Chapter 12:CAPETOWN
1521 Words
have the number to.
Unknown number.
South Africa number.
+27.
I answered.
Heart in my throat.
Hand shaking.
“Amara?”
Vera.
Her voice.
I would know it anywhere.
Silk and poison.
Even through a cracked phone line.
Even 3,000 miles away.
She found us.
Again.
Two weeks in Accra.
That was all we got.
Two weeks of peace.
“How—”
“Fifty million buys a lot of information,” she said.
Sweet.
Like we were friends at brunch.
Like she did not try to kill me in Lagos.
Like she did not put a bullet in Tunde herself.
“I told you. He will get you killed. Now he will get you both killed. Cape Town is lovely this time of year, is it not?”
Cape Town.
We were not in Cape Town.
We were still in Accra.
But she wanted us to run.
Wanted us scared.
Wanted us making mistakes.
Elias was behind me.
Came into the kitchen.
Shirt off.
Scar pink in the morning light.
He heard her name.
Heard my face change.
Went still.
Completely still.
Like before he shoots.
Like before he kills.
“Put him on,” Vera said.
Like she owned him.
Like the engagement ring still meant something.
Like she still had a claim.
I did.
I handed him the phone.
My hand did not shake.
Good.
Let her think I was not afraid.
Elias took it.
Listened.
Did not speak.
For a full minute.
Jaw working.
Knuckles white around the phone.
Veins in his forearm popping.
Then—
“No.”
His voice was ice.
No emotion.
Just death.
Pause.
“I do not care what your father does. Send him. Send the whole Akindele army.”
Pause.
“Then let him come. We are done running from you.”
He hung up.
Threw the phone.
Hard.
Against the far wall.
It shattered.
Plastic and metal and lithium battery everywhere.
Sparks.
Then nothing.
“She knows,” he said.
Looking at me.
Eyes black.
No green left.
“Where we are. Where we are going.”
I nodded.
Not scared.
Not anymore.
Tired.
Angry.
But not scared.
Scared gets you killed.
“Then we run again,” I said.
He looked at me.
Really looked.
Like the first day.
Like Day 1 in Lagos.
“You are fired” was gone.
“Then start running” was here.
But different now.
This time, we ran together.
Not him chasing me.
Not me chasing him.
Together.
Rule 3.
Rule 5.
He grabbed a bag.
From under the bed.
Already packed.
Passport.
Cash.
One gun.
He always had a plan.
Even when he said we were not running.
Especially when he said we were not running.
“Where?” I asked.
Standing.
Ready.
Shoes on.
Backpack on.
“Anywhere,” he said.
Grabbing my hand.
His palm was sweaty.
“As long as it is with you. As long as it is away from her. As long as it is far from Lagos.”
We left Accra that night.
No note.
No goodbye to the neighbors who thought we were David and Amara Okeke.
No goodbye to the life we never really started.
No goodbye to the kitchen table where he healed.
Just hand in hand.
Out the back door.
Into the dark.
Into a taxi Elias paid in US dollars.
To the airport.
---
Cape Town.
We picked it because Vera said it.
Because if she thought we were going there, she would look there.
And we would not be there.
Then we went there.
Because Elias said, “Screw it. Let her come.”
Table Mountain.
Ocean.
Wind.
Cold.
Different from Lagos heat.
Different from Accra humidity.
Damian had contacts.
He always had contacts.
A man named Jacob met us.
Docks.
Night.
“No names,” he said.
“Cash only.”
He gave us keys.
Apartment.
Sea Point.
One bedroom.
Ground floor.
Back alley exit.
Front street exit.
Always two ways out.
Elias got a job.
Day two.
Docks.
Loading ships.
Under the table.
Name was David.
Papers were fake.
Muscles were real.
Scar was hidden under a shirt.
He came home smelling like fish and diesel.
Hands cut up.
Back sore.
But alive.
And smiling.
Real smile.
“First legal job I ever had,” he said.
I got a job too.
Café.
Cashier.
Amara.
Smiled at tourists.
Made coffee.
Did not think about Lagos.
Did not think about bodies.
Did not think about 50 million.
We were normal.
For three weeks.
---
Then the TV.
Café had one.
Corner.
News always on.
I was wiping tables.
Late shift.
Almost closing.
“Breaking news from Nigeria,” the anchor said.
British accent.
