1
The arrival of the hyena troupe in Bonaventure’s world felt almost fated, for he had spent most of his life retreating from a world that kept turning away from him. His skin, pale and speckled with dark patches, drew guffaws and sneers. When he was younger, with his father still around but money tight enough to barely clothe him, classmates teased him to step into the sun at noon. They challenged him to reach the playground without narrowing his eyes, one palm raised to shield from the glare. They teased him as if he were a slab of butter melting under the heat. And they suggested he might be a vampire banished to the shadows.
Moments before the hyena boys appeared, he sat beneath the shade of his father’s bacha dwelling, preparing for the day ahead. He slipped off his singlet, filled a bowl with water from a jerry can, washed his hair, dried his damp underarms, and drew a chewing stick from his pocket. He added more water to the bowl and soaked his shirt. With a rough chip of soap, he scrubbed as he moved the stick between his teeth.
The bacha house itself was a maze of shacks built from whatever scraps of metal and vehicle parts people could find. The lot had once functioned as a mechanic village, and their place lay farther out, near a solitary garbage mountain, surrounded by overgrown grasses and a tall transmission tower. He could barely scrape together rent for the slumlords. Even as rotten smells of decay and dampness washed over him, he had vowed to his father to protect the bacha shelter. It was pitiful, perhaps, but his father remained the only thing he could count on. He had lost his mother’s love to liquor long before he learned what love was, and the alcohol did more than ruin her health—it erased her from his life.
Bonaventure often wondered if that was why his skin looked so pale beneath the surface. Maybe it was the way his mother began drinking as soon as she carried him.
The skeletons of cars scattered the lot wore a red dust like a mask; some were missing tires, others had their hoods ajar, axles propped on wooden barrels, tufts of horsehair poking from torn seats.
*
Bonaventure pictured the cars’ cannibalization as a slow, step-by-step process: first the engines vanished piece by piece, then the fittings, then the padding and upholstery, and finally whatever remained of the frame. He sometimes rummaged the yard for scraps to sell or barter at the nearby market. He never discovered anything truly valuable. Yet he did learn a little trick for making money. Each morning he went to the bus terminal, where conductors jostled for passengers and shouted out routes. Before passengers could refuse, Bonaventure would grab their bags and load them onto the buses they indicated, insisting that he was happy to help. Then he waited for a tip. On good days he returned home with some loose change; more often, he was chased away by irate conductors who claimed he didn’t belong to the union.
Bonaventure wrung his singlet dry and hung it on the tarpaulin covering the bacha house. Above him, the thick cables of the transmission tower hummed softly in the breeze. He spat out the juice from the chewing stick, eyes roaming until they settled on a rusting Datsun swallowed by weeds. The cars had remained there so long that they had become a vivid blend of greenery and corrosion. Branches threaded through shattered windows, grass grew on the car floors, moss greened the chassis to the point where seats and steering wheels were overtaken. Vines wound around metal bars, stems threaded through seats, roots tangled in a mess of limbs. The tall trees overhead reached down as if to touch the vehicles. Bonaventure loved the scent of withered leaves dampened by dew and the soft rustle of creatures slipping in and out of the car shells. About half a mile away, near the other bacha homes, merchants with no proper city stalls claimed open patches along the rusted tracks, turning them into lively markets at daybreak or whenever police or the environmental task force wasn’t looking. In that quiet corner of the lot, he found a fragile, comforting peace—a respite from the ugliness beyond.
Then four strangers emerged from the narrow path that led to his corner. One wore a torn T-shirt and a multicolored pleated skirt, adorned with amulets of turtle shells and cowries. His head was shaved. His bare torso bore crusted sores and the marks of countless battles on his face.
At his heels walked an animal Bonaventure initially mistook for a lion. He would later learn it was a spotted hyena named Mufasa. The creature wore a sandy-ginger coat flecked with black markings, a short mane along the neck, and a sturdy chain around its neck with a pointed muzzle clamped shut. The hyena’s deranged cackle accompanied its tugging against the handler, and the sight unsettled Bonaventure enough to quicken his step toward a hedge in case he needed to escape.
