*Chapter 3: The Silent Escape*
947 Words
Zainab’s legs ached from walking, but she couldn’t stop. The streets of Lagos felt like an endless maze—one that didn’t care how tired, scared, or lost you were.
She had left Mama Dupe’s kiosk that morning with just her nylon bag, her scarf, and the last N800 folded in her bra. She told herself she’d look for a small shop, beg to clean, fetch water—anything. But everywhere she went, the answer was the same:
“Sorry, we no need person.”
She hadn’t eaten all day.
The market noise overwhelmed her. The shouting, the honking, the smell of sweat, dust, roasted corn, and exhaust fumes. She paused near the bus park at Mile 2, dizzy. Her stomach churned.
Then someone said, “You lost?”
She turned quickly.
A slim boy in a faded black tee and jeans stood near her, a bag of pure water in his hand. His voice wasn’t mocking. It was steady. Curious.
Zainab didn’t answer.
Mustapha looked her over—too clean to be from these parts, too calm to be comfortable. But her eyes? Tired. Heavy. He knew that look. He’d seen it in his own reflection.
“I dey ask you. You lost?” he repeated.
“I’m fine,” she said quietly, her Hausa accent slipping through.
He raised a brow. “You no look fine. You dey shake.”
Zainab looked away, hugging her bag tighter.
He walked a little closer. “See, I no be thief. If you wan sit down small, come. This sun go kill you.”
She didn’t trust him. But she didn’t have the strength to keep walking either.
After a long pause, she followed him—to the shade of a tree near the overpass, where a few other boys sat drinking sachet water and laughing about nothing.
“Sit,” he said, dropping his bag.
She sat on a low concrete ledge, staring at the ground.
He handed her a sachet of water.
She hesitated. Then took it.
“Mustapha,” he said, after a while.
She looked up.
“My name. Mustapha.”
“…Zainab.”
He nodded. “You never been here before, abi?”
She shook her head.
He sighed. “Then you go need help. This place no dey pity anybody.”
For the first time since she ran away, she felt it—
Someone saw her.
---
Mustapha watched Zainab take small sips of water, her hands trembling ever so slightly. He didn’t push her to talk. He knew sometimes the silence said more than words.
“Where you dey go?” he finally asked, eyes scanning the crowded street.
Zainab shrugged, biting her lip. “Anywhere. Anywhere but here.”
He nodded knowingly. “I get small place near here. We fit go if you want. No yawa.”
Her eyes flickered with hesitation. Trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford, but desperation pushed her forward.
As they walked, the city’s noise grew louder—children shouting, hawkers calling, cars honking in a chaotic symphony. Yet in the midst of the chaos, Mustapha felt a strange calm with Zainab beside him.
“Why you run?” he asked softly.
She stopped, looking at the cracked pavement. “Home no safe.”
His heart tightened, memories of his own broken past rushing back.
“We all get stories,” he said. “But Lagos, she no go break us.”
Zainab smiled faintly, eyes shining with a fragile hope.
At Mustapha’s small room—bare but clean—he handed her a blanket and a plate of rice he had saved.
“You no go find plenty comfort here,” he joked, “but you go survive.”
She laughed—a sound like a fragile bird testing its wings.
That night, as Lagos buzzed outside, two strangers shared a fragile bond born from broken dreams and silent promises. They didn’t know the road ahead was rougher than either expected, but for now, they had found a moment of peace.
---
The night air was thick with the distant sounds of the city that never truly slept. Mustapha sat on the edge of the small bed, watching Zainab fold the blanket neatly and tuck it beside her. Her eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but sleep seemed elusive.
“Talk to me,” he said gently, “If you want.”
She hesitated, then whispered, “I no fit stay. Dem go find me. My family… they no understand.”
Mustapha nodded slowly. He had heard stories like hers before, of broken homes, of families torn apart by misunderstandings and pain. But here, in this small room, none of that mattered.
“Tell me what you want,” he said. “No need to hide.”
Zainab’s voice cracked. “I want peace. I want to feel safe for once. I want to be free to live my life.”
Mustapha reached out, his hand brushing hers lightly. “We go find that peace. One step at a time.”
A silence fell between them, but it wasn’t heavy—it was comforting, a rare moment of trust in a world that had shown so little kindness.
Suddenly, a loud bang echoed from the street below, jolting them both upright. Mustapha peered through the window—shadows running, voices shouting. The city’s dangers were never far away.
“Tomorrow, we move,” Mustapha said firmly. “Tonight, rest. We no fit fight all the battles at once.”
Zainab gave a tired smile, leaning her head on his shoulder. For the first time in a long while, she felt something like hope.
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- Writer
