Entry 39

Abby:
The house looked perfectly ordinary from the outside—calm, tasteful, framed by manicured hedges and a tall, well-oiled gate. But the moment I stepped through the front door, I felt it. Something wasn’t right.

There were too many eyes. Men in suits stood like silent statues, positioned as if part of the décor—but they weren’t guests. They were watching. Deolu’s hand tightened around mine as we walked in. It wasn’t affection. It was possession.

We were led into a lounge where his “friend” was waiting. An older man, perhaps late fifties, dressed in silk and sipping whisky from a heavy crystal tumbler. He stood when we entered, his eyes scanning me before his mouth curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re even more stunning in person,” he said.

I didn’t respond.

Deolu did all the speaking. He was animated—boasting, laughing, showing me off like some sort of prize he’d won. I sat there, still foggy from whatever he’d slipped into my tea that morning. My body was there, but I was somewhere else.

“Let’s have a drink,” the man suggested.

I seized the moment. Mumbled something about needing the bathroom. Once inside, I locked the door, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on my face. The girl staring back at me in the mirror looked like me, but wasn’t. Her eyes were glazed. Her lips, too red. Her spirit, muted.

Then I heard it—Deolu’s voice, sharp and rising. The older man was irritated I hadn’t come back quickly enough. Panic surged.

There was a small window above the sink. Without thinking too hard, I slipped off the heels, climbed up, and dropped down into the garden below. My ankle twisted beneath me, but adrenaline took over. I didn’t look back.

I ran. Limping, yes—but running. I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I had to leave.

Anywhere was better than staying…..hmmmmmm

Chris:
By now, we had been drifting for days. I couldn’t even tell how many—time had lost its shape. I asked Thomas and he said, “Three.”

Only three? It felt like forever. My throat ached. Tears slid down my cheeks, and I wasn’t even crying.

We were told to ration—one bite of bread, one sip of water per day. I remember asking how long the journey would take. The guide shrugged and muttered, “Depends… maybe two, three—”

“Days?” I interrupted.

“No,” he scoffed. “Weeks.”

The storm had passed, but the stillness it left behind was worse. The motor had died in the night. The guides had gone quiet—grim-faced, barely meeting our eyes.

One of them cursed in Arabic and threw an empty bottle overboard.

Behind me, someone murmured a prayer. Others lay motionless, eyes wide and fixed on nothing, their will worn thin.

Then—hope. A dark shape in the distance. A ship? An island?

Excitement surged. People stood too fast, waving, shouting. The boat rocked violently. We pleaded with them to sit back down, to wait.

It wasn’t a ship. It was just a rock. Lifeless. Cold. We drifted past it, unnoticed, unseen.

The heat intensified. Our water ran out.

Some started drinking seawater—first out of desperation, then delusion. One woman kept whispering her mother’s name, stretching out her hand as though reaching for a ghost.

Thomas leaned towards me, voice hoarse: “If we die here… at least we tried.”

I looked at him, and something in me rebelled.

“No,” I whispered. “We’re not dying here. We’re not done yet.”

The sea said nothing. But the sky shifted, just slightly. A faint speck on the horizon. A ship? A rock? Or maybe… something divine?

I didn’t know. But I kept my eyes fixed on it. I clung to hope.

Because I knew, deep down, we were not done yet….hmmmm

ABBY: Deolu returned that evening with a bottle of wine, a smug smile, and a bag full of luxury items. “We’re celebrating,” he announced. “My friend—the one I told you about—saw your picture and can’t wait to meet you.”

I should’ve left then. But something about the way he spoke, the way he looked at me—calm but calculated—rooted me to the spot. He pulled out a red dress, sleek and expensive, then handed me matching Louis Vuitton shoes and a handbag. I felt like a doll being dressed for show.

Then came the chain—gold, heavy—and the final touch: he opened the bedroom door, and in walked a makeup artist with a fully stocked kit. “Sit,” Deolu said. I opened my mouth to object, but the look he gave me stopped me cold. It wasn’t anger—it was possession.

He sat across from me, sipping wine, watching silently as the makeup artist transformed me. “Perfect,” he said once it was done. The artist left. And then Deolu leaned in, voice soft but chilling.

“You’re going to be a good girl now, aren’t you?”

He tilted his head, smiling slightly. “That tea I gave you this morning… I see it’s taken effect. You’re just as calm as I expected.”

I blinked. My limbs felt light, detached. I hadn’t realized it until then—how numb I’d become. My thoughts weren’t racing, my instincts muted. Whatever he gave me, it worked.

And I followed him. Like a pet. Into his car. To the house of the “friend.”……….hmmmm

CHRIS: The raft was nothing like I’d imagined. More rubber than boat, and overcrowded with seventeen people, it bounced awkwardly against the waves. When we first launched, the stars gave us some comfort—but within hours, clouds blanketed the sky, and we were swallowed by darkness.

Then came the storm.

Waves slammed against us like walls. People screamed, clawing at each other for balance. Someone fell in—a boy, maybe seventeen. We grabbed his arm, barely pulling him back in. The dinghy lurched, water rushing over the edge. People sobbed, panicked. Our guides were shouting, arguing in Arabic, trying to steer, but it was chaos.

