PLEASE DON'T HIT ME

the scarf

For a moment, the noise of the street faded. Christiana could hear nothing but her own heartbeat, beating hard and fast in her ears. The man's words were bright in the air, heavy and threatening.

Market women shouted prices from their stalls, a hawker passed with a tray of puff-puff on his head, the smell of frying plantain mixed with the sharp scent of petrol from passing okadas but none of it touched her.

She swallowed hard. "Where... where you wan carry me go?"

The man's eyes didn't blink. "No be far. Just make we talk. Better say you hear from me directly than hear from police or worse."

Her palms were sweating. She glanced down the road, considering her options. She could run, but the narrow alley behind him was blocked by two boys she hadn't noticed before one leaning against the wall, pretending to scroll on his phone, the other sipping a bottle of Coke. Their eyes were on her.

She shifted her bag strap nervously. "I no fit follow you just like that."

The man tilted his head slightly. "You get choice?"

Something in his tone not loud, not even angry - told her this wasn't a bluff. She forced herself to breathe evenly.

"Okay," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Good," he replied, straightening from the motorcycle. "We go waka small. No make am look like something dey happen."

They moved through the busy market, blending into the crowd. Christiana kept a few steps behind him, her mind racing. Every bright cloth hanging from the shops, every face that passed, every car horn seemed distant, unreal. She thought about Mama - if she was alive, if she was hurt, if she was somewhere close enough to hear her voice.

At the edge of the market, they turned into a quieter street. The smell changed - dust, damp wood, and something metallic, like rust. She noticed the walls here were cracked, faded with old paint, some marked with charcoal writing advertising "money transfer" and "tailoring."

The man stopped in front of a small wooden kiosk. It was closed, the padlock hanging open on the door. He pushed it aside and gestured for her to step in.

Her feet refused to move. "You sure say..."

His eyes flashed. "Enter."

She stepped inside. The kiosk smelled of old newspapers and dried fish. There was just enough space for two plastic chairs, a small table, and a single bulb hanging from the ceiling.

He sat, motioning for her to do the same. "You get something wey belong to me."

Her throat felt tight. "The scarf."

He nodded slowly, like he'd been waiting for her to say it. "Yes. That scarf no be ordinary cloth. E get wetin dey inside."

She leaned forward slightly. "Inside?"

"Hidden. Stitched inside, where your eye no go just see. And wetin dey there fit change many things for you and your family."

Christiana frowned. "Then why you no just tell me before?"

He smiled faintly. "Because if I talk too early, you go think say I dey joke. Now you understand the seriousness."

She shook her head. "If it's so important, why take Mama?"

His face stayed calm. "Na insurance. If you no gree bring am, we know how to make you move fast."

Her fingers gripped the edge of the chair. "You think this one go work? You think say I go just give you?"

He leaned back, crossing his legs. "You go. Because deep down, you know Mama's life worth more than that cloth."

Silence hung between them. Somewhere outside, a child laughed, a bicycle bell rang, but inside the kiosk the air felt too still.

Finally, he stood. "Tomorrow night. Same place. Bring the scarf. Alone."

"And if I tell police?"

The smile was gone now. "You think say police go reach you before we fit act? Try am if you wan test."

He stepped out into the sunlight without another word.

Christiana sat frozen for several seconds before finally standing. Her legs felt unsteady. She stepped back into the street, the noise of the market rushing back like a wave.

....

The walk home felt longer than ever. She avoided looking at familiar faces, afraid her expression would give away the storm in her head. At the gate, she took a deep breath before stepping inside.

Papa was in the compound, sitting on the low stool by the mango tree, sharpening his cutlass. His eyes flicked to her but he said nothing. The metallic scrape of blade against stone followed her all the way into the house.

In her room, she locked the door and pulled the scarf from under her pillow. She turned it over in her hands, her fingers running along the seams. She could feel it now - something hard and flat stitched inside the lining.

"What is this thing?" she muttered to herself.

Her first thought was to tear it open, but something in her gut said wait. Whatever was inside had already caused enough trouble.

The evening dragged on slowly. She tried to do her homework, but the words on the page blurred. The ticking wall clock reminded her with every second that tomorrow night was coming fast.

After dinner, she sat outside for a while, pretending to enjoy the breeze, but really she was watching the street. Every passing shadow made her tense.

When it was finally bedtime, she lay awake staring at the ceiling, the scarf tucked under her arm. Sleep came in restless bursts, filled with dreams of running through endless alleys while someone called her name in the dark.

....

Morning brought no relief. At school, Bola noticed immediately. "Christy, you look worse than yesterday. Na wetin dey happen?"

Christiana forced a laugh. "I just... I no dey sleep well."

Bola gave her a long look. "If na family wahala, you fit talk. You know say I dey here."

She nodded, but her mind was already somewhere else. She was thinking about how she would get to the meeting spot tomorrow without Papa noticing.

The rest of the day passed in boring - classes, lunch, the noise of students in the corridor. She moved through it all like she was underwater.

By the closing bell, she had made up her mind. Tonight, she would try to find out what was inside the scarf. She needed to know exactly what she was risking her life for.

.....

When Papa went out to meet some friends, she locked her door, switched on her small desk lamp, and took a seam ripper from her sewing kit. Slowly, carefully, she began to open the stitching on one corner of the scarf.

Her breath caught when she saw the edge of a small, flat envelope inside. It was wrapped in thin plastic, yellowed with age.

She pulled it out, her hands trembling. Inside the plastic was a folded sheet of paper and a tiny black memory card.

"What..." she whispered.

The paper had strange numbers and codes written on it, nothing she understood. But the memory card - that could hold anything.

She stared at it for a long moment before wrapping it back in the plastic and tucking it inside the scarf again.

Whatever this was, it was the reason Mama was gone. And tomorrow night, someone expected her to hand it over.

Her chest felt tight as she folded the scarf carefully and placed it back under her pillow.

Outside, the sound of Papa's footsteps on the gravel grew louder. She quickly slid into bed and closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep.

Tomorrow night would decide everything.