Promises and Pretenses
880 Words
The sun filtered through the lace curtains, bathing the sitting room in a soft glow. Ada Nwokedi folded a neatly pressed gown into her overnight bag while Amara sat nearby with a piece of plantain dangling from her fork.
“Don’t forget to lock the doors,” her mother said for the third time. “And keep your phone nearby. I’ll be back tomorrow evening, latest.”
Amara rolled her eyes fondly. “Mummy, I’m not ten.”
“You behave like ten sometimes,” Ada muttered with a teasing glance. “I don’t want to return and find the whole house turned into a party zone.”
“No party. Promise,” Amara said, grinning.
Ada zipped up her bag, patted Amara’s shoulder, and walked toward the door. “I’m trusting you, Amara. Behave. I love you.”
“I love you too, mummy. Go and slay at that fashion show!”
With a quick laugh, Ada stepped outside and shut the door behind her. Amara sighed into the silence and stretched out across the couch, pulling her phone into view.
Almost immediately, a message blinked onto the screen.
Damilare:
Are you going to be free this evening? I want to take you somewhere nice.
Amara stared at the message. Then slowly smiled.
---
Later, she messaged her mom: Hey. I’ll go out for a bit in the evening. Might catch up with Zainab and Kamsi. Will be back before it’s too late.
It was a lie — soft, harmless. At least, it seemed that way.
She told no one else. Not even Zainab.
---
That evening, Damilare met her just down the street from her house. He was leaning against a car — sleek, tinted, and entirely unfamiliar.
Amara slowed her steps. “Wait… is this your car?”
Damilare smiled and opened the passenger door for her. “Nah. Borrowed it. I wanted to make this evening magical for you.”
“You borrowed a whole car… for me?” she laughed, sliding in.
“You’re worth it.”
She buckled her seatbelt as he started the engine. The car purred quietly. He played soft music, her favorite playlist — he remembered.
They drove to a quiet lounge outside town, where string lights glowed overhead and grilled chicken filled the air with spice. They talked, laughed, shared a plate of fried yam and ketchup.
For a moment, Amara forgot everything else — the lies, the warnings, the strange way Zainab used to watch Damilare.
For a moment, it felt like she could fall in love.
---
On the way back, she yawned.
“Tired?” Damilare asked gently.
“A bit,” she said. “But I had fun.”
He smiled as he turned the air vents toward her. She leaned back in the seat, sighing.
A subtle scent began to waft through the car — unfamiliar, slightly sweet, almost flowery.
“Is that perfume?” she asked, blinking.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Amara's head began to feel light. Her eyes fluttered.
“Damilare… I feel… weird…”
Her limbs slackened. The seat tilted sideways in her vision.
Damilare didn’t respond.
The car drove on in silence.
---
She woke up to darkness.
And cold.
And fear.
Her wrists were tied.
And the boy she thought she knew… was gone.
----
Amara blinked.
The ceiling above her was barely visible — old, cracked, water-stained. A single bulb dangled from a wire, flickering weakly, like it too was trying to escape the shadows that swallowed the rest of the room.
She turned her head slowly.
Her neck ached. Every muscle felt like it had been drained of strength.
The air was thick — stale and heavy. It smelled like mold… and something else. Something metallic. Like rust. Or blood.
She tried to speak. Her voice came out as a dry rasp.
“Help…”
Nothing.
She swallowed, but her throat was parched. She tried again, louder this time — but her voice cracked, hoarse and weak, barely a whisper.
She shifted her hands, they were tied with a rope. Tight. Too tight. Her wrists burned with every twitch. Her ankles too. Bound.
Panic rose in her chest, fast and suffocating.
She looked around wildly — if she could move, she would’ve run. But all she could do was turn her head and tremble.
The room had no windows. Only walls that looked like they had seen too many secrets and stayed silent through them all. The paint peeled in long, ugly strips. There was a mattress in one corner, thin and dirty. A bucket. A small table. A chair. And nothing else.
No noise outside.
No breeze.
No cars.
No life.
Amara felt her chest heave as realization crashed in fully.
This was not a prank. Not a misunderstanding.
She had been taken. She didn’t know where. She didn’t know how far. And she didn’t know why.
But one thing was clear:
Damilare did this.
The same boy who smiled at her. Who said she was special. Who stroked her cheek and said, “I’ll wait.”
He hadn’t waited.
He had taken her.
And now, she was alone.
Truly alone.
And terrified.
At that moment she thought of her mom and all she did was cry.
- Writer