Another man moved ahead on a rattling bicycle, a large brown suitcase strapped to the seat. A third man had a baboon perched atop his shoulders, while a fourth carried a bundle and balanced a Ghana-must-go bag on his head. The fourth wore a khaki-brown uniform and scuffed shoes, a green beret at a jaunty angle on his head; the baboon wore a Chelsea FC jersey and a rusty chain around its waist.
The men quickened their pace. Bonaventure admired the way they carried themselves—their confidence, their approach. They moved like undefeated wrestlers entering a ring, propelled by an unseen force that told them they could conquer anything. In days to come, Bonaventure would hear rumors from northerners about a people who used ancient magic to tame beasts, even their youngest members—rumors that suggested such power could domesticate even the wildest creatures.
Bonaventure drew closer, shielding himself behind a car shell; the daylight hurt his eyes, and distance never offered him a clear view.
The group gathered at a clearing beside the rusting Datsun, tethered their animals, and quickly erected a tarpaulin tent by unrolling bundles and driving nails into the fabric.
Despite his fascination, he resented their intrusion. The shouts, laughter, and taunts crawled over him, making him unsettled, and he wondered if they would stay or simply pass through. He wondered whether they had simply claimed the property or if they had paid the slumlords for it. In his world, ownership of the lot remained unsettled; the slumlords—a gang of street-thugs—owned and monetized the place, their claim unchallenged. Since his father disappeared, he had been paying monthly dues to these goons.
The man who steered the bicycle set the suitcase down and unzipped it. A snake rose and crept out, surveying its surroundings before slithering away through the brush. The reptile seemed to sense that it was to be granted a little liberty, for as soon as the tent came together, it returned to the confines of the suitcase, curling itself back inside.
Later, the men wore talismans on their necks, arms, and waists and departed with their beasts. Bonaventure, wearing a pair of half-rotted slippers, trailed at a respectful distance, trying not to be seen.
2
Wherever he went, Bonaventure had always drawn glances, and not in a favorable way. But today, trailing behind the troupe with their beasts, he merged with the crowd in a way he never had before; for the first time, no one looked at him with curiosity or scorn. A strange mix of relief and envy rose in him.
In the marketplace, clusters of children gathered to watch the spectacle. The younger kids bounced with excitement, while the older onlookers—traders and bystanders— climbed atop a vacant kiosk to catch a glimpse of the act.
He endured the stink of unwashed bodies as he forced his way through the crowd for a better view. A face seemed to loom close, warm breath brushing his cheek.
The sun pricked his skin and he finally understood the rumor he had overheard—that the hyena troupe were performers who would stretch their stay in this town for a few days before moving on to the next. The thought of sharing a bed with wild animals in such a place unsettled him.
Conga drums rolled in. The hyena handler stepped into the center and the animal began to circle him. The beast lunged forward, teeth bared, but the harness kept it in check. The crowd gasped, then clapped, and a passerby dropped ten naira near the stage while another added a few coins. Bonaventure pressed closer through the dust and noise for a better view.
The handler loosened the hyena’s muzzle. When the beast’s jaws opened, the handler slid his own neck between them. He then pressed his neck forward into the animal’s mouth, drawing a tense moment of fear among the spectators. Bonaventure looked away, then forced himself to watch again as the man’s neck remained between the jaws for several seconds. The crowd held its breath, then exhaled in relief and awe as the jaws released. More money bubbled into the performer’s hands.
A performer emerged, clutching a large chunk of beef by the bone and presenting it to the hyena handler, who fed the animal and held the other end as a prize for obedience. Applause rippled through the crowd.
The baboon wearing a Chelsea jersey swung into action, shaking hands with spectators, dancing, and performing somersaults on command. The cobra uncoiled from its luggage and began to sway to the music, its hood blooming as it rose. One of the men dangerously pressed his face close to the venomous head as the creature wrapped around his neck.
