Chapter 13:MOROCCO
1785 Words
For three days.
Three days in a metal container.
Dark.
Hot.
Rats.
The smell of oil and salt and fear.
Elias held me the whole time.
His arms around me.
My back to his chest.
His chin on my head.
When the ship rocked, he held tighter.
When I cried, he did not let go.
“Rule 6,” he whispered.
Night two.
“We stop running someday.”
“Soon,” I said.
“You promised.”
“I know.”
Day four, the doors opened.
Light.
Blinding.
After 72 hours of dark.
“Casablanca,” a man said.
Not Jacob.
New man.
Moroccan.
“You get off here. Ship goes to Spain next.”
We got off.
Legs weak.
Eyes squinting.
Two bags.
Two passports.
David and Amara Okeke.
Still alive.
---
Casablanca was chaos.
Markets.
People.
Arabic.
French.
Smells of spice and fish and exhaust.
No one knew us.
No one looked twice.
For one day.
We found a room.
Old hotel.
Cash only.
No questions.
One bed.
Dirty window.
But a door that locked.
Elias showered first.
Hot water.
First time in days.
He came out with a towel around his waist.
Scar pink and angry on his side.
New cut from Cape Town stitched with dental floss.
By me.
On the ship.
“Your turn,” he said.
I went.
Stood under the water until it ran cold.
Washed Lagos off me.
Washed Accra off me.
Washed Cape Town blood off me.
When I came out, he was asleep.
Sitting up.
Gun in his lap.
Even sleeping, he was guarding.
I laid down next to him.
Did not sleep.
Watched the door.
---
Day two in Morocco.
We needed money.
Damian’s cash was almost gone.
Bribes.
Food.
The ship.
“I will find work,” Elias said.
Morning.
Coffee.
Instant.
“Where?”
“Docks. Like Cape Town.”
“Too dangerous.”
“Everything is dangerous.”
He was right.
He left at noon.
Said he would be back by six.
Kissed my forehead.
“Lock the door,” he said.
“I will.”
“Do not open for anyone.”
“I know.”
“Rule 3.”
“Rule 3,” I said.
He left.
At 3 PM, the TV turned on.
By itself.
No.
Not by itself.
News.
Al Jazeera.
English.
“Vera Akindele speaks exclusively from Lagos,” the anchor said.
There she was.
Black dress.
No tears this time.
Anger.
Cold.
“Elias Adebayo is my fiancé,” she said.
“He was kidnapped six weeks ago by Ava Daniels. She is armed. She is dangerous. She has brainwashed him. The Akindele family is increasing the reward to 100 million naira. One hundred million. For anyone who brings them home. Alive. I just want my Elias back.”
One hundred million.
Double.
Now every man in Casablanca was a bounty hunter.
My phone buzzed.
The clean phone.
New number.
Unknown.
I did not answer.
It buzzed again.
Text.
*I know you are in Morocco, Amara.
- V*
I threw the phone.
It hit the wall.
Did not break.
---
Elias came back at 5:58.
Two minutes early.
Blood on his shirt.
Not his.
“What happened?” I said.
“Trouble,” he said.
Closing the door.
Locking it.
Twice.
“At the docks. Men asked about David Okeke. Showed them my picture. From Cape Town.”
Vera’s people.
Already here.
“Pack,” I said.
He was already packing.
Knock.
Not three times.
One time.
Heavy.
Fist, not knuckles.
We froze.
Elias pulled the gun.
Pointed at the door.
“David Okeke?” a voice said.
Moroccan accent.
“We know you are in there. Come out. No one dies.”
Lies.
Elias looked at me.
Mouthed one word.
*Window.*
We ran.
Out the back.
Fire escape.
Down.
Into an alley.
Gunshots above us.
Wood splintering.
Our room.
Again.
---
We did not stop running for an hour.
Through the Medina.
Through crowds.
Through spice markets.
Through streets that all looked the same.
Until we hit a dead end.
Alley.
Brick walls.
No exit.
“s**t,” Elias said.
Breathing hard.
Looking around.
For another way.
There was not one.
Footsteps.
Behind us.
Many.
Running.
They found us.
Five men.
Entered the alley.
Blocked the only way out.
Guns.
Smiles.
“One hundred million,” the first one said.
“Split five ways. Still rich.”
Elias pushed me behind him.
Gun up.
But he only had three bullets.
I counted.
On the ship.
“Run,” he said to me.
No.
“Elias—”
“Climb. The wall. Go.”
There was no wall to climb.
Just brick.
Ten feet high.
Smooth.
“I am not leaving you,” I said.
“Then we die together,” he said.
Rule 5.
He fired.
Once.
Twice.
Two men dropped.
Three left.
One bullet left.
They fired back.
Elias jerked.
Once.
Gasped.
Looked down.
Blood.
His stomach.
Right side.
Spreading fast.
Through his shirt.
“Elias!” I screamed.
He dropped to one knee.
Still holding the gun.
Still in front of me.
Still protecting.
“Shoot,” he told them.
Voice wet.
“Finish it.”
The men laughed.
“Alive, remember? Vera wants him alive. You, we do not care about.”
One pointed his gun at me.
