*Chapter 5: Fire in the Distance*
1067 Words
The days passed like whispers—fast, forgettable, and tense. Zainab and Mustapha moved carefully, waking before dawn, selling water, returning before dusk. She stayed out of sight, her face mostly covered. Mustapha’s network of street boys kept an eye on the area. But danger was a drumbeat—always faint, always near.
One afternoon, as they counted their earnings by a quiet roadside, Zainab looked up at the sky. A long stretch of grey clouds loomed overhead. Rain was coming.
“Everything here dey change fast,” she said. “Weather, people… even peace.”
Mustapha chuckled. “Lagos na mood swing. One minute e go hug you. Next minute, e go slap you.”
Zainab didn’t laugh.
“Musty… What if dem find me? What if I have to run again?”
He stopped counting and looked at her seriously. “You no dey run alone anymore.”
She swallowed hard. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know pain when I see it,” he said. “And I know loyalty when I feel it.”
She smiled faintly. “What if I bring you trouble?”
He reached out, brushing the side of her hand. “Then we go face am together.”
***
That night, it happened.
A fire broke out two streets away. A small shop explosion. Chaos spread fast. Screams. Running feet. Neighbours pouring water from bowls and buckets. The sky lit up red like a warning.
Mustapha and Zainab ran out with the crowd. It wasn’t their street—but it was close enough.
People wailed. A child was missing. The smoke clung to everything.
Mustapha helped drag a burning bench away from a path. Zainab knelt beside a woman coughing on the ground, fanning her.
In the smoke, a man stared at Zainab—too long. Too direct.
Zainab noticed.
She turned to Mustapha and whispered, “We need to go. Now.”
Back at the room, she paced. “That man... I think I’ve seen him before. I think he knows.”
Mustapha’s jaw clenched. “You’re sure?”
“No. But I feel it. Something in my stomach.”
He stood still for a long moment. Then he said:
“Tomorrow, we move.”
“Where?”
“I know place in Mushin. Rougher, but safer. For now.”
Zainab didn’t argue.
She was learning that survival wasn’t just about hiding. It was about knowing when to disappear.
And this time, she wasn’t disappearing alone.
As they packed their few belongings into a nylon bag that night, Zainab moved like someone who had done this before—too many times. Fold, wrap, zip, leave. No attachment. No trail.
Mustapha watched her quietly. “You move like person wey no dey expect tomorrow.”
She paused. “Tomorrow hasn’t done much for me.”
He didn’t press further. Instead, he took a small envelope from under the mattress. Inside: N4,600 — their savings from two weeks of sweat.
“E no plenty,” he said, “but e go carry us reach Mushin. For now.”
They left before sunrise.
The streets were empty, washed clean by the early morning rain. Zainab wore her hoodie again. No words were spoken. Just the rhythm of footsteps and unspoken prayers.
***
Mushin welcomed them with noise.
Shouts, generators, danfo conductors cursing at air, meat sellers yelling prices. The air stung with heat and smoke. Everything here felt faster, more alert, more dangerous.
But Mustapha knew someone — Azeez — a vulcanizer who had an unfinished backroom. It had no bed, just floor tiles and one leaky window. But it was hidden. Safe enough.
Azeez raised a brow when he saw Zainab. “You trust am?”
Mustapha looked Zainab in the eye before replying. “With my life.”
Zainab blinked. That moment struck her.
Not because he said it.
But because she believed him.
***
Days passed. They blended in.
Zainab stopped hawking. Too risky now. Instead, she helped wash and patch clothes for some of the women nearby, earning a few naira.
Mustapha returned to cleaning windshields at Ojuelegba. His hands toughened again. His eyes watched every corner. He was protecting more than just himself now.
One night, as they ate cold garri and groundnut in silence, Zainab said:
“I don’t know if this is love… but I know I feel safe with you.”
Mustapha didn’t look up. “Maybe safety na beginning of love.”
She nodded. Then whispered, “Don’t let go.”
He looked at her. “I no get intention.”
And right there — amid noise, poverty, and uncertainty — two broken souls started building something no city could burn.
Hope.
-
Later that night, as they lay side by side on the mat, the silence between them was deeper than the noise outside. Zainab turned slightly, facing Mustapha.
"Back home," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "they always said a woman’s silence means surrender. But me… my silence means I'm still fighting."
Mustapha looked at her in the dim light. He wanted to say something—something strong. But what came out was simple:
“You’re the bravest person I know.”
She blinked slowly. “You think running is brave?”
“No,” he said. “But surviving is.”
Zainab sat up. “If they find me again… if they take me—”
“They won’t,” he cut in.
“You don’t know that.”
He sat up too. “Then I’ll stand in front of you.”
Zainab stared at him. “Why?”
Mustapha didn’t hesitate. “Because you’re not just surviving anymore. You’re becoming.”
A long silence followed. Outside, Mushin kept roaring—horns, voices, a thousand moving parts. But in that small corner of the city, something had finally become still.
Zainab leaned forward and rested her head on Mustapha’s chest. His heartbeat was slow. Steady. Real.
“Don’t disappear,” she said.
“I won’t,” he replied. “Not when someone’s finally seeing me too.”
In the distance, sirens wailed again. Somewhere, something burned. But here, in this room with cracked walls and tired hearts, something had started to grow:
Belonging.
And in a city that tried so hard to break people apart, that was more than enough to fight for.
---
- Writer