Bonaventure spotted a woman moving through the crowd who seemed to head the group. She wore a long, worn dress and a scarf tied around her head. Her arm bore tattoos—a snake, and across the exposed chest, a pair of eyes. Her face was powdered heavily. A burlap sack hung from her shoulder. The animals reacted to her presence with heightened energy—the hyena snarled and snorted, the baboon chattered with glee. The men cleared space for her to sit, then brought out a chair and a low stool for her to set the sack’s contents upon. Most of the bottles were brown glass with fabric stoppers, along with a few snuff boxes.
“This is medicine for bed-wetting,” she announced, flourishing one of the brown bottles. “I also have cures for coughs, malaria, and childlessness; they’re all here,” she went on. “I even have a remedy for a difficult child or one who isn’t doing well in school. A single drop and that child will be sharp as an elephant’s tusk.”
Bonaventure wondered if she might have something for him as well. Was there a potion to darken his skin, sharpen his senses, and make him whole? He dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it rose. After her recitation, the crowd’s pockets opened wide and the hyena handler barked for order as the performances resumed.
3
Mighty Igor was the muscled, scarred man who trained Mufasa; the hyena’s handler. The baboon bore the nickname Frank Lampard, while K Minor tended to him. Obama and Traffic Light were the other two men. Uwa was the troupe’s leader, a formidable presence with cold, calculating eyes. When Uwa arrived by a Keke Napo (a motorized rickshaw), the men stood at attention, and a chair awaited her as she was seated with the same ceremony as during performances.
Frank Lampard’s growls broke the peace for the rest of the day. Mufasa, chained to a tent pole, cried out intermittently, disturbing the quiet as Bonaventure slept. The scent of animal waste woke him. Should he leave the bacha house? It was bad enough that he struggled to raise money to placate the slumlord’s extortion, but now he had to tolerate this new nuisance. Yet this shelter, built by his father’s hands, was all he had left. Before they settled here, when his father mismanaged money through gambling, they moved every couple of years to dodge debtors; this final time, the debt collectors had cornered his father before they could flee, and Bonaventure hadn’t seen him since. Still, he clung to the hope that his father would return. The man could be many things, but he was not a fool. He always managed to wriggle out of danger by spinning grand promises that never came true.
The slumlords returned at noon that day. Bonaventure pulled some money from his stash and stepped outside the bacha house.
“I’m here. Where’s my money?” the leader announced, scanning the crowd as if addressing a group of tenants, though his eyes hadn’t yet found the hyena boys.
The men rode the rusted lot with the swagger of men who owned it, and the leader’s gaze finally found the newcomers. A gaunt, starved look to his frame, saliva flecked his lips, and his trousers held up by a length of twine. A second thug carried a metal pole; his armpits were slick with sweat, and another stood shirtless, his spine curving oddly.
“When they told me new folks had moved in, I asked whether they’d paid us,” he rasped, hitching up his trousers. Mighty Igor stepped from the tent to face him.
“Who do you think you are to come here and tell us what to do?” Mighty Igor snapped. Curved Spine picked up a large rock and advanced toward the hyena boys. Traffic Light, K Minor, and Obama sprang to defend him.
“Igor!” Uwa’s voice boomed from the tent; Igor retreated. Uwa stepped out.
“Sir, what do you want?” she asked.
Before he could answer, she went back inside and reappeared with Mufasa. The slumlords fell back in fear, one even etching a distance before stopping. Bonaventure’s heart skipped. The hyena—Mufasa—snarled, its pupils contracting to needle edges, ready to leap.
“This place doesn’t belong to you. We asked around. Now leave us and never come here again,” she proclaimed, snapping her fingers. Mufasa edged toward the slumlord, saliva dripping from its jaws, and after a moment the slumlord hesitated, spat on the ground, and left with his men.
In that instant, Bonaventure decided he wanted what they had. He craved the power to strike fear into others, to act as he wished with no one questioning him, instead of living in fear and rejection. Like Mighty Igor or Uwa, he longed to command respect from strangers. What name would he take? Voltron. The Defender of the Universe, he decided, like the cartoons he had watched, though he wasn’t sure who he would defend. Voltron sounded formidable. He would move from city to city, far away from the pain of his past. He had always felt unmoored; this time, he would claim mastery, trample the world if he had to, as if he owned it.
