Chapter Six: What She Left Unsaid
1441 Words
Zara Okafor-Briggs
Lagos
11:48 p.m.
For a long moment, I simply stare at the bundle in my hands.
The faded blue cloth is tied with a ribbon I recognize immediately.
Adaeze always tied everything twice.
Once for security.
Once because she thought it looked prettier.
My fingers hesitate.
Some part of me already knows that whatever is inside will divide my life into before and after.
I untie the ribbon.
The cloth falls away.
A small leather journal rests in my palms.
Dark green.
The corners are worn smooth.
There is no name on the cover.
Only a tiny pressed jasmine flower tucked between the pages.
My throat tightens.
Adaeze loved jasmine.
She used to tuck flowers into books and insist they kept memories alive.
I sit on the floor beside the bed.
Then I open it.
It isn't a diary.
Most of the pages are blank.
Only a handful have been written on.
The handwriting is unmistakably hers.
Elegant.
Neat.
Controlled.
I begin reading.
The first entry is short.
She writes about feeling watched.
About making choices that no longer feel like her own.
Nothing specific.
Nothing that explains anything.
The second entry mentions meetings.
Arguments.
Pressure.
Every sentence feels unfinished, as though she expected someone else to read it one day.
Or feared they might.
I turn another page.
My pulse grows louder.
Then I reach the final entry.
The date freezes me.
Three months ago.
Three months.
Before my father ever called me.
Before the engagement announcement.
Before everything.
I force myself to keep reading.
I didn't think it would come to this.
A pause.
The ink grows darker.
Pressed harder into the paper.
I thought I could obey and still survive.
My hands tighten around the journal.
Then—
I was wrong.
I swallow.
The next sentence is even shorter.
M says we still have one chance.
M.
Just one letter.
No surname.
No explanation.
No clue.
I continue.
If I stay, everyone loses.
If I leave, maybe only I do.
My chest begins to ache.
Then I reach the final paragraph.
The words seem almost hurried.
As though she was writing against time.
I've made my decision.
They'll never forgive me.
Maybe they shouldn't.
My breathing becomes shallow.
One line remains.
I read it once.
Then again.
Then a third time.
If anything happens to me, don't let them make you into what they made me.
Everything inside me stops.
The room disappears.
The fan overhead.
The walls.
The bed.
Nothing exists except that sentence.
What they made me.
Not what she became.
What they made her.
The distinction matters.
It matters so much that I almost miss the tears gathering in my eyes.
I blink them away immediately.
No.
Not now.
I carefully close the journal.
Wrap it back in the cloth.
Then look around my room.
If someone searches...
No.
They won't find it.
Not again.
I kneel beside my suitcase.
Unzip the inner lining.
There is a hidden compartment meant for passports and documents.
I slide the journal inside.
Zip it shut.
Then place clothes over it.
Only then do I breathe.
Sleep never comes.
The next morning arrives too quickly.
Everything happens at once.
Staff carry luggage downstairs.
Security teams move through the compound.
Phones ring constantly.
Instructions are exchanged.
My father speaks with assistants.
My mother kisses my forehead before I leave.
It is the first affectionate gesture she has offered in years.
I don't know what to do with it.
At exactly nine o'clock, two black SUVs pull into the driveway.
One belongs to my family.
The other to the Adeyemis.
Emeka steps out.
Dark navy suit.
No tie today.
He looks as composed as he did the day we met.
As though nothing has changed.
Perhaps nothing has.
For him.
We greet our parents.
Photographers are already waiting outside the gates.
Naturally.
The engagement has become news.
The future husband and wife leaving for London.
A perfect headline.
A perfect lie.
The moment we step outside, cameras begin flashing.
Someone calls our names.
"Look this way!"
"One more photograph!"
"Smile!"
I do.
My face obeys before my heart can object.
Emeka rests one hand lightly against the small of my back.
Just enough.
Not intimate.
Not distant.
Perfect.
Always perfect.
The photographs last less than three minutes.
It feels much longer.
Then we're inside the car.
The door closes.
Silence.
Finally.
Lagos slips past the windows.
Traffic.
Street vendors.
Yellow buses.
The city I once called home.
The city I don't know anymore.
