My body burned with dirt and sweat.
It had been three days since I last bathed.
For three days, I had been running—looking back, afraid of shadows, afraid of footsteps that may or may not be real.
I was eight months pregnant.
My legs were swollen.
Each step felt like my body was tearing apart.
But I couldn’t stop.
I had to reach that village, far away from the life I left behind.
Lagos.
I had little money, and I was too afraid to enter a motor park… too afraid to be seen.
So I kept moving.
From one village to another.
Walking when I had no strength left.
Until my body finally gave up.
I collapsed under a mango tree.
My eyes closed, but I could still hear everything.
Then suddenly, I heard gunshots.
My heart stopped.
They found me.
My breath seized in my chest.
Are they here already?
Did they follow me all the way?
If they see me, I’m finished.
If they touch me, I won’t survive it.
Ogun State, March 1994
