Chapter 3
1128 Words
The rest of the night moved like a clock with uneven gears — slow, then suddenly fast, then slow again.
The rain didn’t return, but the damp clung to the air, curling into the corners of the motel, making the walls feel closer than they were.
Adanna sat behind the counter with a cup of tea she’d reheated twice. The tea wasn’t for drinking; it was something to hold, something warm to keep her fingers busy while her mind worked.
From time to time, her eyes wandered to the corridor, to the faint yellow glow spilling from beneath Room 4’s door
It was a little after one when she heard movement — not footsteps exactly, but the soft drag of a chair across a floor. Then the door opened, and Chike stepped into the corridor. He had changed into a plain, dark sweatshirt and track pants, the kind of clothes you wear when you want to move quietly.
“You’re awake,” he said, stopping a few steps from the counter.
“I run a motel,” she replied, keeping her tone light. “Someone has to watch the night.”
He glanced toward the glass door and the dark beyond it. “Do you… Often get visits like that?”
She shook her head. “Never. Not once in four years.”
He seemed to weigh her answer. Then he moved closer, leaning his forearms on the counter. His presence carried that same faint cologne from earlier — woodsy, but worn down by time and travel.
“I should go,” he said. “Before morning.”
“Then why haven’t you?” she asked, eyes meeting his.
A muscle in his jaw tightened. “Because I need to think. And because… there’s something in me that wants to believe I can still fix this before running.”
“Fix what?”
That pause again. The one he wore like armour
He looked toward the door before speaking. “What do you know about Chief Obiora?”
She frowned. “The businessman? The one who’s been in the news over land disputes?”
“Yes. Him.” His voice was low, but not because he was afraid — more because he didn’t want the words to exist any louder than necessary. “He’s not just a businessman. He’s tied to things… dangerous things. And one of those things killed a man I owed everything to.”
Her breath caught slightly. “You mean murdered?”
He nodded once. “A young activist. He was going to expose Obiora’s illegal oil deals — I was supposed to help him get the proof out. But they got to him first. Now I have what they were trying to destroy.”
“And Madu?” she asked.
Chike’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Obiora’s fixer. If he finds me, I won’t see the inside of a police cell. I’ll just… disappear.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the faint tick of the wall clock.
“You could go to the police,” she said finally.
His laugh was short, without humour. “Half the police in this state owe him favours. The other half are afraid to cross him. No — the only way is to get the evidence to someone who can’t be silenced. A journalist I know is in Abuja. But to do that…” He hesitated. “…I need to move without being followed.”
Her eyes searched his face. “And you think you’ve already been followed here.”
“I know I have,” he said simply.
They stood in silence for a moment. Then she said, “You want tea?”
He looked at her, something like surprise flickering across his features. “Tea?”
“It’s what I can offer,” she said. “I can’t fight your battles, but I can make sure you’re warm while you plan them.”
For the first time, something in him eased — not much, but enough to let the tension around his eyes soften. “Tea would be good,” he said.
In the small kitchen, she poured hot water over the leaves, the steam curling between them. He stood in the doorway, hands tucked into his pockets, watching her with an expression she couldn’t read.
“You’ve done this before,” he said.
“What?”
“Taken in trouble.”
Her lips curved faintly. “Trouble takes itself in. I just… don’t turn it away.”
He nodded slowly, like he understood that more than she meant him to.
They took their tea to the counter. He sat on one of the old stools, elbows resting on his knees. For a while, they drank in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt… suspended, like the world outside had paused to let them breathe
“Why do you run this place alone?” he asked eventually.
“Because it’s mine,” she said. “And because I can.”
He didn’t push further, but his gaze lingered, like he wanted to.
She found herself asking before she could stop: “What happens if you can’t get the evidence out?”
He met her eyes, steady. “Then I stop running. But I won’t be the only one who disappears.”
Something cold slid down her spine. “You mean they’d come after anyone who helped you.”
“Yes.” He didn’t soften it. He didn’t need to.
For the rest of the night, they stayed in the lobby, listening to the occasional passing truck, the hiss of tires on wet asphalt. Sometimes they spoke; sometimes they didn’t. Once, she caught him watching her in the reflection of the lobby window, and neither of them looked away immediately.
At around four, a faint hum broke the stillness — a car slowing outside. Not the Jeep. A smaller sedan, its headlights slicing briefly through the lobby before it passed on. Still, they both tensed until it was gone.
“You should sleep,” she said quietly.
“So should you.”
“I’ll sleep when the sun’s up.”
“Same,” he said.
M
When dawn finally came, the light felt thin, watery. He stood, stretching slightly. “I’ll head out before they circle back.”
She wanted to ask him to stay. She didn’t. “Be careful,” she said instead.
He gave her that small, almost-smile — the one that never fully reached his eyes—and stepped out into the morning mist.
She watched him walk to his car, shoulders squared, as if bracing for whatever waited beyond Mile 46.
Something told her this wasn’t the last she’d see of Chike.
And she was right.
- Writer