We drifted aimlessly. No lights. No landmarks. Just wind, waves, and terror. The cold was unbearable. My teeth chattered, my body shook. But worse was what happened to some others—hypothermia set in. They began to shiver, then suddenly stopped. One woman began unbuttoning her coat, muttering that she felt too hot. We tried to stop her, but she slapped our hands away, delirious.

I closed my eyes and prayed. Dear God, I am finally crossing the water toward what I believe is my destiny… but why must it be like this? Are you sure I’ll even arrive?

And in that moment, nothing felt certain—except the vast, merciless sea beneath us.

hmmm… Please leave your comments below. Thank you

ABBY:
They say when someone shows you who they are, believe them. But what do you do when you want so badly to believe they’re something else?

Deolu had become my safety net—or so I thought. He helped me get a small job at a local café. Nothing fancy, just waiting tables and cleaning up, but at least it was something. I started making a little money and began to feel like I was getting back on my feet. He never asked me for anything, and that in itself felt like a miracle. He cooked sometimes, made me laugh, and was a good listener.

One night, we were walking home from the café when he stopped and said, “You know I really care about you, right?” I nodded, not sure where it was going. He continued, “I know you’ve been hurt, lied to, betrayed, and I want to help heal that—but healing has to go both ways.” I asked what he meant, and that’s when he said it.

“I want you to meet someone. He’s a friend of mine. A big guy. He runs things. All you need to do is go with him for dinner, look pretty, smile, and keep him company. No pressure, just one evening.”

My heart sank. There it is, I thought. The price tag. The hidden transaction. I kept walking in silence, and he didn’t press it. But the seed had been planted, and I knew now what Deolu really was. The question was—what was I going to do about it?…hmmmmm

CHRIS:
The last camp before the water. That’s what they called it. But it didn’t feel like any “last stop” I imagined. It was chaotic, overcrowded, and tense. People from different countries huddled around fires, some waiting days, even weeks, for their turn to cross.

The dinghies were nothing more than glorified rubber balloons. Each was meant for ten people, but they loaded fifteen, sometimes twenty. “The water is calmer at night,” the guide explained, “so we move then.”

I looked at the flimsy raft and felt my stomach twist. This wasn’t a boat—it was a gamble.

That evening, the guide approached us. “Tonight’s your chance. One raft is going. I’ve secured spots for you and Thomas. But it’s your call.”

Thomas looked at me, pale but determined. “If we’ve come this far, we might as well finish it,” he said.

We both knew what that meant—there might not be another chance. So we packed what was left of our food, tightened the straps on our backpacks, and joined the others at the shoreline.

The guide handed us two orange life jackets, most of the foam worn out. I looked out at the black sea, endless and unknowable, and I whispered to myself: This better be worth it…

hmmm…

ABBY:
Deolu. The name alone still brings a mix of feelings. At the time, he was charming, confident, and sounded like he had the answers I desperately needed. We exchanged numbers and he promised to call later. True to his word, that evening he called and asked if I had a place to sleep. I hesitated, then lied and said I was staying with a friend but could use a break from the tension there. He chuckled and said, “Well then, come and cool off where there’s no tension—just me and good vibes.”

I didn’t know what else to do. I had no plan, no home, and only a few naira in my pocket. So I went. His place was modest but neat. He offered me food, a clean towel, and told me to sleep in his bed while he took the couch. “You look like you haven’t slept in peace for days,” he said. He wasn’t wrong.

The next day, he asked no questions, didn’t probe, just told me to rest. For the first time in weeks, someone wasn’t judging me or demanding anything in return. Or so I thought. It wasn’t until a few days later, when I offered to leave, that he said, “Why go when you’ve already found where you belong?” I didn’t know it yet, but I was walking into another chapter of my life that would test me in ways I never imagined.

Deolu wasn’t just some random guy. He had a past. And soon, that past would become my present…

CHRIS:
At the checkpoint, time felt like it froze. The voices of the armed guards were getting louder. They were arguing with the driver, questioning why the back of the truck was sealed tight. We could only hear muffled Arabic and the occasional swear word. The guide whispered, “Don’t breathe loud. Don’t cough. Don’t even think of moving.”

We were hidden under tarps and sacks of what smelled like onions and raw grain. The air was choking. Thomas was pressed up beside me, his shirt soaked with sweat. The girl who had ‘bought’ her way onto the truck began to tremble. I squeezed her hand lightly, just to let her know someone saw her—because I did.

Suddenly, the tarp was yanked open. A torchlight flashed across our faces. All I could think was, this is it. We’ll be arrested. Deported. Or worse.

But just as quickly, the light was turned off and the tarp dropped again. The driver must have handed over something, because the shouting stopped. A door slammed. The truck roared to life.

The guide exhaled loudly and whispered, “That was close.” We didn’t respond. We couldn’t. The fear had silenced us.

An hour later, the truck stopped and we were told to get off. “You’ve made it to the last camp before the boat,” the guide said. Relief washed over me—but only for a moment. Because we were told the next crossing was by sea, and the boat… was a dinghy.

hmmm…