Chapter 06

Chapter 06

The Name They Gave Me

Baba Jallow found out he had become famous without trying.

He stood in front of a small electronics shop in Brikama, watching a group of young men argue loudly around a flickering television. The news anchor spoke with excitement, replaying shaky phone footage of a dark figure blocking bullets with something that looked like wings.

“…social media users have nicknamed the mysterious vigilante ‘Lazy Crow’ due to his unusual movements and the recurring appearance of crows at the scenes…”

Baba nearly choked on his bread.

“Lazy?” he muttered. “I was working very hard.”

One of the boys laughed. “He doesn’t even fight properly. Just stands there like he’s bored.”

Baba folded his arms, offended.

“That’s style,” he whispered to himself.

The ring hummed, pleased.

Mariama wasn’t amused.

“You’re losing control of the narrative,” she said, pacing her office. “People are watching. The government is watching. And criminals are adapting.”

Baba leaned back in his chair, feet on her desk. “I don’t like narratives. They demand consistency.”

She shoved his feet off. “This isn’t a joke.”

Baba sighed. “I know.”

For a moment, the humour drained from his face.

“They gave me a name,” he said quietly. “Names stick.”

Mariama studied him. “Then define it before someone else does.”

Baba stared at the ring. “I didn’t choose this.”

“No,” she said. “But you’re still responsible for what you do with it.”

That night, the Architect came again.

Not in shadows this time.

He appeared in Baba’s room, sitting comfortably on the edge of the bed like an old friend. A chessboard rested between them—pieces already arranged mid-game.

“You let them name you,” the Architect said, moving a piece.

“I didn’t file paperwork,” Baba replied.

The Architect smiled. “Lazy Crow. It fits. Minimal effort. Maximum disruption.”

Baba scowled. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

The Architect gestured at the board. “Your move.”

Baba looked at it briefly, then knocked over a piece at random.

“I don’t play games.”

The Architect laughed softly. “You’ve been playing since childhood.”

His smile faded. “My first team is almost ready.”

Baba’s chest tightened. “Your villains.”

“Engineered ambition,” the Architect said calmly. “People who want to be something.”

Baba’s eyes burned faint green. “And you want me to fight them.”

“I want to observe,” the Architect corrected. “Conflict produces truth.”

He stood, the chessboard vanishing.

“One of them will come for you soon,” he added. “Consider it… field testing.”

He paused at the door.

“Oh—and Baba?”

“Yes?”

“Heroes who don’t choose their role,” the Architect said softly, “are the most interesting.”

He disappeared.

The attack came three days later.

A man calling himself Iron Palm tore through a police checkpoint outside Serrekunda. His hands glowed red-hot, capable of melting steel. Officers scattered as cars burned.

Baba watched from a rooftop, exhaustion weighing him down.

“Of course,” he sighed. “Complicated.”

The ring blazed.

The shield unfolded with a sharp metallic cry.

Baba stepped into the open, crows circling above as if summoned.

Iron Palm laughed. “Another mask?”

Baba shrugged. “Temporary.”

They collided.

Heat met steel. Fire met wings.

The shield absorbed the worst of the impact, but Baba was thrown back, skidding across the road.

For the first time, the shield cracked.

Baba stared at it, shocked.

“You can break?” he whispered.

Iron Palm grinned. “Everything breaks.”

Baba stood slowly, pain rippling through his body.

“Yeah,” he said. “But some things get angry first.”

The crow shield reformed, darker, sharper.

Baba took a step forward.

Lazy or not—he wasn’t done yet.