CHAPTER THREE| The Departure
1361 Words
Chapter 3– The Departure
The morning came slowly, gray and uncertain, like the fog that hung in Zara’s chest. She sat curled on the edge of the thin mattress, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes locked on the old wooden door of the small room she’d called home for almost seven years. The faded curtain barely kept out the pale Lagos sun. Dust danced in the air, golden and slow.
It was too quiet.
Usually, Aunty Joy’s voice would bounce off the peeling walls by now — barking orders, slamming pots, yelling at girls who weren’t fast enough or bold enough.
But today… nothing. Just the hum of the ceiling fan overhead and the occasional honk from the busy street below.
Zara stared at the bag by the bed. Small, faded, and only half-filled — three dresses, a cheap toothbrush, and an old picture of her family that had survived years of pain and silence.
Was this really happening?
The door creaked open. Aunty Joy stepped in, dressed in a dark green dress which brought out her beautiful body shape. Her make-up was lighter than usual. Her voice, for once, was soft.
“Zara.”
She lifted her head.
“Get up, dress nice. We leave in thirty minutes.”
Zara blinked. “Leave?”
“You deaf? You’re going abroad, aren’t you? My sister’s waiting.”
Her tone returned to its sharp edge, but the cruelty was missing. “Make yourself look presentable. Don’t embarrass me.”
The door closed again.
Zara sat still for a few seconds longer. Then she reached for her bag and began to change.
The bathroom mirror, cracked at the edge, reflected a girl she barely recognized — 17, maybe 18, though years of hardship had carved early shadows into her eyes. She smoothed her hair back, adjusting the tight braid, then dabbed a little powder over her cheeks. Her heart thudded like a drum.
Abroad.
The word felt too big. Too far. Too unreal.
She'd spent years surviving in the shadows of men and dirty motel rooms, washing blood off cheap sheets, hiding bruises behind forced smiles. And now… a chance at freedom? Education? Peace?
“God, please let this be real,” she whispered.
The drive to the airport was quiet.
Aunty Joy didn’t say much. She scrolled through her phone, made two short calls, and stared out the window. Zara sat beside her, hands in her lap, eyes flicking between the world outside and the thoughts raging in her head.
They passed Oshodi, then Ikeja, the busy Lagos roads thinning as the airport loomed ahead. Zara hadn’t been this far from the house in years. She pressed her forehead to the window glass. Everything felt like a dream.
When the car stopped at the terminal, a tall white man was waiting by the curb, Zara wondered if aunty Joy knows the man and how.
He wore a crisp black coat over a navy-blue shirt. No smile. No warmth. Just a cold, practiced stillness. He looked like the kind of man who never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed.
As they stepped out, Aunty Joy walked straight to him.
“Roberto.” Zara knew exactly aunty joy knows him
He nodded. His voice was deep, slightly accented. “Everything prepared?”
“Yes,” Joy replied, pulling Zara forward. “This is the girl.”
His eyes scanned Zara from head to toe — not with lust, but something else. Evaluation. Judgment. Like a man inspecting cargo. Zara shifted uncomfortably.
“She knows the story?” he asked.
“She believes she’s going to my sister. A school in Rome.”
Roberto’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Good.”
Zara looked between them. “Wait… you’re not coming?”
Aunty Joy finally looked her in the eyes. For the first time in years, her expression was unreadable.
“I told you, I have business here. But my sister will meet you there. Roberto will take care of you.”
Panic flared in Zara’s chest. “But—”
Joy cut her off with a hand on the shoulder. “You’ve been a good girl, Zara. This is your reward. Be grateful. Not every girl gets this chance.”
Zara hesitated. The airport’s noise faded. She could barely hear her own breath. Roberto stepped closer, holding out a passport and a boarding pass.
“Take it,” Joy said.
With shaking fingers, Zara did.
“Go with him. Everything will be fine.”
Inside the airport, everything moved too fast. Security. Luggage check. Scanners. Lights. Voices. Roberto said little. He walked ahead like a soldier, expecting her to follow without question.
Zara clutched the passport tightly. Her photo. Her name. But it felt distant, like someone else’s identity.
They sat near the gate. Roberto made a call, speaking in Italian — fast, clipped, emotionless.
Zara watched him.
Who was this man?
He hadn’t looked at her twice. He hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t asked her if she was okay. He just moved… like this was routine.
A thought struck her cold:
Has he done this before?
The flight was long.
Zara had never been on a plane before. She barely knew how to buckle the seatbelt.
Roberto sat in the row across from her, silent and alert, like a hawk watching from a distance.
The sky outside the window turned from bright to golden to dark. Clouds curled below them like mountains of cotton.
Zara should have been in awe. But all she felt was dread.
She opened her bag and pulled out her family photo. All Smiling. Beautiful. Free. she wasn't in the photo with them.
Where are all of you now, Would you be proud of me?
She closed her eyes. Sleep came in short, broken pieces.
They landed in Istanbul for a layover. Roberto barely spoke, guiding her through the airport with a cold efficiency.
When she asked where his sister would meet them, he simply said,
“Soon.”
Zara's chest tightened.
She wasn’t stupid. She’d lived with danger for years. She’d learned to feel lies in the air.
And this lie was thick, pressing against her lungs.
But what could she do? She was in a foreign country. No money. No phone. Just a strange man and a promise made by a woman who'd never truly loved her.
They boarded the next plane.
Destination: Naples, Italy.
Night had fallen by the time they arrived.
Italy smelled different — damp stone, distant sea, gasoline. Roberto led her through customs, the passport sliding through with no questions asked. He spoke fluent Italian to the officers. Zara stayed quiet.
Outside the terminal, a black car waited.
Two men stood beside it. Both wore dark coats, hands in pockets, faces half-shadowed by streetlight.
“Is that… your sister’s car?” Zara asked softly.
Roberto turned to her. For the first time, his voice carried something close to pity.
“No. That was never real.”
The words hit like a slap.
Zara stepped back. “What?”
“She has no sister. There’s no school. No future in Rome.”
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. Her vision blurred.
“She sold you,” Roberto said, as if reporting the weather. “To my employers.”
Zara’s legs gave way. She would have collapsed if he hadn’t caught her by the arm.
“You belong to them now. You will learn to obey. Or suffer.”
The car door opened.
A man stepped out. Tall. Broad shoulders. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes. His presence was heavier than anything Zara had ever felt.
Roberto bowed slightly. “This is her.”
The man said nothing. He studied Zara in silence, then gave a small nod. Another figure stepped out of the back seat — then a third. All in black. All staring.
Three shadows.
Three destinies
Zara was trembling now, the cold biting into her thin clothes, but it wasn’t the temperature that made her shake.
It was the weight of truth
So aunty joy didn't free her but instead brought her to a more bigger cage.
- Writer
