And just before the woman reached the car, Lena grabbed his sleeve with both hands and whispered, “Please don’t let her take me back.”
The rain did not fall that night.
It attacked.
It crashed from the sky in thick, furious sheets, beating the lonely road on the outskirts of Lagos until the asphalt shone black beneath the headlights of passing cars. Thunder rolled over the city like something angry had woken in the clouds. The gutters overflowed. Palm leaves bent under the storm. Every shop along the roadside had pulled its shutters down, and even the stray dogs had disappeared into doorways and abandoned kiosks.
Then a girl burst out of the darkness.
Her name was Lena.
She was nineteen years old, barefoot, bruised, and running as if death itself had learned her name.
Her thin dress was torn at the hem and soaked through. Mud streaked her legs. Rain plastered her hair against her face. A fresh bruise darkened one cheek, still swollen from the slap that had sent her crashing against the wall only an hour earlier. Her chest burned. Her feet slipped on wet stones. Her breath came in broken gasps.
Behind her, from the narrow dirt path leading away from the old compound, voices cut through the storm.
“Find her!”
“She cannot have gone far!”
“Check the road!”
Lena’s heart slammed against her ribs.
No.
No.
No.
She stumbled onto the asphalt just as lightning split the sky. For one blinding second, the whole road turned white. She saw the trees. The flooded ditch. The empty bus stop. The long curve leading toward the expressway.
Then she saw the headlights.
Two sharp beams rushed toward her through the rain.
The engine was low and powerful, nothing like the coughing taxis and tired buses she was used to. The black luxury car came fast around the bend,
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