On the day my NYSC orientation was over.
I sat on the thin mattress in my new room, still wearing my NYSC uniform—white shirt, khaki trousers.
Outside, the drums from the community welcome ceremony were dying down.
The local government chairman and his people had gone home. The landlord and his family had retired to their own section of the compound.
This was supposed to be exciting. My posting. A chance to serve. But my chest felt tight, and I couldn't say why.
A soft knock came at the door.
I froze.
Who would come at this hour? I got up and opened it a crack. Mama Bisi stood there, the older woman who cooked for the lodging house.
Her eyes were wide with worry. She leaned in close and whispered:
"If you want to live, change your clothes now. Leave through the back gate. Hurry, before it's too late."
I stared at her, my heart pounding. Before I could ask anything, her gaze darted past me toward the compound entrance.
Be silent, her face warned. This is not a joke.
Then I heard it—heavy footsteps. A man's voice, low and commanding. The chairman's voice. He was coming this way.
I had to choose. Stay, or run.
I grabbed my bag, shoved my uniform under the mattress, and pulled on jeans and a t-shirt.
Mama Bisi waved urgently. I followed her through the dark corridor. She pushed open a wooden gate at the back of the compound and pointed into the darkness.
"Straight ahead," she whispered. "Someone is waiting."
I ran. The night air was sharp—harmattan wind, cold and dry against my skin. My slippers slapped the dirt path.
At the edge of the road, under a flickering streetlight, an okada sat waiting, engine humming.
The rider—a young man with worried eyes—reached back and pulled me onto the seat.
We shot forward. I wrapped my arms around him and held tight, my heart hammering. Tears streamed down my face. I didn't look back.
We rode through empty streets and bush paths until we reached the motor park. He stopped near the night bus heading to Lagos. He handed me a folded paper and some naira notes.
"Mama Bisi said take this. Get on that bus. Don't come back."
I opened my mouth to ask why, but he shook his head and rode off.
I stood there trembling, clutching the money and the note. I unfolded it under the weak bulb above the ticket window.
“They do this every year. New corps member. New trap. Last girl didn't make it out. Run, sister. Run, they want you b0dy. All of them"
My legs gave out. I collapsed onto the bench from fear.
The next morning, safe at my friend's place in Lagos, I knelt on the floor and thanked God—and Mama Bisi—for saving my life. I never went back to that posting.
I applied for redeployment and never asked fewer questions again.
And I never stopped thinking about the girl who came before me, the one who didn't escape.
Will they ever find me, only God knows, some nights I dream they do.
Uthando Stories
Source: African Stories-Bcdblog