4
The next morning, Bonaventure lingered behind at the bacha house, watching the hyena boys’ tent from a distance to figure out how to catch their eye when they returned. What if he tried to feed one of their beasts—a banana for Frank Lampard or a scrap of meat from the abattoir for Mufasa—and showed he could belong? What if he went straight to Uwa and spoke to her directly?
Their tent stood bare, sparsely littered with scraps; nothing remained—no sleeping mats, no bedding. It felt depressingly familiar.
“We arrived with nothing when we were born into this world,” his father used to tell him, long ago, whenever there was nothing to sit on.
Hunger gnawed at him, so he headed to the bus terminal again to try his luck. He pushed into the throng of engines and hawkers, listening to the rhythm of engines and the clamor of sellers peddling wares through car windows. He spotted a bald driver who appeared to have no conductor and took it as an opportunity. Although it was rare, sometimes a driver would dismiss a conductor, making room for someone like him to ferry passengers in exchange for a cut. He began calling out routes away from the others.
He found his first passenger, reclaimed her handbag, guided her through the melee to the bald driver, and took off before the driver could object, darting back into the crowd. He roamed through pedestrians, demanding destinations. He liberated a woman’s heavy load and slid it onto the bus. He did this again, returning with two male passengers and handing them to the driver before sprinting back into the crowd. A boy conductor stepped into his path. This did not surprise him.
“Who are you?” the conductor challenged.
Bonaventure knew the moment would come when they questioned his nerve. But today he decided he would not tolerate being harassed any longer. They wouldn’t dare disrupt the hyena troupe with their intimidating looks and ferocious beasts, would they? He wrinkled his nose and attempted to slip by. The conductor shoved him, sending him sprawling to the dusty earth. He picked himself up and struck back with a flurry of hooks and jabs, and the boy staggered away, bleeding from a cut on his forehead. All he wanted was enough money for lunch, with a little extra saved for the dues.
A crowd formed, but he did not care. The boy lunged at his legs, and Bonaventure wasn’t quick enough to save himself. His knees buckled, and his skull slammed into the hard-packed soil. He kicked the attacker away, then rose. The bald driver appeared, a gnarled stick brandished in one hand. The boy retreated, cursing and spitting. The bald driver told him to go home.
Home?
With adrenaline fading, his head felt heavy. He touched the back of his skull and found his fingers stained with red. He clenched his jaw against the pain.
The troupe returned while Bonaventure was still making his way back to the bacha house, and Mighty Igor beckoned him with a sharp insistence.
“Uwa wants to see you,” Igor announced.
Her eyes looked like cold slits, a piercing gaze that unsettled him.
“Young man, what were you doing in my tent?” she asked.
Words spilled from him with no control, as if his brain and vocal cords had short-circuited. If it had been up to him, he would have clamped his throat shut to hold the syllables in, but he was no longer in command. Pain pounded at his skull as he touched the still-bleeding back of his head.
“Come, my special child—let me tend to your wounds.”
He shifted his gaze toward her. The fire in her eyes had faded, replaced by a softer, almost gentle smile.
5
She explained that they belonged to an ancient lineage of snake charmers and circus performers. She claimed that her father, and even her grandfather and great-grandfather before him, were hyena men.
“See this one?” she said, pointing to Mighty Igor, who sat on a rock, smoking. “His mother gave him to me when he was just a child. I taught him not to fear anything from a very young age.”
Igor’s head jerked back, lips curling into a sneer, and smoke puffed from his nostrils. The night gathered around them as they sat near a fire, and the heat intensified.
“You are a special boy. You will bring us money and good fortune,” she told him, taking his hands and examining him closely. A moment of doubt flickered, but he reminded himself that he had nothing left to lose. He reminded himself that albinos—though shunned—were believed to possess certain mystical powers, power he had never felt he could claim before now.
