Page 24

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LAGOS CUSTOMS IS Achaotic and scary-as-hell scene. Hulking men in fatigues stare down every man and woman who process through customs from their high perches, almost flaunting the intimidatingly large guns strapped across their chests. Another win for my veil and covering, as it now hides the near-debilitating fear shaking everything from my shoulders down. My legs operate on their own accord, projecting me closer and closer to the exit. Through those doors, it’s official—there’s no backing out.

Four weeks.

Five feet from the automatic doors, my feet suction to the concrete floor.

I stare frozen in place as the door slides open and shut. Men and women shoulder around me, eager to escape the small cage customs must feel like to everyone else. But my cage lies outside those doors.

Four weeks.

What the hell was I thinking? I can't do this.

The thin material from the veil sticks to my now-damp cheeks. I thought I could, I really did. Thought I was strong enough to avenge Destiny, but I’m not. I'm not strong. I'm weak and disappointing.

Through my swirling fear-laced breakdown, a man accompanied by an armed guard approaches and demands my passport. Behind the thin netting covering, my blue eyes dart from the irritated man to the other holding the gun.

Trapped.

Not wasting time, his rough hands snatch the passport booklet from my trembling one and flip it open. After a quick scan of the inside, he nods to the armed guard and turns. The guard grips my shoulder, directing me through the crowd and out the automatic door into a busy parking lot. Warm humid air strangles each breath I attempt to drag in while sweat builds along my covered brow. I’m yanked to a stop behind a parked, battered canvas-covered truck. Rusted metal bites at my knees and palms when I'm shoved into the darkness of the truck bed. The tailgate slams shut behind me, followed by an ominous clang of the lock.

The metal beneath me rattles and vibrates as the truck lurches forward, but I don’t really notice. Everything is frozen. My hearing’s gone, my vision blurred, and if I can’t slow down my breathing, I’ll pass out sooner than later. I need to get a fucking grip.

An unexpected abrupt stop rocks me off balance. I extend a hand to protect me from hitting the hot metal, but instead of landing on the truck, my palm presses against something soft. It takes three deliberate blinks to clear the haze from my vision in order to inspect what I’ve fallen on.

Only to discover it’s not a what but a who. Wide-eyed, I scan the large full bed and quickly realize I’m a self-centered asshole.

Seven.

No, eight.

Eight other women accompany me in this shitty situation. As my eyes adjust to the meager light penetrating the heavy canvas cover, I take in every detail I can. All eight wear some kind of covering, but not head to toe like mine. Their gazes avert from mine as I look around. Hell, these women can’t be over twenty by the look of their full faces and innocent eyes.

No one speaks as the truck speeds along a bumpy road, jostling us from side to side. With the roar of the wind and the local music blaring from the cab, I muster some courage to get to know the girls. "Well, this isn't what I expected," I blurt. It's honest and awkward. Might as well show my true colors now.

"None of this is," says a Caucasian girl with sad eyes to my right, her voice quaking. “I want to go home.” Tears spill down her cheeks.

Like I would’ve done with a young Destiny when she was scared, I pull the girl to my chest and hold her head close to my heart.

"I know. I know.” Fuck do I know. “We’ll figure it out, okay? How old are y’all?"

Each girl answers.

Eighteen.

Sixteen.

Eighteen.

I can’t choke back a devastated whimper when the girl still pressed against my chest whispers, “Fourteen.” Even younger than Destiny. These men, their evil and destruction of young lives must be stopped. Remaining coals of anger flare, lighting and solidifying my resolve, my reason for being here, burning through the earlier fear and dread.

Is this scenario similar to what Destiny initially experienced? Not sure why, but knowing she wasn’t alone helps. Maybe she made friends during the journey to who the hell knows where we're going. The militia’s campsite moves too frequently to ever pinpoint exactly where they’ll be on a given day, which is why this particular militant group has skirted the CIA for so long.

Soft, even breaths tell me the girl resting against me has fallen asleep. Warmth blooms in my chest knowing I’m the reason she feels safe enough to do so. Gripping the locket around my neck, I squeeze it so tight the warm metal bites into my palm. I will get out of here. I will help these girls get out too. And now more than ever, my resolve to stop this evil from happening to more innocents solidifies into something resembling courage.

We jostle around in the back of the truck for hours. Insufferable heat dissipates to a cool wind cutting through the canvas tarp as the late afternoon sun fades and night falls. I'm between dozing, head resting against the wheel well, three of the girls snuggled against me, when the truck slows to a stop.

Now wide awake, I listen to the rumble of men laughing and talking outside the truck. I focus on the tailgate, waiting for it to open and allow us a glimpse at our surroundings.