Chapter11:RUN
1998 Words
Barefoot.
He was barefoot.
On airport tile.
Running.
Bleeding.
Orange jumpsuit gone.
Black t-shirt now.
Stitches pulling.
Eyes wild.
Elias.
He pushed through the crowd.
Security shouted behind him.
Guns on hips.
Radios screaming.
He did not care.
He never cared about anything but me.
“Ava!”
Again.
Louder.
Closer.
I turned.
Bag fell from my hand.
Passport inside.
London ticket inside.
My escape inside.
He grabbed me.
Hands on my face.
Both.
Hard.
Like he thought I would vanish if he blinked.
Like I was already gone.
“Do not,” he said.
Breathing like he ran through fire.
Like his lungs were bleeding too.
“You do not get to leave.”
“I made a deal,” I said.
Tears already falling.
Hot.
Fast.
“With Vera.”
“I break it.”
“Elias—”
“She is nothing. You are everything.”
Gate 12.
London boarding without me.
People staring.
Phones out.
Recording.
Sirens outside.
Again.
Always sirens with us.
He kissed me.
Right there.
In front of everyone.
No boss.
No mask.
Just Elias.
Broken.
Bloody.
Mine.
I kissed him back.
Because Rule 3.
No one takes you from me.
Not Vera.
Not Damian.
Not the whole damn city.
Not even me.
He pulled back.
Forehead to mine.
His breath shook.
“Home,” he said.
“Where?” I asked.
“Wherever you are.”
The flight left without me.
Elias held my hand.
And did not let go.
Not at the airport.
Not with police running toward us.
Not ever.
---
We ran.
Through the terminal.
Past screaming people.
Past TSA agents with hands on guns.
Past duty free shops and crying kids.
Elias had a plan.
He always had a plan.
Even bleeding.
Even barefoot.
“Service exit,” he said.
Pulling me left.
His grip was iron.
His stitches were bleeding again.
I could feel it.
Wet on my fingers.
Warm.
His blood.
“Elias, your arm—”
“Later.”
“You will—”
“Ava. Later.”
A door.
Metal.
No handle.
No sign.
Employees only.
He kicked it.
Once.
Twice.
Metal groaned.
It gave.
Alarm.
Loud.
Screaming through the whole terminal.
Red lights flashing.
We ran through it.
Outside.
Tarmac.
Hot.
Jet fuel and rain in the air.
Planes taxiing.
Noise everywhere.
A black SUV was waiting.
Engine running.
Headlights off.
Windows tinted black.
Damian.
He was in the driver’s seat.
No suit.
White shirt.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Gun on the passenger seat.
His face was stone.
“Get in,” he said.
We did.
Elias shoved me in first.
Through the back door.
Then dove in behind me.
Landed on top of me.
Protecting.
Always protecting.
Damian hit the gas before the door was closed.
Tires screamed.
Bullets hit the back window.
Spider web cracks across the glass.
One.
Two.
Three.
I screamed.
Buried my face in Elias’s chest.
He covered me with his body.
His blood on my shirt.
Again.
Always again.
“Drive,” Elias said.
“I am driving,” Damian said.
Voice flat.
No panic.
He was.
Through a fence.
Chain link ripped like paper.
Sparks flying.
Onto a service road.
Then the highway.
Weaving through Lagos traffic.
Lagos disappeared behind us.
The city that tried to kill us.
The city that made us.
---
We did not stop for three hours.
Not until we hit Ogun State.
Not until the SUV had no windows left.
Just holes.
And wind.
And glass in our hair.
Not until Elias passed out in my lap.
His head heavy.
His breathing shallow.
Blood soaking through his shirt.
Through my jeans.
“Hospital,” I said to Damian.
Eyes on the road.
Hands tight on the wheel.
“No hospitals,” Damian said.
“They will find us.”
“He will die,” I said.
“He will not.”
Damian pulled into a compound.
High walls.
Iron gate.
Guards with rifles.
Not police.
Not government.
His.
Private.
The gate opened.
We drove through.
It closed behind us.
Final.
A woman was waiting.
Older.
Fifty, maybe.
Scrubs.
Medical bag ready at her feet.
No fear in her eyes.
“Doctor Adebayo,” Damian said.
Getting out.
Opening my door.
“My sister.”
She did not ask questions.
Did not ask who we were.
Did not ask why Elias was bleeding.
She just pointed.
“Inside. Now.”
We carried him.
Me and Damian.
Elias’s arms around our shoulders.
Feet dragging.
She cut his shirt off.
Scissors.
Fast.
Professional.
She saw the stitches.
My stitches.
Ripped open.
The new blood.
The old scars.
All of it.
“He needs surgery,” she said.
“Then do it,” Damian said.
“Here?” she asked.
“Here,” Damian said.
No hospital.
No machines.
No anesthesia.
Just a kitchen table.
Wood.
Clean sheets thrown over it.
I held his hand.
The good one.
The one that was not cut.
“Stay,” he mumbled.
Eyes barely open.
Drugs starting to hit.
From a needle his aunt pushed in.
“Always,” I said.
Against his ear.
So he would hear.
So he would know.
He went under.
---
He slept for two days.
I did not.
I sat by the bed.
A real bed now.
In a back room.
I counted his breaths.
One.
Two.
Three.
Make sure they kept coming.
Damian brought me clothes.
A simple dress.
Soft.
Clean.
Food.
Rice and stew.
I could not eat.
A new phone.
“Clean,” he said.
“No trace. No GPS. No one can track it.”
The news was everywhere.
On the small TV in the corner.
Muted.
But I read the words.