“To tame the beast of the wild, you must first be tamed,” said Uwa.
Uwa produced a small packet and opened it to reveal a dark powder. Then she raised her face toward the night, remaining motionless for a long moment, murmuring words in a language he could not understand. The initiation felt like a price worth paying to become Voltron. What did it mean to be tamed? He had always been the underdog; perhaps life would simply grant him a new kind of control.
The glow from the embers shaded Uwa as smoke curled around her, and the night thickened with the scent of wood smoke.
She set the packet on her palms and poured the powder into a glass of water Mighty Igor offered. It bubbled and frothed. She handed the glass to Bonaventure.
He coughed, then clasped the glass with both hands and brought it to his lips, his body shaking. His pale skin flushed as the liquid slid down his chin, leaving a foamy trail above his lip.
He sat in silence for a long while, eyes blank, navigating the labyrinths of memory. His body ached, shivers ran along his spine, and his thoughts spiraled into a chaos he could not grasp. Later, Igor would recall telling him that in that moment the spark vanished from his eyes and his pupils disappeared altogether.
He pictured himself wandering among bobbing heads and outstretched hands—a zombie-esque crowd with faces slick with sweat, anger, fear, and anticipation. He saw former classmates approaching with furious eyes, lobbing insults at him.
“Yellow.” A mouthful of phlegm was spat in his direction, and more phlegm slid down his temples, as if the viscous yellow liquid could be seen in the air.
Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow.
At first the taunts cut sharp; then they stretched, like a badly recorded cassette.
He felt a nauseous heaviness pressing on him. He took shallow breaths to fight it, then broke into a near-vomiting reaction. He collapsed to his knees, then stomach, his body wracked by sobs and a long, animal howl. Then the world shifted. He found himself walking a path lined with bougainvillea, into a forest of flowers whose strange music drifted into his ears.
They kept him upright and seated him when he returned. Something slimy and rope-like seemed to coil around his neck; something flashed in his peripheral vision. He became aware of the cobra’s flicking tongue. This time the sensation was oddly calm rather than terrifying. He felt a strange music in his heart.
As night deepened, the stars brightened. They shared a bottle of schnapps and Bonaventure took a gulp, warming himself from the inside. Mighty Igor drank too much and called him “brother.” Bonaventure smiled, then laughed. For the first time, he felt at home in his own skin, free from humiliation or fear. It was a strange, almost rebirth-like sensation. The world seemed new and reset.
On a new morning, they went out to perform. This time he joined them, carrying the heavy brown briefcase that held the cobra. He was given a horsewhip and told to command the crowd. He watched the chaos swirl—dust, crowds, cars roaring—glory on the edge of his fingers.
Within the crowd, he recognized one of the two conductors who had confronted him before, and without hesitation he charged after him. His whip lashed out with brutal force, shredding the fabric of the man’s brown T-shirt and scattering flesh. The conductor writhed and twisted, but Bonaventure raised the whip again. Terrified, the conductor fled. A faint smile crossed Bonaventure’s lips as a surge of dominance coursed through him, a vindication he had never felt before.
Moments later, the conductor reappeared, flanked by three men. Their eyes burned with pain and threat, and they stood at the edge of the crowd like predators. Bonaventure moved closer to the troupe as if proximity alone could shield him from danger. The men did not advance; perhaps they recognized the whip as more than a mere prop—the whip was a symbol of the troupe’s authority, a tool that could enforce obedience as a police badge enforces law.
He understood then that he was no longer completely safe here. Or perhaps safety existed only as long as he stayed with the troupe. They returned to the lot before noon, where he found his father waiting for him.
6
His body rigid, Bonaventure walked in and offered a quiet greeting. His father’s face bore a sour expression, and he asked where he had been. When Bonaventure did not answer immediately, the man called him good-for-nothing, the son of a drunken fool.
