Erica Wools
Nov 4 · 4 min read
Image source: Pexels

YIELD

After a three hour delay at the Muritala Muhammed Airport, steady communication with the office, preparatory study of the slides of my presentation, and, not to forget, junk food to quell roving nerves which had gotten bolder over the long wait, I was more than grateful to board the flight regardless of the announcement of turbulence in the skies. Bad weather report or not, arriving at my destination was top priority for me.

Needless to say, I grabbed my seat multiple times, buckled my knees against each other, shut my eyes tight, recited the Lord’s prayer and never got around to finishing it before muttering ‘the blood of Jesus’ over and over again at each toss and dip the plane took. Deep down, I knew if given another chance, I would go this trip this way again. Work was that important to me, and I lived for its thrill, if any.

Arrival was uneventful compared to the dramatic flight; we all looked subdued and miserable at the terminal, having taken a beating from the scare. During the drive to the hotel, I barely noticed the buzzing city in its nightly splendor as the chauffeur expertly drove through it; my eyes were glued to the online meeting I was connected to on my laptop. Mentally, I added fresh tasks to my to-do list as my bosses rattled off instructions. It ended in time for me to alight from the car just when it glided into the hotel’s parking lot. I hastily scrambled my notepads and laptop into my handbag in a bid to match the driver’s pace as we quietly trudged our way towards the reception; he seemed quite eager to be free of my hectic self. I didn’t blame him either; I was tired of me at the least.

Finally settled in Room 222, I called in at the office to update them, which took longer than necessary, after which, I freshened up and was done by past nine. My stomach growled making me realize that I was low on internal fuel. I quickly slunk into a simple dress, grabbed my purse and went down to the restaurant to grab a meal, whilst inwardly berating myself for my unhealthy habit that day.

The walk to the restaurant turned out to be testy and had my temper rising slowly. It had little to do with hunger, and more to do with telling men off. I was forced to create tiny scenes to scare them away, which only seemed to excite them the more. By the time I was seated, I was all shades of exasperation and a direct sibling of Nick Fury. I had burned through my fuse and was at my wits end when a tall dark man sidled up to my side.

“Don’t these men get tired?” I thought to myself, scooping a spoonful of the bland fried rice into my delicate mouth.

“Get up and come with me!” He intoned.

“This is the height of madness.” I said rolling my eyes at the absurdity of his command; I dabbed at the sides of my mouth with a napkin unconcerned about him.

“Madam, you better cooperate and get up.” He said harshly, shifting from one foot to another to buttress his edginess. I was too preoccupied with the displeasure of losing my appetite to notice that similar inquiry was happening at other tables.

“Oga, whatever it is you want, I am not interes-.” I started out.

The stunned look on my face didn’t quite register the actual emotion I felt when he dragged my seat with me on it and roughly grabbed my arm which was midair on the path to my mouth. The unceremonious struggle to get on my feet rode my gown so high that I knew I was inappropriately dressed but it made no matter. From nowhere; another pushed forward, snatched my purse from the table, dragged my other arm and twisted it behind me while I was marched out alongside other ladies.

Bodies collided and detached themselves until it was difficult to pick out assault from innocent human contact. The men at the restaurant were spared this inhuman treatment, they looked on unperturbed and far removed from the scene, except those whose loved ones were carted away. For me; I had no one, no loved one, and my phone was too far off from me to place any call. I closed my eyes in despair and sighed, fearing for my safety. Eventually, we were pushed into buses and driven to a police station where we were thrown into putrid gloomy partitioned cells. Efforts made to find out about my offence were stalled at three instances by unsolicited slaps which soon had me rationalizing that my human rights were fabled words printed in a not so fancy booklet. Slowly, I felt myself resorting to whatever fate had in store for me.

I cringed when I heard scuffles in another room, and stifled moans from women who had been taken down the corridor into the ‘interrogation room’ for questioning. A sob escaped the lips of a young girl beside me; she scooted closer to my side and held on to me without thinking. I welcomed that moment of weakness and shelved mine away.

That was how they found us. Her scream, when they came for her, was the last thing I heard before a baton came down hard on my head. Our entwined defiant arms were our last attempt at standing our ground.

Erica Wools

Quite dramatic and yet simple.

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