No.
I moved before I thought.
Grabbed a pipe from the ground.
Metal.
Rusty.
Swung it.
Hard.
Hit his wrist.
Gun clattered away.
He screamed.
Elias used the last bullet.
Third man.
Head.
Down.
Two left.
One with a broken wrist.
One untouched.
The untouched one ran.
Coward.
“Police!” he shouted.
Running away.
“Police!”
Broken wrist followed.
Holding his arm.
Cursing.
Then it was quiet.
Except Elias.
Breathing.
Wet.
Ragged.
---
“Elias,” I said.
On my knees.
Hands on his stomach.
Blood everywhere.
Hot.
Too much.
“Hey. Hey. Look at me.”
He did.
Eyes glassy.
But he looked.
“Amara,” he said.
Wrong name.
He was slipping.
“Ava,” I said.
“It is Ava.”
“Ava,” he said.
Better.
“Did we... get them?”
“Yeah. You got them. All of them. You saved me. Again.”
He smiled.
Blood on his teeth.
“Good.”
“Do not you dare,” I said.
Crying.
Pressing on the wound.
It would not stop.
“Do not you dare die on me, Elias Adebayo. You promised. Rule 6.”
“We stop... running... someday,” he said.
Each word was work.
“Someday is now,” I said.
“Promise me.”
He closed his eyes.
“I promise.”
Not convincing.
Sirens.
Again.
Morocco sirens.
Different sound.
Same meaning.
I could not move him.
He was too heavy.
I was too scared.
So I did the only thing I could.
I screamed.
“Help! Someone help us!”
A woman appeared.
Old.
Headscarf.
Carrying groceries.
She saw the blood.
Saw the gun.
Saw Elias.
She did not run.
She dropped her bags.
Oranges rolled everywhere.
She ran to us.
Started shouting in Arabic.
To the street.
To the windows.
People came.
“Ambulance!” I shouted.
“Hospital! Please!”
Men came.
Lifted Elias.
Careful.
Like he was theirs.
Carried him out of the alley.
To the street.
A car stopped.
Not ambulance.
Taxi.
“Hospital,” the driver said.
“Now.”
We got in.
Me holding Elias.
His head in my lap.
Blood on my dress.
On the seats.
“Stay with me,” I said.
To him.
To God.
To anyone listening.
“You promised. Rule 6. We stop running. Together.”
His eyes fluttered.
“‘M trying,” he mumbled.
“Try harder,” I said.
Kissing his forehead.
Tasting blood.
“I need you.”
The hospital was white.
Bright.
Doctors everywhere.
They took him from me.
On a stretcher.
Through doors.
I tried to follow.
A nurse stopped me.
“Family only.”
“I am his wife,” I lied.
Amara Okeke.
David Okeke.
She let me in.
---
I sat in the waiting room.
Eight hours.
Blood on my hands.
Dried.
Brown.
Cracked.
A doctor came out.
Tired.
“Are you Amara?”
“Yes.”
“He is alive.”
I broke.
Right there.
On the floor.
Crying.
Thanking God.
Thanking the doctor.
Thanking Elias for being too stubborn to die.
“Barely,” the doctor said.
“He lost a lot of blood. Bullet missed the liver. Hit the intestine. We repaired it. He is strong. But he needs time.”
“How much time?”
“Weeks. Maybe months. No moving. No stress.”
No running.
Rule 6.
Finally.
“Can I see him?”
“Five minutes. He is sedated.”
I did.
He was in a bed.
Tubes.
Machines beeping.
Bandages.
White.
Clean.
Alive.
I sat.
Held his hand.
The one without the IV.
“You kept your promise,” I whispered.
“You stopped running.”
His fingers twitched.
Just a little.
Answering.
---
We stayed in Morocco.
Three weeks.
Elias in the hospital for two.
Then a safe house.
Damian sent money.
Through Jacob.
Who somehow found us again.
“Damian says stay low,” Jacob said.
“Vera is quiet. Too quiet.”
I did not care.
Elias was alive.
Healing.
He could walk now.
Slow.
With a cane.
Hated it.
“Like an old man,” he said.
“You are an old man,” I said.
“Twenty-nine.”
“Old to me.”
He laughed.
Real laugh.
First one in months.
It hurt his stitches.
He did not care.
Night.
Our safe house.
Small.
But ours.
No bounty hunters.
No Vera.
Just us.
“Rule 7,” he said.
Lying in bed.
Me in his arms.
Careful of his side.
“We have a Rule 7?”
“We do now.”
“What is it?”
He was quiet.
Then—
“We live.”
Simple.
Biggest rule of all.
“We live,” I said.
Back to him.
“Not run. Not hide. Not survive. Live.”
“Yeah,” he said.
Kissing my hair.
“Live.”
Outside, Casablanca moved.
Cars.
People.
Life.
One hundred million was still out there.
Vera was still out there.
Her father was still out there.
But for one night.
In a safe house in Morocco.
With Elias breathing next to me.
We were not running.
We were living.
Rule 6.
Rule 7.
And no one was taking us from each other.
Not tonight.
We slept.
And for the first time in 28 chapters.
We did not dream of guns.
- Writer
