You made your choice. But I didn’t choose this. Zara wanted to scream. You forced this on me.
You destroyed my life because I wanted something better. But she said nothing. She had learned that her words meant nothing to these people.
The homeless man, her husband, took the bag from her hands. He did not speak.
He simply turned and walked toward the door. Zara had no choice but to follow.
They walked through the streets of Lagos as the sun began to set. People stared at them.
A young woman in a wedding dress walking behind a filthy homeless man. Some people laughed.
Others looked away in disgust. A few whispered prayers of protection as they passed. Zara felt every eye on her like knives cutting into her skin.
Shame burned in her chest. Anger at her family. Anger at her culture. Anger at her life.
But most of all, fear of what would happen next. “Where are we going?” She finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The man did not turn around. He kept walking. And his voice when he spoke was rough and low, somewhere safe.
Just walk. They walked for almost an hour through busy streets, then quieter neighborhoods, past markets closing for the evening, past children playing in dusty yards.
Finally, they reached a part of the city Zara did not recognize. Older buildings, narrow alleys, the kind of place where people did not ask questions.
The man stopped in front of a small, run-down building. The paint was peeling. The windows were covered with faded curtains.
It looked abandoned. He pushed open the door and stepped inside. Zara hesitated, fear rising in her throat.
But what choice did she have? She had nowhere else to go. She stepped through the doorway.
