Chapter 07

Chapter 07

When Luck Is Taken Away

They called him Ayitey Powers now.

The name stuck the way only truth ever did—loud, impossible to ignore, and always arriving before the man himself. The coach’s nephew wore it proudly, introducing himself with a flourish, chest out, arms wide.

“Ayitey Powers,” he would say. “Manager. Visionary. Prophet of knockouts.”

Yooku laughed every time.

But as Ayitey’s voice grew louder in Accra, something else moved quietly in the background.

The announcement of Yooku’s biggest fight yet shook the underground scene. A foreign opponent. A real belt. Real money. The kind of fight that dragged boxing back into the city’s bloodstream.

Training intensified.

The coach said little, but his eyes demanded everything. Abigail doubled her own sessions, running before dawn, shadowboxing until sweat darkened the sand.

“This fight changes things,” she said one morning, breathless. “Win it, and no one can pretend anymore.”

Yooku nodded, slipping the old gloves on. They felt familiar. Comforting. Like a charm.

Too comforting.

Two days before the fight, men in plain clothes arrived at the arena.

They did not shout. They did not threaten. They simply asked questions and carried authority like a shadow.

The coach froze when he saw them.

“We’re looking for these,” one of the men said, holding up a photograph.

Yooku’s stomach dropped.

The gloves.

Azumah Nelson’s gloves.

The room went silent.

Abigail stepped forward. “He didn’t steal them.”

“We didn’t say he did,” the man replied calmly. “But these gloves were reported stolen from the museum. They’ve been located. They must be confiscated pending investigation.”

Yooku removed them slowly, as if peeling away part of himself.

The man took them carefully, almost respectfully.

“Lucky charm?” he asked.

Yooku didn’t answer.

That night, Yooku couldn’t sleep.

He sat by the sea, fists bare, the weight gone but the emptiness heavier. Ayitey Powers paced behind him, unusually quiet.

“They can’t do this now,” Ayitey muttered. “Before the biggest fight?”

The coach finally spoke. “Now we see the truth.”

Yooku turned. “Sir?”

“You believed in the gloves,” the coach said. “Tomorrow, you must believe in yourself.”

The fight went on as scheduled.

No gloves from legends. No borrowed fire.

Only Yooku Yankah.

The bell rang.

The foreigner was sharp—taller, disciplined, relentless. Yooku fought hard, but something was missing. His timing wavered. His confidence flickered.

The crowd sensed it.

Round after round, the fight swung back and forth, neither man falling. In the final moments, Yooku slipped, caught himself, and somehow landed a punch that saved him.

The bell ended it.

A draw.

No cheers.

Just confusion.

“Lucky,” someone muttered.

Yooku stood in the ring, chest heaving, staring at his hands- the replacement gloves.

Ayitey Powers jumped in, clapping wildly. “Undefeated! Still undefeated!”

But Yooku didn’t smile.

He knew the truth.

Luck had carried him.

And luck could leave.

As the crowd drifted away, the coach placed a firm hand on Yooku’s shoulder.

“You have reached the limit of borrowed strength,” he said. “If you want to go further… you must go back.”

Yooku looked toward the dark horizon, toward the road that once carried coconuts away from his village.

Toward home.

The rematch was six months away.

And the real work was about to begin.