ABBY:
“Mum, who is my real father?” I asked again, this time firmer.
She looked at me, stunned, eyes wide like I had just slapped her.
“What kind of question is that, Abby?” she said, almost stuttering. “What’s come over you?”
“Please don’t do this,” I replied calmly. “I came all this way for the truth. Don’t deny me.”
She stood up, wiped her hands on her wrapper, and turned away. “This is nonsense. I don’t know what lies they’ve been feeding you in Lagos.”
“Does Daddy know?” I asked.
That stopped her cold. She didn’t turn around, but I could see her shoulders tense, her back stiffen.
I repeated the question, more softly this time. “Does Daddy know I’m not his?”
She slowly sat down again, not facing me. A long silence followed. Then she began, her voice low and cracked.
“I was four weeks pregnant when I ran from Lagos.”
My heart thudded.
“I had no job, no money, and nowhere to go. I couldn’t tell my parents… It would’ve been a disgrace. I would’ve been cast out, labelled, shamed. They would’ve disowned me.”
She paused, tears now falling freely. “Then… he came. Your ‘father’. He had just returned from the city, looking to marry. He approached me within a week. I was desperate. I knew if I told him the truth, he’d walk away. So… I made love to him.”
I closed my eyes in horror.
“I made sure he would think the child was his. I had no choice, Abby. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You had a choice,” I said bitterly. “You always had a choice. You chose to lie—for a lifetime.”
“I did it to protect you!” she snapped, suddenly turning on me. “To give you a name, a home, a family! You would’ve been a bastard in this village, and you know how they treat girls like that!”
Her voice cracked. “You think it was easy for me?”
She stood up, wiping her face angrily. “You don’t know what it’s like to be a woman in a place like this!”
And with that, she stormed off into the house, slamming the door behind her.
Just then, my father—no, the man I called father—returned from the farm, his hands dusty, a cutlass slung across his shoulder.
He stopped when he saw me. “Abby? What’s going on? Why is your mother crying?”
I looked at him, heart breaking into a thousand shards.
“Ask your dutiful wife,” I said coldly, brushing past him.
I got into the car and told the driver, “Take me back to Lagos.”
The ride back was a blur.
My phone lit up with calls. Chief. Over and over again.
But I ignored them all.
I wasn’t ready to face him. Or anyone.
Hmmm…
CHRIS:
When we finally reached the Bedouin camp, I collapsed.
Not just from exhaustion—but from everything. The fear. The hunger. The heat. The silence.
The camp looked like something out of a war documentary. Tattered tents, scattered fires, makeshift shelters. Dozens of people—dust-covered, hollow-eyed, some bandaged, some too weak to speak.
But the most beautiful sight of all? Water.
Cold, real water. Buckets of it. We ran. We drank. We cried.
Some of the locals passed around simple food—flatbread, boiled eggs, dates. We were grateful for every bite.
For a moment, it felt like we’d made it.
But then reality struck again.
That evening, one of our guides gathered us. “There’s a lorry coming tonight. It will take some of you to the next checkpoint. But space is limited—first come, first serve. The drivers want bribes. If you want a spot, pay up.”
Murmurs broke out. A few shouted. Some cried.
I turned to Thomas. “Do you still have any cash?”
He shook his head. “Just a bit. Not enough.”
We both stared at the fire in silence, knowing we might not make it on that truck.
Then night fell.
That was when the real nightmare began.
Shouting. Screaming.
The sound of horses galloping.
Men in turbans, faces covered, waving machetes and rifles charged into the camp—desert pirates.
They slashed tents open, looted bags, beat people to the ground. Women were dragged by the hair. Men were cut down mid-run.
It was chaos.
Thomas grabbed my hand. “Run!”
We darted into the dark, slipping through makeshift shelters, dodging bodies and flames.
I turned back just once—and I’ll never forget what I saw.
One of the girls from our group—she couldn’t have been more than 19—was screaming as a man on horseback dragged her away.
I still hear that scream.
When it was finally quiet, Thomas and I emerged from hiding.
The camp was in ruins. Tents torn. Fires smouldering.
People—dead, scattered.
Our group? Gone.
We couldn’t find any of them.
We were alone.
In the middle of nowhere.
And we had no idea what to do next.
Hmmm
