CHAPTER 5: ASHES OF TRUST
1916 Words
The first light of dawn spilled like pale milk over Abeokuta’s hills, painting the rocks in shades of bronze and sorrow.
Osas had walked for two days with little rest, her clothes stiff with dust, her shoes barely holding together. The world felt both endless and closing in — each road another test, each shadow a whisper of pursuit.
By the third morning, hunger gnawed at her like teeth. She followed the river downstream, hoping it would lead to a settlement. When she reached one — a small town called Ilupeju — she almost wept.
Children played barefoot along the muddy banks, women washed clothes in rhythm, and the smell of frying plantain drifted through the air. For the first time in weeks, Osas felt the ghost of peace.
She found a small stall by the roadside where an elderly man sold bread and tea.
“Morning, sir,” she said softly.
The man looked up, eyes creased by time but kind. “Morning, my daughter. You look tired.”
“I’m… traveling.”
He studied her for a moment before nodding. “Traveling people still need to eat. Sit.”
He handed her a cup of steaming tea and a piece of bread without asking questions. The warmth spread through her chest like mercy.
When she tried to pay, he waved her off. “You can help me later if you wish. My son’s shop needs painting. You look like someone with steady hands.”
Osas froze. “Painting?”
He chuckled. “Yes. You look like an artist.”
For the first time in a long time, she smiled — small, uncertain, but real. “Maybe I am.”
---
That afternoon, she found herself at the man’s son’s carpentry shop — a wooden shed that smelled of sawdust and oil. She helped repaint the faded signboard, her hands remembering the way to guide a brush, the way colors could make life breathe again.
Passersby stopped to watch her work. Some nodded in approval. One woman whispered, “You paint like the city people.”
Osas only smiled faintly. The city had taken too much from her to ever claim her again.
When the job was done, the carpenter’s father approached her with a satisfied grin. “You do good work, daughter. What name should I tell people if they ask?”
She hesitated, brush trembling slightly. “Osa,” she said finally. “Just Osa.”
The man nodded. “Well, Osa, you’ll find welcome here as long as you wish to stay.”
It was a simple offer — but to Osas, it felt like a doorway to breathe again.
---
Days folded into one another.
Osas stayed in Ilupeju, working at the carpenter’s shop, mending signs, painting wooden stools and doors. The locals grew used to the quiet woman who lived near the river, who smiled rarely but worked with a fire in her eyes.
At night, she sketched by lamplight — the bend of the river, the faces of strangers, sometimes even Efe’s outline, fading and returning with every stroke.
Yet, beneath the calm, unease simmered. The note she’d received back in Ibadan still haunted her. You cannot hide forever.
She had not told anyone her full name since then.
---
One evening, as she closed the shutters of her small rented room, she noticed a stranger watching from across the street.
He was young, neatly dressed, his eyes following her movements with a calm that was more dangerous than curiosity. When she met his gaze, he didn’t look away.
The next day, he came to the shop.
“You’re the painter,” he said easily, his voice smooth. “I saw your work on the market sign. Beautiful lines.”
Osas kept her brush steady. “Thank you.”
“I’m new in town,” he continued. “My name’s Tobi. I’m helping the church nearby with some repairs. Thought maybe you could paint a mural for us — something bright, to lift spirits.”
His smile was open, harmless — almost too harmless.
Osas hesitated, then nodded. “If it’s honest work, I’ll do it.”
“Good,” he said, his eyes glinting faintly. “Honest work deserves honest hands.”
---
Over the next few days, Tobi returned often. Sometimes he brought food, sometimes stories. He was curious about her past, but in a gentle way — or so it seemed.
One night, while they worked late painting the church wall, he said quietly, “You paint like someone who’s seen both heaven and fire.”
She paused, brush midair. “Maybe I have.”
He studied her profile under the lamplight. “Whatever burned you didn’t destroy you.”
She turned to him then, eyes shadowed. “Fire changes things. It doesn’t ask permission.”
Tobi smiled faintly. “Then maybe you were meant to walk through it.”
Something in his tone unsettled her — admiration laced with something she couldn’t name.
---
The mural became a small miracle. Children gathered to watch, laughter echoing through the dusty square. Even the priest, a quiet man with weary eyes, called it “a blessing from God.”
But not everyone was smiling.
One afternoon, Osas caught sight of a figure near the edge of the crowd — a man in a brown cap, his face partly hidden. He watched her work for a long moment before disappearing into the alley.
Her pulse quickened. That walk, that stance — it was too deliberate.
That night, she couldn’t sleep. The wind outside carried strange sounds: footsteps fading, whispers near her window. She pressed her hand to her chest, willing her heart to quiet.