*ELIAS ADEBAYO AND MYSTERY WOMAN FLEE MURDER CHARGE*
*AKINDELE FAMILY OFFERS 50 MILLION NAIRA BOUNTY FOR INFORMATION*
*VERA AKINDELE: I JUST WANT MY FIANCÉ HOME SAFE*
My face was on TV.
Blurry.
From airport security cameras.
Hair messy.
Eyes wide.
“Ava Daniels, 24, wanted for questioning in connection to Lagos airport incident.”
Damian turned it off.
Remote in his hand.
“You are not Ava anymore,” he said.
He slid a passport across the wooden table.
Green.
Nigerian.
*Amara Okeke.*
My picture.
New hair.
Not my name.
Not my life.
“Elias is now David,” he said.
He slid another passport.
“David Okeke. Your husband.”
Husband.
The word hit me in the chest.
Hard.
Like a fist.
“Where?” I asked.
Voice small.
“Accra,” he said.
“Ghana. For now. Until it is safe.”
It would never be safe.
Not with Vera.
Not with her father.
Not with 50 million on our heads.
---
Elias woke up on day three.
Morning.
Sun through the window.
Birds outside.
Peaceful.
Nothing like us.
He saw the passports on the table.
Saw my new name.
Amara.
Looked at Damian.
Who was standing in the doorway.
Watching.
“You told her?” Elias said.
Voice rough.
From sleep.
From pain.
“I had to,” Damian said.
“That I am your—”
“Yes.”
Son.
He was going to say son.
The word hung there.
Heavy.
Between them.
Elias closed his eyes.
Long breath.
“I did not want you to know like this.”
He was talking to me.
“I know,” I said.
Sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Since when?” he asked.
“Since the airport. Since you chose me over Vera. Since you ran barefoot for me.”
He reached for me.
Weak.
But sure.
I went.
Careful of his stitches.
Fresh ones
From his aunt.
His face in my neck.
Breathing me in.
“I am sorry,” he said.
Hot against my skin.
“For what?” I asked.
“For all of it. For Damian. For Vera. For the guns. For this life.”
He meant the running.
The blood.
The new names.
The bounties.
“Rule 5,” I said.
Into his hair.
He pulled back.
Looked at me.
Confused.
Smiled.
Real one.
First one in days.
First one that reached his eyes.
“We do not have a Rule 5.”
“We do now.”
“What is it?”
“We do not apologize for choosing each other.”
He kissed me.
Slow.
Careful.
Like we had time.
We did not.
But we pretended.
---
We left that night.
Not by plane.
Too many cameras.
Too many faces.
Too many people who wanted 50 million naira.
By car.
A different one.
Toyota.
Old.
Beat up.
Invisible.
Through the border.
Benin first.
Bribes at the gate.
Damian’s money.
Then Togo.
Then Ghana.
Twelve hours.
No stopping.
Except for gas.
Except for Elias to throw up from the pain.
Damian drove the first leg.
All the way to the Benin border.
Did not speak.
Did not look at Elias.
Did not look at me.
Just drove.
Jaw tight.
At the Benin border, he stopped.
Engine off.
Silence.
Got out.
Walked around.
Opened my door.
“This is where I leave you,” he said.
Final.
Like a door closing.
Elias got out too.
Slow.
Holding his side.
Stood face to face with the man who raised him.
Who owned him.
Who saved him.
Who he could never call Dad.
“Thank you,” Elias said.
Voice low.
Not Dad.
Never Dad.
But close.
Closer than blood.
Damian nodded.
Once.
His eyes were wet.
He did not blink.
Then he looked at me.
Really looked.
Like he was seeing me for the first time.
“Keep him alive,” he said.
“I will,” I said.
No hesitation.
“Keep him human,” he said.
“I will try.”
Harder promise.
He got back in the SUV.
The black one with no windows.
Did not look back.
Drove away.
Back to Lagos.
Back to Vera.
Back to war.
We watched until the taillights vanished into the dark.
Into the dust.
Into Nigeria.
Then it was just us.
And a beat up Toyota Damian left.
Keys in the ignition.
And two passports with names that were not ours.
And 50 million reasons for someone to find us.
---
Accra was loud.
Hot.
Humid.
Markets everywhere.
Music.
People.
Safe.
For now.
No one knew Amara and David Okeke.
Damian rented us an apartment.
Before he left.
Paid six months up front.
Cash.
Small.
Two bedrooms.
Like the last one.
But no balcony.
No 12th floor.
Ground level.
Back door.
Front door.
So we could run.
Always so we could run.
Elias healed.
Slow.
Day by day.
He slept a lot.
On the couch.
On the bed.
On the floor sometimes.
Woke up screaming sometimes.
Vera’s name.
Tunde’s name.
My name.
But mostly mine.
“Ava!”
Even though I was Amara now.
I held him through it.
Every time.
My arms around him.
“Here,” I would say.
“I am here.”
Day seven, he could walk without wincing.
To the bathroom.
To the kitchen.
Day ten, he took the bandage off.
In the bathroom mirror.
I stood behind him.
Scar was ugly.
Pink.
Ropey.
Still healing.
Mine.
I made it.
My hands.
My needle.
My thread.
“Do you regret it?” he asked me.
Night.
Bed.
Our bed.
Small.
But ours.
“Running?” I asked.
“Choosing me.”
I turned.
Faced him in the dark.
Hand on his chest.
Over his heart.
It was beating.
Strong.
Because of me.
Because he chose me too.
“Never,” I said.
Simple.
True.
“Rule 5,” he said.
Smile in his voice.
“Rule 5,” I said.
He pulled me close.
And did not let go.
Not with a bounty on our heads.
Not with Vera’s father hunting us.
Not with the whole world wanting us dead.
Not ever.
---
Day fourteen, the phone rang.
The clean phone.
Damian’s phone.
The one no one should
- Writer
