ABBY:
Needless to say, I found myself at the University of Ibadan.
Now, you’d think I’d be full of gratitude to Chief and his wife for turning my life around—and don’t get me wrong, I was—but deep down, I still wanted more.
By now, I was 17. I’d lived with them for over a year, and I was no longer the Abby from the village. My blackmailing tendencies had been curbed—at least I’d learnt the hard way that life outside the village wasn’t always as straightforward as it had been with my dad and aunt.
Chief’s wife made my stay in Ibadan extremely comfortable. They rented me a beautifully furnished apartment, bought me a brand-new car, and opened a bank account that was generously topped up every month.
For four years, I lived a life of luxury.
I studied hard—surprisingly—considering the number of friends and parties I had, and I graduated with a 2:1 in Law.
At 20, I was unrecognisable from the naïve girl I once was.
As a graduation gift, I was given a two-week holiday in London. Not my first time out of the country, mind you—I’d already been to Dubai, Spain, South Africa, and Zanzibar with Chief’s wife. Every time she “needed a break,” I was the lucky one she dragged along.
Shopping. Sun. Spa days.
We flew business class, sat side by side, sipping champagne like mother and daughter.
But one thing still puzzled me—why was nothing ever said about her children?
And I found out, in London.
Chief arranged for someone named Aunty Tracy to pick me up from Heathrow. She dropped me off at Chief’s flat in Chelsea—a lush three-bedroom apartment overlooking the Chelsea Bridge.
She showed me the fully stocked fridge, the new phone with credit, the chauffeur’s number, and the credit card I could use for anything I wanted.
All arranged by Chief.
The next three days, I did what any excited 20-year-old would do—soaked in the jacuzzi with the doors open to the city view, ordered pizza, ice cream, Chinese takeaway, watched films on the big screen.
Bored, I called the driver and asked to be taken to a nightclub. Definitely not like the ones back home.
For three days, I lived like a princess.
Then, one afternoon, I went out to the London Eye and came back home…
…only to find Chief sitting in the living room, staring straight at me.
Hmmm…
CHRIS:
I never imagined walking could hurt like that.
Blisters. Sunburn. Legs that felt like lead. That constant fear that one more step might be my last.
We walked all day. Only stopping when the sun was too harsh or someone nearly collapsed.
Our guides hardly spoke. And when they did, it was always the same: “Keep moving.”
Thomas and I stuck together. We shared what little water we had left, whispered prayers under our breath, and gave each other nods of encouragement.
The desert had no mercy.
By the time we got to our first resting point, the heat was unbearable.
We were drenched in sweat, panting for breath. The guides tied us together with rope around our waists, so if one person stopped, everyone stopped. It forced us to move as one.
They led us into a shallow cave—not deep, but cool enough to give us some relief.
We were told to eat, lie down, and sleep. At sundown, we’d continue.
There was a wave of silent relief as we untied ourselves, flopped to the ground, and took slow sips of water. I ate a bit of bread, laid my head on my bag, and before I knew it, I had passed out from exhaustion.
A few hours later, I was jolted awake by screaming.
Disoriented, I sat up—only to see what was left of the boy who had been lying closest to the entrance.
A mountain lion had attacked.
Half his body was gone.
The girls were wailing. The rest of us stood, frozen, trembling.
The guides, emotionless as ever, stepped in.
“This is the reality of the desert,” one of them said flatly.
They picked up what was left of him and ordered us to dig a shallow grave with old tin plates. We buried him silently, no prayers, no goodbyes. Just sand.
Then the guide turned to us and said,
“That’s his life now. The rest of you—pack up. We’ve got a long way to go.”
Hmmm…
