open.

Emeka sat on the couch, arms folded, eyes colder than Chuka had ever seen.

“My babe said you’ve been texting her weird stuff,” he said.

Chuka blinked. “What? I’ve not even saved her number—”

“Abeg, carry your bag and leave.”

He laughed nervously, but Emeka wasn’t joking.

So Chuka picked his small nylon bag, the one with three shirts and a pair of worn-out sneakers.

“Bro, it’s not even like that—”

“Leave.”

And just like that, the door closed.

Rain finally arrived. Not a gentle one. Heavy, stubborn, angry.

Chuka sat under a shop front, knees to chest, as thunder split the sky and his phone battery blinked its last warning.

He had no money left. Not after paying to check that cursed result. No food, no bed, no win.

Just soaked clothes, a numb heart, and the sound of his own breathing trying not to break.

He didn’t cry. Not really. Just sat there, face wet from both the sky and something quieter.

In the morning, a woman sweeping in front of the shop nudged him with a soft, pitying foot. “Young man, go find your way.”

Chuka stood.

Somehow, his legs still worked. Somehow, his lungs still pulled air.

Maybe that was something. Maybe not. But for now, it was all he had.

He started walking.