---
Two days later, Tobi arrived with a different energy — tenser, distracted.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He nodded quickly. “Yes, yes. Just… some trouble at the church. You know how people talk.”
But his eyes darted toward the street, scanning it before he spoke again. “Listen, Osa, maybe you should leave town for a while. Things here are… changing.”
“Changing how?”
He hesitated. “Strangers asking questions. About a woman who paints. A woman traveling alone.”
The world tilted. “What did you tell them?”
“Nothing.” His voice was too quick. “But they’re looking. You need to go.”
Her throat tightened. “Who sent them?”
He looked away. “I don’t know.”
But she saw the lie flicker in his eyes — quick, brittle.
---
That night, Osas packed her things again. She wrapped her sketches in oilcloth, tied her shawl tight. As she reached for the door, a knock froze her in place.
She gripped the handle, silent. Another knock, gentler this time.
“It’s me,” came Tobi’s voice. “Please. We need to talk.”
Against instinct, she opened the door a crack. His face was drawn, sweat glistening on his brow. “They’re coming,” he whispered. “Men from the city. Two, maybe three. I tried to stop them—”
A shout cut through the night.
“Here! She’s inside!”
Tobi’s eyes widened. “Run!”
Osas bolted through the back door, barefoot, the wind slapping her face. Behind her, footsteps thundered. She sprinted through narrow alleys, heart pounding, the world reduced to sound and breath.
“Stop her!”
She leapt a low fence, stumbled, then kept running. The moon lit her path — the same moon that had watched her escape before.
When she reached the riverbank, the air burned with shouts. She turned — Tobi stood on the opposite shore, waving frantically.
“This way!” he called. “Quickly!”
Osas hesitated, chest heaving. Could she trust him?
A torch flared behind her — too close. She made her choice.
She plunged into the river.
The cold struck like knives, but she pushed forward, each stroke powered by fear and fury. The current pulled hard; she fought harder. When she reached the far side, Tobi caught her arm and hauled her onto the muddy shore.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Their breaths came ragged, hearts loud against the night.
Then Osas whispered, “You led them.”
Tobi flinched. “No—”
“You led them!” Her voice was sharp, trembling. “You told them who I was.”
“I didn’t want this! They threatened me— they said—”
She stepped back, tears cutting through the river’s mud on her face. “You were kind because you were paid to be.”
He lowered his head. “I didn’t know what they’d do. I swear, I thought they just wanted to talk.”
Osas shook her head slowly. “You don’t understand. Talking is how men like them start the killing.”
She turned, walking into the darkness.
Tobi reached for her, but she was gone — swallowed by the night, by the forest, by her own silence.
---
By dawn, she was far from Ilupeju, her body trembling with exhaustion. The betrayal had reopened every wound she’d tried to heal. Trust had once again turned to ash.
She found refuge beneath an abandoned shed by the roadside, where she rested and stared at the horizon. The sky blushed with sunrise, indifferent to her pain.
In that fragile light, she whispered a vow:
“No more running. No more hiding. If the storm wants me, it will meet fire.”
The words tasted like steel on her tongue — bitter, final, alive.
---
Meanwhile, in Benin, Edosa stood before a map littered with pins and red threads. His men had sent word from Abeokuta, from Ibadan, from towns in between. Each report carried traces of her, but never her capture.
Uyi entered quietly. “Sir. We found a trail near Ilupeju. The girl escaped again.”
Edosa smiled thinly. “Of course she did. That’s what makes her worth finding.”
He turned toward the half-finished painting in the corner — the one he’d started before she fled. The brush strokes looked angry, desperate.
“She’s learning,” he murmured. “Running teaches survival. Pain teaches purpose.”
Uyi tilted his head. “Should I keep searching?”
Edosa’s gaze darkened. “No. She’ll come to me now. When the fire inside her burns bright enough, she’ll come back to end it.”
He dipped his brush into crimson paint and dragged it across the canvas like a wound.
“Let her think she’s free,” he said softly. “Even birds circle back to the flame.”
---
That night, Osas found herself walking along a dirt road that curved toward the coast. The world was quiet, except for the hum of crickets and the whisper of wind through dry grass.
In the distance, faint lights shimmered — another town, another beginning, or another trap.
She didn’t care anymore. The fear that once chained her had become something else — something fierce, alive.
She stopped for a moment, looking at the moon above. Its pale light touched the scars on her arms like a benediction.
“Efe,” she whispered. “If you’re alive, keep moving. I’m coming back for you.”
The road stretched ahead — dark, uncertain, but hers.
She took the first step, and the night seemed to bow before her resolve.
The wind rose behind her, carrying the scent of ash and rain.
- Writer
