CHAPTER TWO — No Escape
1482 Words
The next morning greeted Ameerah with a suffocating silence. The kind that said everything without a single word spoken. Her eyes felt heavy, swollen from crying through the night, but she forced herself out of bed. The compound was already noisy—chairs being shifted, pots clanging in the kitchen, voices discussing colors and decorations. Preparations continued like a machine she had no control over.
She needed a plan.
If her stepfather could sell her to pay a debt, then the only person who would help her was the one adult who had always loved her—her uncle, Mama’s younger brother. He lived in Abuja, but he had money. Power. Influence. And unlike everyone else in this town, he would never stay quiet if he knew what was happening to her.
Ameerah wiped her face, inhaling shakily. She slipped her phone out from under her pillow, praying the battery hadn’t died. It had 27%. Enough.
She dialed her uncle’s number and pressed the phone to her ear, pulse racing.
It rang once.
Twice.
Three times—
A heavy hand slammed the door open.
Her heart dropped.
Her stepfather stood there, filling the doorway, lips curled with cold suspicion. His eyes dropped to the phone in her hand.
She didn’t even breathe before he crossed the room in three long strides and snatched it from her fingers.
“Who were you calling?” His voice was a low, dangerous whisper.
“My… my uncle,” she stuttered.
“Lie again,” he hissed, grabbing her jaw in a bruising grip. “If you make one move against this marriage, I will bury you alive and tell your mother you ran away.”
Her knees shook violently. He wasn’t threatening—he was promising.
He marched out with her phone, and she followed, helpless. In the sitting room, he unlocked the phone, checked her call log, lips twisting when he saw her uncle’s name.
“You think anyone will save you? You are naive.” He slid the phone into his pocket. “From today, you will no longer hold a phone.”
Her mother rushed in, voice trembling. “Please, Mallam, give her phone back. She only—”
The slap came like lightning.
Ameerah flinched as her mother staggered, hand flying to her cheek again.
“If she tries contacting anyone,” he growled, “I swear on God, what I will do will make her beg for death.”
He grabbed Ameerah by the arm, dragging her back down the hallway. She tried to pull away, but his fingers only dug deeper, cutting into her skin.
“Mallam, please—” her mother choked out.
He didn’t slow. He pushed Ameerah into her room, slammed the door, and locked it from the outside.
The metal bolt clicked into place.
Ameerah stood there, staring at the door. Locked. Trapped. Imprisoned in her own home.
She pressed her forehead against the wood, tears threatening again, but she refused to break. Not yet. Her chest rose and fell with harsh, shaking breaths.
She was twenty-one years old. An adult. A human being. Yet here she was—locked up like a criminal.
Her hands curled into fists. She swallowed her sobs, pacing the room, mind racing. She needed help. She needed a way out. The window was too small, barred with iron rods. The door was solid wood, impossible to break without drawing attention.
Hours passed.
Her room filled with the muffled sounds of wedding preparations—laughter, gossip, music playing from someone’s Bluetooth speaker. They celebrated outside while she sat inside like an object waiting to be delivered.
Her head throbbed. Her throat burned. She sat on the floor and hugged her knees to her chest. The silence of her room magnified everything—the fear, the helplessness, the anger.
Her mother knocked softly on the door later, voice barely a whisper.
“Ameerah… food.”
“I’m not hungry,” Ameerah said, her voice cracked and hollow.
“Please, my daughter… eat something.”
She didn’t respond.
Her mother’s breath trembled. “I am trying. I swear I am trying.”
She slid a small tray of food under the door and walked away quickly before her husband noticed. Ameerah stared at the plate—white rice and stew. She forced herself to eat two spoons, not because she had the appetite, but because she needed strength.
The day dragged like a lifetime.
When evening came, her stepfather returned. The key turned. The door swung open.
Ameerah stood up instantly, chest tight.
He entered with a folded piece of fabric—the same pale blue abaya she would wear for the ceremony. He placed it on the bed as though it were normal, as though he weren’t forcing her into a life she didn’t want.
“Try it on,” he ordered.
She didn’t move.
He stepped closer. “I said wear it.”
Her voice trembled. “Why are you doing this to me?”
He stared at her, expression empty. “Because I can.”
Ameerah’s throat burned. Her eyes filled with tears she fought hard to swallow.
He shoved the abaya toward her chest. “Put it on.”
She slipped into it with shaking hands. The fabric felt suffocating against her skin. When she faced him, his gaze swept over her, assessing like she was merchandise.
His lips twitched into a satisfied nod. “Good. Tomorrow, the henna woman will come.”
Her heart dropped.
That meant one thing—the wedding was dangerously close.
Before she could speak, he walked toward the door.
“Wait,” she blurted. “Please. I don’t want this. Please.”
He didn’t turn around.
“You don’t have a choice.”
The door slammed. The lock clicked again.
Silence.
Ameerah’s legs gave out, and she sank to the floor, clutching the fabric. Hot, silent tears fell onto it, staining the embroidery.
She felt trapped in her own body—fear tightening her lungs, grief crushing her chest, anger burning behind her ribs.
Her father had died when she was ten. Her mother remarried quickly, desperate for stability. But instead of a father, they got a tyrant. A man who cared only about power, money, and control.
And now he was trading her like property.
Night fell.
The courtyard lights flickered through the small barred window. Ameerah couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, her mind whispered, Run. Do something. Fight.
She tried the door again. Locked.
She tried the window. Solid iron.
Her phone was gone. Her uncle was far away. Her mother was powerless.
And the wedding was approaching like a storm.
She rested her head against the wall, breathing shakily. She needed a way out. She needed to think. She needed air.
Minutes passed.
Then she heard something—soft footsteps outside her door. She froze.
A gentle tap.
“Ameerah…?” her mother whispered, voice tight with fear. “I brought water.”
Ameerah rushed to the door. “Mama, please. Please help me get out.”
Her mother’s breath hitched, and she broke into silent tears. “I tried. Wallahi, I tried. But he… he locked the gate. He told the neighbors you are not allowed to step out.”
Ameerah pressed her palms flat against the door. “Mama, please. If I stay here, I’ll die. Maybe not with a knife or gun, but I’ll die inside.”
Her mother’s sobs shook through the wood. “You are my daughter,” she whispered. “You are the only thing I have. How can I save you when I can’t even save myself?”
Her voice broke completely.
“You must endure. Just endure. Maybe your husband will be a good man. Maybe he will treat you with kindness.”
Ameerah’s heart twisted painfully. Her mother was not evil—just trapped. Just scared. Just as broken.
But Ameerah was not ready to surrender.
She pressed her lips to the door. “Mama… promise me you won’t stop trying. Promise you won’t let him destroy me.”
Silence.
Then a trembling whisper:
“I promise.”
Ameerah closed her eyes.
Midnight came. The world fell quiet outside.
Suddenly, somewhere outside, a car horn sounded—one loud, urgent blast. The courtyard gate rattled. Men’s voices raised. Heavy knocks echoed through the compound.
Ameerah sat up straight, heart pounding.
Something was happening.
Someone was here.
Someone was demanding to be let in.
Footsteps thundered through the hallway. Her stepfather’s angry voice bellowed:
“Who are you? What do you want at this hour?”
Another voice answered—deep, commanding, unfamiliar.
“I’m here for Ameerah.”
Ameerah’s blood froze.
Her breath caught.
Her heart slammed against her chest so hard she thought it would break through her ribs.
Someone had come for her.
But who?
- Writer
