Chasing Her Heart

66| love and lies |

Benin, Nigeria
4:34 pm.

The scorching Nigerian sun beat down on the bustling streets of Benin, casting long shadows across the worn asphalt. The air was thick with the smells of frying plantains and exhaust fumes. As the clock struck 4 pm, the city's energy began to shift. Market vendors packed up their wares, and the sounds of haggling gave way to the hum of generators and chatter.

Amidst the chaos, a figure emerged from the crowd. Tall, with an angular face and piercing brown eyes, he wore a worn leather jacket and faded jeans. His dark hair was messy, and a scruff of stubble framed his sharp jawline. He moved with a sense of urgency, scanning the surroundings as if searching for something – or someone.

No one noticed him at first, just another face in the sea of people. But there was something about him that didn't quite fit. His eyes seemed to hold a depth, a hint of desperation, that made him stand out.

As he navigated the narrow streets, his gaze darted between dilapidated buildings and makeshift shops. He checked his watch for what felt like the hundredth time, his anxiety growing with each passing minute. The sun would set soon, and he needed to find shelter.

His thoughts were a jumble of fragmented memories and urgent needs. He had been on the move for days, maybe weeks – time lost all meaning when you were running. His funds were dwindling, but he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Every step, every glance over his shoulder, made his skin crawl.

Food was a luxury he couldn't afford, not just financially, but emotionally. His stomach growled in protest, but he couldn't bring himself to stop at a food vendor or restaurant. Every crowded space felt like a trap, every face a potential threat. He had to keep moving.

Benin was supposed to be a refuge, a place to lay low and regroup. But now, as the city's darkness gathered, he wondered if he'd made a grave mistake. The streets seemed to close in around him, the shadows deepening into menacing pits.

A faded sign above a nearby building caught his eye: "Hotel Excel". It looked like a dive, but it was better than sleeping on the streets. He quickened his pace, his long strides devouring the distance.

As he pushed open the creaky door, a bell above it let out a tired clang. The lobby was dimly lit, the air thick with stale smoke and stagnation. A bored-looking receptionist glanced up from his phone, eyeing him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

"Welcome to Hotel Excel," he drawled. "You looking for a room?"

He nodded, his eyes scanning the lobby for potential threats or exits. "Just for the night. How much?"

The receptionist named an exorbitant price, and he hesitated, weighing his options. He had no choice.

He unzipped the worn leather bag slung over his shoulder, digging into its depths. His fingers closed around a wad of crumpled notes, which he carefully extracted. He counted out the required amount, his movements deliberate.

"Deal," he said, handing over the cash.

The receptionist's gaze flicked to the money, then back to him, a spark of curiosity igniting.

As he took the key and headed up the stairs, the receptionist's eyes lingered on him.

•••

Mufida's gaze locked onto the text message on her phone, Layla's words glowing on the screen:

"Are you in? We don't have much time."

The brevity and urgency of the message sent a shiver down her spine. She sat cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by the familiar comforts of her bedroom – the soft pink blanket, the framed Quranic verse on the wall, and the faint scent of jasmine incense.