Neither of us speaks for several minutes.
Then, unexpectedly—
"Do you miss London?"
I turn toward him.
The question catches me off guard.
Not because of what he asked.
Because of how he asked it.
Quietly.
Without strategy.
Without performance.
I answer automatically.
"No."
A lie.
An obvious one.
He looks out the window again.
He doesn't challenge it.
Doesn't call me out.
Just nods once.
As though he already knows the truth.
That somehow makes me feel worse.
The airport is chaos.
Security.
Journalists.
Travelers.
More cameras.
We move through it together.
Always together.
Always observed.
Someone congratulates us.
Someone else asks about wedding plans.
I smile.
He answers.
By the time we board the private jet arranged by our families, I'm exhausted.
The cabin is quiet.
Elegant.
Only us.
No parents.
No assistants.
No photographers.
No audience.
The silence changes immediately.
It feels...
Different.
Less forced.
More honest.
I take the seat beside the window.
He sits beside me.
For several minutes neither of us speaks.
The engines begin to hum.
The aircraft moves.
Then lifts.
Lagos shrinks beneath us.
I watch until the coastline disappears into cloud.
Only then do I look away.
A flight attendant offers coffee.
We both decline.
Another silence.
Strange.
Not uncomfortable.
Just unfamiliar.
For the first time since we met...
There is nothing expected of us.
No smiles.
No pretending.
No one watching.
Just two strangers sitting side by side.
Bound by promises neither made.
Eventually, Emeka opens a document on his tablet.
Reads for several minutes.
Then closes it.
He leans back.
Closes his eyes.
Within minutes...
He's asleep.
I blink.
Actually asleep.
The realization surprises me more than it should.
He doesn't look different.
Not dramatically.
Just...
Younger.
The tension around his mouth disappears.
His shoulders relax slightly.
Without the constant awareness in his eyes, he almost looks...
Human.
I immediately regret the thought.
Of course he's human.
Why would I—
Because it has been easier to imagine him as something else.
Something colder.
Simpler.
Safer to dislike.
I look away.
Then glance back despite myself.
He really is asleep.
A strange feeling settles in my chest.
Not attraction.
Certainly not.
Something closer to...
Curiosity.
And somehow, that feels more dangerous.
I turn toward the window.
Clouds stretch endlessly beneath us.
I rest my forehead against the glass.
Inside my suitcase, hidden beneath layers of fabric, Adaeze's journal waits.
Along with questions I don't yet know how to ask.
By the time the plane begins its descent, London is wrapped in grey skies.
Rain streaks across the windows.
The city looks exactly as I remember.
Beautiful.
Distant.
Mine.
Or at least...
It used to be.
We land smoothly.
A black luxury car waits beside the private terminal.
The driver greets Emeka by name.
Our luggage is loaded.
We climb inside.
The journey into the city passes quietly.
I recognize familiar streets.
Buildings.
Bridges.
Places that once felt like freedom.
They don't anymore.
Eventually the car turns into Mayfair.
Expensive.
Exclusive.
Predictable.
It stops outside a sleek modern building.
Glass.
Stone.
Private entrance.
The driver opens the door.
"We're here."
I step out.
Look up.
Luxury.
Of course.
Emeka walks ahead.
The concierge greets him warmly.
"Welcome home, Mr. Adeyemi."
Home.
The word catches oddly.
We enter the lift.
Ride upward.
Neither of us speaks.
The doors open onto a private floor.
One door.
Only one.
I frown.
Surely—
Emeka unlocks it.
The apartment is enormous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
Dark wood.
Soft lighting.
Elegant.
Impersonal.
Beautiful.
He steps inside.
Then looks back at me.
Only then does understanding hit.
Hard.
There isn't another apartment.
There isn't another hallway.
There isn't another door waiting for me.
This isn't temporary accommodation.
This isn't a shared building.
This is one apartment.
One home.
One front door.
One kitchen.
One living room.
One life.
My breath catches.
For the first time since this nightmare began...
The reality becomes impossible to avoid.
There will be no family here.
No parents.
No staff hovering nearby.
No buffer.
No escape into another room across another house.
Just him.
And me.
Completely alone.
- Writer