“Vera Akindele, heiress to Akindele Oil, speaks out for the first time since her fiancé’s disappearance.”
I froze.
Cloth in my hand.
Coffee dripping.
There she was.
Red dress.
Not real.
Black dress.
Mourning.
Tears.
Perfect tears.
Running down her face.
Cameras eating it up.
“Elias was kidnapped,” she said.
Voice breaking.
“He is dangerous. He is hurt. He is not himself. The woman he is with... she brainwashed him. She is holding him against his will.”
What.
“She is Ava Daniels,” Vera said.
My picture filled the screen.
Passport photo.
From Lagos.
“Wanted for murder. Wanted for extortion. If you see her, do not approach. Call this number. There is a 50 million naira reward. Alive only. I just want my Elias home.”
The café went quiet.
Everyone looked at the TV.
Then at me.
New girl.
Amara.
Dark hair.
Different nose.
Slight.
But eyes.
Eyes were the same.
My manager walked over.
Slow.
“Amara,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“You can go home early. You look sick.”
I did not argue.
I ran.
---
Elias was home.
Cooking.
Shirt off.
Scar on display.
He turned when I burst in.
Saw my face.
“What?”
“TV,” I said.
Could not breathe.
“Vera. CNN. Says you are kidnapped. Says I brainwashed you.”
He went still.
Spatula in his hand.
Then he laughed.
Once.
Ugly.
“No,” he said.
“Yeah. 50 million. Alive only.”
He turned the stove off.
Walked to the window.
Peeked through the blinds.
Street was normal.
For now.
“Pack,” he said.
“Elias—”
“Pack. Now.”
I did.
We did.
Five minutes.
Everything we owned fit in two bags.
We were good at running now.
Knock.
Three times.
Sharp.
Not expensive.
Cheap.
Dangerous.
We froze.
Elias moved first.
To the door.
Gun from under the mattress.
Already in his hand.
He looked through the peephole.
Then at me.
Mouthed one word.
“Bounty.”
The door exploded inward.
Wood.
Splinters.
Again.
Always again.
Three men.
Not Nigerian.
South African.
Guns.
Tattoos.
Smiles.
“Amara Okeke?” the first one said.
Looking at me.
“Fifty million. Alive.”
Elias fired first.
No warning.
No talking.
No Rule 2.
One man dropped.
Throat.
No screaming.
Just blood.
“Run!” Elias shouted.
I did.
Back door.
Alley.
Night.
Gunshots behind me.
Elias shouting my name.
Not Amara.
Ava.
“Ava! Go!”
I did not go.
I turned.
Picked up a brick.
Threw it.
Hit the second man in the head.
He dropped.
Elias took the third.
Fist.
Knife.
No gun left.
Just rage.
It was over in ten seconds.
Three bodies.
Our apartment.
Again.
Elias was bleeding.
Arm.
New cut.
Old scar.
“Are you hit?” he said.
First thing.
Always first thing.
“No,” I said.
“You?”
“Graze.”
Sirens.
Again.
Always sirens.
Cape Town sirens.
Different from Lagos.
Same meaning.
We ran.
Hand in hand.
Bags on our backs.
Blood on our clothes.
Into the night.
Again.
---
We did not stop until we hit the docks.
Jacob was there.
Saw the blood.
Saw the look in Elias’s eyes.
Did not ask.
“Ship,” Elias said.
“Now.”
“Where?” Jacob asked.
“Anywhere,” Elias said.
“Not here.”
Jacob nodded.
Led us to a cargo ship.
Liberia flag.
“Leaving in one hour,” he said.
“To Morocco. Then Spain. Then who knows.”
Good.
Who knows was safe.
We climbed aboard.
Hid in a container.
Metal.
Cold.
Dark.
Smelled like oil and rats.
Elias held me.
Both shaking.
From adrenaline.
From cold.
From almost dying.
Again.
“Rule 6,” I whispered.
“We do not have a Rule 6,” he said.
“We do now.”
“What is it?”
“We stop running someday.”
He was quiet.
Then—
“Soon,” he said.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The ship horn blew.
Loud.
Final.
We were moving.
Cape Town lights vanished behind us.
Vera’s lies behind us.
50 million behind us.
But the ocean was ahead.
And we were together.
Rule 3.
Rule 5.
Rule 6.
And no one was taking us from each other.
Not tonight.
We sailed.
And did not stop.
- Writer
