ABBY:
Before I go on, let me say this—looking back over the years, I still don’t fully understand what I was thinking at the time. But the choices I made back then led me to where I am today.
Anyway, back to that day.
Pleasantly surprised and a bit confused to see Chief in the flat, I quickly reminded myself—it was his apartment after all. Of course, he had a key. And with four bedrooms, there was more than enough space for him to stay the night.
Smiling respectfully, I greeted him. “Chief! You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
He smiled faintly and replied, “Abby, my daughter. I’m sorry I didn’t. But there’s something important I need to tell you. And it can’t wait any longer.”
His face had changed—serious, almost solemn.
My heart skipped. I sat down quickly, worried something had happened to his wife… or maybe he was sick?
He got up, poured himself a drink, then one for me, and said, “Let’s sit more comfortably, because what I’m about to tell you is unbelievable… but it’s the truth.”
Now, before I tell you what he said—what changed my life forever—I need to take you back.
Back to the village. Back to when I was a child.
I was an only child—at least, that’s what I believed. My parents never had more children, but they raised two boys—my cousins. My dad’s younger brother and his wife had died in a bus accident, and so my father took in their sons.
The three of us grew up together, and I always thought they loved me as much as they could.
In hindsight, maybe there were signs something wasn’t right.
My dad always praised me, almost like he was trying to prove something. My mum was incredibly overprotective—but I assumed that was just because I was a girl and the boys weren’t. Girls are more delicate, right?
But sitting across from Chief that day… watching him sip his drink, about to reveal something that would change everything…
I couldn’t help but wonder…
Hmmm…
CHRIS:
With the group now down to 11 instead of 12, and the harsh reality of this godforsaken journey weighing on us, I found myself praying—out loud, under my breath, inside my head—any way I could.
“Dear God, I know you can see me. You said my destiny was across waters. So how have I ended up crossing sand? Did the prophet see sand and mistake it for water?”
I know it might sound strange, but that’s how I talk to God—raw and honest.
Still no answer.
So I held tightly onto the rope, followed the others, and we kept walking.
Speechless. Exhausted. Scared.
About an hour into the trek, suddenly—screaming.
One of the guys collapsed to the ground, convulsing violently.
One of the guides dashed forward, detaching from the rope. From the corner of my eye, I saw it—slithering quickly into the sand—a black snake.
The black mamba.
I only recognised it because a roommate of mine back in Ibadan had snake posters on his wall. The black mamba was one of them.
I shouted to the guide what I saw, and panic broke out.
We scrambled to run, but being tied together meant no one could go far in any direction. We all tumbled into the sand, arms and legs entangled.
The guide checked the man’s pulse, shook his head. Another one gone.
Here’s the strange thing—though I felt like crying, no tears came.
It was as if the sun had dried up every drop of water in our bodies… even in our eyes.
No one cried. No one screamed. Just silence.
We dug another shallow grave. No prayers. No words. Just sand over flesh.
As I stood there staring at the mound, I held my head and thought,
Is this how we all go?
No one will ever know what happened.
No trace. No goodbye.
“Dear Lord,” I whispered, “please rescue me.”
Hmmm…
