Give am belle run go where?

In the heart of Port Harcourt, where the Niger Delta’s oil money clashed with the grit of everyday hustle, lived Chidi, a smooth-talking mechanic with a smile that could charm the rust off a car. At 32, Chidi was known for fixing engines and breaking hearts, always slipping out of trouble with a wink and a shrug. But this time, trouble had a name—Joy—and it wasn’t letting go. Joy was a soft-spoken hairdresser who worked at a salon in Diobu. She and Chidi met at a local bar during a Premier League match, her laughter at his jokes cutting through the noise of cheering fans. One thing led to another, and soon they were inseparable, sharing late-night suya and stolen kisses behind Chidi’s workshop. But when Joy told him she was pregnant, Chidi’s easy smile vanished. “Pregnant? Joy, you sure?” he stammered, his hands greasy from working on a carburetor. “Chidi, I don test am three times,” Joy said, her voice steady but her eyes pleading. “This na our own.” Chidi’s mind raced. He wasn’t ready for this. His life was his tools, his beers, his freedom to move from one job to the next, one woman to another. A baby? That was a chain he couldn’t fix with a wrench. “Joy, I need time to think,” he said, avoiding her gaze. That night, Chidi didn’t sleep. He sat in his one-room apartment, staring at the cracked ceiling, plotting his escape. He’d heard of men who left—packed a bag, caught a bus to Lagos or Abuja, and started fresh. “Give am belle run go where?” he muttered, half-laughing at the thought. Anywhere but here. The next morning, he told Joy he had a job in Warri, a lie that rolled off his tongue too easily. “I go send you money, don’t worry,” he said, tossing her a few crumpled naira notes. Joy’s face fell, but she said nothing, clutching the money like it could hold her together. Chidi caught a bus to Warri that afternoon, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He felt lighter with every mile, convincing himself he’d dodged a bullet. In Warri, he found work at a garage and a new girl to charm, thinking he’d left Joy and her swollen belly behind. But Port Harcourt has a way of catching up with you. Weeks later, Chidi’s phone buzzed with a call from his cousin, Emeka, who still lived in Diobu. “Chidi, you don mess up o,” Emeka said. “Joy don born, and everybody for area dey talk. Dem say you run leave am. Even Mama Ngozi wey dey sell pepper soup don curse your name.” Chidi’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t counted on the community’s eyes, the way news traveled faster than an okada in Port Harcourt’s streets. “Wetin concern me?” he snapped, but his voice shook. “Concern you? Na your pikin, Chidi!” Emeka shouted. “Joy dey struggle, and the baby look like you—same big head. You think you fit run forever?” Chidi hung up, but the words stuck. That night, he dreamed of a boy with his eyes, crying in a salon while Joy braided hair to survive. The guilt gnawed at him, worse than any hangover. He tried to drown it in palm wine, but it wouldn’t budge. A month later, Chidi was back in Port Harcourt, standing outside Joy’s salon. His hands trembled as he peered through the window. Joy was there, rocking a small bundle while she worked. The baby’s tiny hand gripped her finger, and Chidi felt his chest tighten. He’d run, but to where? There was no place far enough to escape who he was—a father, whether he liked it or not. He pushed open the door. Joy looked up, her face a mix of surprise and wariness. “Chidi,” she said, her voice flat. “You come back for wetin?” He swallowed hard, his usual charm gone. “Joy, I mess up. I run, but… I no fit run from this.” He gestured at the baby, his son. “I wan try. For him. For you.” Joy studied him, her eyes searching for the man she’d once laughed with. “No be talk I want, Chidi. Be here. Stay.” Chidi nodded, knowing it wouldn’t be easy. The road back was longer than the one he’d taken to Warri, but as he held his son for the first time, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders, he realized there was nowhere else to go. “Give am belle run go where?” he thought. Not anymore. This was his place, his fight, his family.

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