My eyes fluttered open.
The first thing I did was turn toward the seat beside me.
Thank heavens—he was still there.
Elvis caught my movement and smiled.
"Welcome back from sleepland, Miss Drama Queen," he said.
Laughter escaped us both, light and unguarded, as though the long journey had momentarily softened the world.
"Where are we?" I asked, blinking away the remnants of sleep.
"Almost at Jabi," he replied.
I exhaled deeply, relief settling into my chest. For the first time since my phone had gone off, I felt grounded. Awake. Present.
I forced myself to remain alert as the bus crawled through its final stops. Streetlights blurred past the windows, Abuja revealing itself slowly—quiet, vast, unfamiliar.
Eventually, the bus came to a halt.
Delta Line Park.
Jabi.
It was thirty minutes past nine.
We stepped out into the night air and retrieved our luggage. Mine felt excessive the moment I counted them—three bags, a large handbag carrying my laptop and other essentials, and a smaller purse containing my now-useless phone.
Reality pressed in quickly.
Finding a cab proved difficult. Drivers passed us by, some uninterested, others suspicious. But Elvis remained calm, patient, determined. With his help, I finally secured one.
As the cab idled nearby, an impulse overtook me.
I reached into my bag, pulled out my jotter, tore a small piece of paper from it, and handed it to him.
"Write your number," I said.
At the time, it felt harmless. Sensible, even. A simple exchange between two strangers whose paths had briefly intertwined.
But looking back now, I understand something I didn't then.
That moment—the tearing of that paper, the ink meeting its surface—was the most reckless decision I made that night.
And the consequences were unforgiving.