His father opened his mouth to cast more scorn, but a harsh cough broke him before he could unleash more insults. Veins stood out on his neck, tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. The man’s power over him had diminished; he seemed smaller than he ever had before. Bonaventure spoke softly, warning him that pushing him further would only break him. Then he told his father about the troupe and declared that he intended to leave and not look back. For a moment, his father offered a tired, empty glance. He asked, “Do you want to be better than your father? You have no education. You have nothing. I’m the only family you have.”
Sorting through his belongings, Bonaventure packed a plastic bag with a few clothes. His father’s laugh boomed, mocking him, and he turned away before Bonaventure could finish gathering. He joined the hyena boys at the tent, Igor offering him a lit joint as they sat in silence, Bonaventure’s hands shaking as he held the blunt to his lips. He closed his eyes, drew in the smoke, and felt it creep through his mind. They shared stories and laughed, and as Bonaventure listened and laughed along, the anxiety eased away.
That afternoon, the slumlord and Curved Spine arrived with armed policemen, and a chill ran through Bonaventure. He knew the slumlord acted with impunity, but he hadn’t expected the criminals to have police on their side. The officers shoved Uwa from the tent, and when Mufasa howled in protest, one of the policemen cocked his rifle. Uwa commanded the beast to stand down, and the officers exchanged insults with Traffic Light and Igor. One officer slapped Traffic Light’s cheek; when he raised his hand again to strike, the animal’s handlers ducked away. The men grappled with the officers, who drew their guns and shouted threats. A shot cracked in the air, followed by another, the scent of gunpowder stinging Bonaventure’s nose. Fear swelled inside him like a balloon, and his breath quickened. As the officers began to corral everyone, Bonaventure spoke up. He claimed he wasn’t with them. If allowed, he would have kept quiet, but he could no longer pretend. He lived in the bacha house down the road and paid his dues faithfully. Mighty Igor glared at him with a mix of disbelief and anger, then his eyes met Uwa’s, softened with a hint of pain. Bonaventure turned away. The slumlord confirmed that he wasn’t among them, and the officers released him.
When the police drove away Uwa and the four others, the adrenaline ebbed and guilt washed over him. For a moment he tried to tell himself that he hadn’t betrayed them, that he had merely stepped back to survive. He tailed the troupe from a distance as they were loaded into a Black Maria by the roadside and headed toward a police station—a battered, paint-peeling building that looked as tired as the city itself.
He stood at the curb, shoulders hunched, torn between two destinies. Should he walk into the station and declare himself one of them, risking ridicule or arrest? Or should he wait for their release, and then apologize to Uwa and the others? He considered following them, or turning away forever.
He approached the station, where a wooden counter was staffed by two policemen. Behind it hung a framed photo of the president and a governor. The air smelled of urine and disinfectant, and a dim corridor led to the cells beyond. One officer recognized him immediately.
“Aren’t you the yellow boy we tried to arrest a few minutes ago?” the officer growled. “You must think we’re joking here.”
“No, sir.”
The officer’s blunt words jolted him back to reality. A group of people entered the station, bringing a complaint about a stolen goat. It suddenly registered to him what joining the troupe could mean: possible prison time for a long stretch, with no guarantee of legal help or escape. He remembered how law enforcement often disliked holding suspects for long. If the troupe did nothing to free themselves, they might be sent to a brutal federal prison instead.
He stepped outside as the sun bore down and the heat scorched his skin, blurring his vision. A distant shout rang out, “Yellow!” It started with one voice, and others quickly joined in, their chants echoing as they pranced about with gleeful mischief. The taunt stung him, as if he were being asked to choose between a life of fear and a life among them. He turned back toward the station and re-entered.
“Go back home,” the officer barked, irritation in his voice.
He hesitated, unsure of how to respond. Perhaps the officers would throw him out, and he would return to find them gone; perhaps his hope would fade with time. Maybe meeting them would feel unreal. Or perhaps they would seize him and treat him as family, turning him into Voltron, Defender of the Universe.
__________________________________
From “Hyena Boys” by Samuel Kọ́láwọ́lé, which appears in the new issue of The Common, Issue 32. Used with permission of the publisher, The Common. © 2026 by Samuel Kọ́láwọ́lé.
