WRECKED 12 11

It was too much to hope that Abdul would be working on the day she was planning to escape. In a way though, having him at home with her was better. If he was at home watching her, she knew exactly where he was. She would tell him she needed to get vegetables from the market and leave early. A good lead start. She looked at him fast asleep beside her, his thick eyelashes fanned out across his cheek like a bird's wing. He looked peaceful, as though he was not capable of hurting anybody.

It was ridiculously early, but she was not tired anymore – her head was buzzing with nervous energy. The time was quarter to five.

Hauwa got up as quietly as she could, desperate not to wake him. She felt sick as she started to tiptoe to the backyard to wash and dress.

She made it to the backyard just in time and started vomiting. She was nervous. She put her hair under her shawl, took all the money she had managed to save, including Asabe's bundle, and wrapped a few of her clothes in a wrappa. She stood still for a moment and quietly shut the door behind her. It was nearly half-past six.

She walked briskly out of the house, not daring to look back. The sun was bright already; the sky cloudless and blue, the air was chilly but not cold. For Hauwa, it was going to be beautiful day. When she got to the end of her street and turned a corner, she felt a scream start to bubble inside her, a laugh, a manic laughter of release from all the panic that had built up in her for so long.

Hauwa mounted a bike to the train station. She greeted the security guard at the station's entrance, bought a ticket for Ibadan, and sat down at the platform to wait for the boarding whistle. She wanted to be gone, already, even though she knew Abdul was probably still fast asleep in bed, she wanted to be away from him, she wanted to run and never look back.

A week ago, he came in late, almost midnight. The smell of alcohol preceded him into the bedroom, where she sat mending clothes. It was not going to be pleasant, Hauwa knew.

"What are you doing?" he had demanded.

"I was just going to bed."

"Yeah, whatever. Come here." He held his arms open, waiting for an embrace swaying slightly, and she gritted her teeth and snuggled up to his chest, then shrunk back at the smell of alcohol.

"Why are you unfriendly?"

"I am not unfriendly," she said, trying to keep her voice bright. "Just tired, that's all." To prove her point, she hid a delicate yawn behind her hand.

"You're always tired."

She was at crossroads again, the one where she could either be brave and let him have what he wanted, or try to fight it and risk getting another serious beating. When he was drunk like this, he was not going to let her get away with saying no.

"I'm not too tired, though," she said, with a smile, giving his hairy chest a rub and undoing his belt.

In the end, he beat her anyway. His breath came in ragged gasps; his eyes glinted with pleasure.

"Don't hit my face," she said quietly.

"What?"

"Anything – just not my face. They ask too many questions. Our friends."

"That so?"

She nodded, not able to look at him anymore. Then, still on her, he deliberately put one hand under her chin, choosing his place, the thumb on one side, his fingers on the other. He took away the air from her lungs, her fingers at her throat, trying to relieve the pressure, the air burning her lungs, the roaring in her ears signalling she was going to lose consciousness in just a matter of moments. She screamed, as loud and as hard as she could, tears racing down her cheeks. She had almost seen death. She was utterly terrified and screaming was almost involuntary–so she screamed, jumped o the bed and cowered in a corner.

Afterward, he picked himself o the bed, staggered to the back of the house to wash, returned to the bedroom and fell back into bed. She waited until she heard him snoring, then she got on her hands and knees, quietly crying, and went to have a wash.

Looking at the rusty train now, she closed her eyes against the nausea.

At seven o'clock, the stationmaster announced the call to board. Hauwa stood up and joined the departure line, casting one last glance across the terminal at the sea of happy faces, faces going about their business, happy holiday faces and tired business faces. She was there. A few more steps and she would be on the train. She would be free.

Suddenly – there he was in his uniform; tall and handsome, walking towards her. His eyes on her, his face impassive. The line was still snaking around the metal barrier – she could not stay there.

She just ran, panicked, ran as fast as she could toward the security guard, the one she had greeted as she arrived the station. He was strolling along the concourse without any idea what was about to hit him. She flew towards him, her mouth open in some sort of soundless scream… and instead of putting himself between her and Abdul, he grabbed her hand and held her firmly against him.

"Thank you, cousin Sule," Abdul said. "I appreciate the call. Let's meet up for drinks this evening."

Sule nodded, struggling to get his breath back, as he released Hauwa to Abdul. He panted and sweated with the exertion and excitement of being involved in something so dramatic only on his first week on the job.

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"No problem, brother. You need any more help?"

"No, I've got this. Thanks again. See you later."

It was all over within a minute. Holding Hauwa tightly, he frog-marched her out of the station. She could have tried to break free and run again, but there wasn't any point.

He pushed her into the back of the car and she did not remember what happened after that.

Chapter end