Between the Rainbow and the Harmattan

Ashes and Beginnings

Chapter 6

The journey stretched long, hours stitched together by the drone of the engine and the rattle of loose windows. The road out of Lagos twisted through villages where children chased chickens across dusty compounds, through forests heavy with silence, past hawkers balancing bananas and plantain at every stop.

Ada watched it all blur past, forehead pressed to the glass. Her mind felt split between two worlds: one behind her, familiar and suffocating, and one rushing toward her, unknown but alive. Every bump in the road reminded her this was real—she had left.

Kele dozed beside her, scarf slipping down to reveal her braids. Even in sleep, her jaw carried a quiet defiance, as though she had wrestled the world before and expected to wrestle it again. Ada envied that certainty. She had always been the obedient one, the quiet daughter. Yet here she was, running toward a future that had no shape.

When Kele stirred, Ada whispered, “Do you think we made a mistake?”

Kele’s eyes opened slowly, still heavy with dreams. “Do you feel like it’s a mistake?”

Ada hesitated. “I feel… untethered. Like I’ve torn something I can never sew back.”

Kele reached for her hand. “Maybe it was never meant to be sewn back. Sometimes you have to let it unravel so you can weave something new.”

The bus jolted over a pothole, throwing them closer. Ada leaned into her, letting her warmth steady her trembling resolve.

By the time they rolled into Abuja, night had fallen. The city lights shimmered like scattered gems, brighter and sharper than Lagos, yet colder too. The air was drier, the streets wider, the voices laced with different accents. Ada felt smaller here, a stranger in her own country.

Ojota’s chaos seemed almost comforting in comparison; Abuja’s order felt intimidating. Conductors barked at passengers, taxis honked, the smell of suya smoke curled through the air. Ada clutched her bag tighter, scanning the unfamiliar streets.

“Where will we go?” she asked.

Kele adjusted her scarf, eyes scanning the horizon. “There’s a friend—Ngozi. She rents a small room near Wuse. She promised we could stay for a while.”

Ada’s stomach twisted. Living in another woman’s kindness felt fragile, temporary, like walking on glass. “What if she changes her mind?”

Kele gave a thin smile. “Then we’ll find another way. We always do.”

Her certainty was a lifeline Ada clung to, even as her own doubts whispered like ghosts.

Ngozi’s room was hardly more than a cubicle, its single bed pressed against the wall, a wooden stool serving as a table. A bulb flickered overhead, casting shadows that made the cracked plaster look like scars. But there was a rug on the floor, threadbare yet soft, and a pot of stew simmered on a kerosene stove.

“Make yourselves at home,” Ngozi said, her voice brisk but kind. She was taller than both of them, with close-cropped hair and eyes that missed nothing. “It’s not much, but it’s safe.”

Safe. The word wrapped around Ada like a blanket, though she knew it was only borrowed safety.

That night, as the three of them shared the stew, Ada listened to Kele and Ngozi talk—about art, about protests on the university campus, about the risks of being seen holding hands in public. Ada said little, afraid her voice might reveal the fear clenching her ribs.

Later, when Ngozi had gone to bed and the room sank into silence, Ada whispered, “Do you think my mother knows I’m gone?”

Kele brushed her fingers along Ada’s cheek. “She knows. Mothers always know. But she’ll also know why.”

Ada buried her face in Kele’s shoulder, swallowing tears.

The days that followed blurred into a fragile rhythm. In the mornings, Kele sketched in her notebook, capturing Abuja’s markets and street corners with sharp strokes of charcoal. Ada fetched water, swept the room, learned the pattern of the neighborhood’s voices. At night, they whispered dreams—Kele of opening a gallery one day, Ada of studying literature, of writing stories where girls like them didn’t have to run.

Yet beneath the surface, fear lingered. Ngozi’s landlord eyed them suspiciously. A neighbor muttered when she saw them walking too close. Once, a group of boys shouted insults as they passed, laughter sharp as stones.

Ada shrank under the weight of it, but Kele stood tall, her chin lifted. “They only see what frightens them,” she said. “We are more than their fear.”

Still, Ada lay awake at night, wondering how long they could keep ahead of the world’s gaze.

One evening, as the harmattan winds swept through the city, Ada and Kele climbed to the rooftop of Ngozi’s building. The city sprawled beneath them, lights flickering like restless stars.

Ada hugged her knees, the chill biting through her wrapper. “Do you ever wish we had stayed? That we had chosen safety over this?”

Kele leaned back on her palms, staring at the horizon. “Every day. And every day I’m glad we didn’t. Safety is just another kind of cage.”

Ada studied her profile—the curve of her jaw, the fire in her eyes. For the first time, she believed it.

Kele turned to her suddenly, voice low. “Promise me something, Ada.”

“What?”

“No matter what happens—no matter how hard it gets—you’ll keep choosing us. Not because it’s easy. But because it’s true.”

Ada’s throat ached, but she nodded. “I promise.”

Kele leaned in, pressing her forehead to Ada’s. For a heartbeat, the city fell away—the insults, the fear, the uncertainty. There was only this: two girls daring to hold each other beneath a sky wide enough to hold all their dreams.

And somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.