Despite the recent uncertainties that plagued Cynthia's life, she was certain of one thing: She was being watched and closely—that was the only explanation for how Bello got wind of her movement. She was quite convinced that Bello was not in Abuja and the only group on her suspect list was no other that the mysterious couple: Mr. and Mrs. Blake. This idea slammed on her like a freight car after the days following her visit to Maiduguri and the surprise apparition of Bello, that was when she woke up and the sight that welcomed her view from the open window was Mr. Blake's house that stood like a watch tower, one could see the window of the ground floor above the fence because of the steeply elevation of the other end of the street.

That evening after the necessary routine of bringing Caleb from school and making dinner, she resolved to pay the couple a surprise visit. Something was fishy and she might just get a chance to fish it out.

As she stood before the imposing ornately designed gate of the fenced bungalow, she reconsidered her paranoia, was it not ridiculous to think that the couple could be associated with such things? Maybe it wasn't. Didn't the detective spoke of how they were known to have been in contact with Bello for several or at least few occasion? If they are the one spying on her then she needed to know how and why?

The smaller gate opened and there was Mrs. Blake, her hair tied in a high bun, a smile lighted her usually heavily painted face which today was devoid of makeup. Mrs. Blake looked almost better without makeup, Cynthia thought, but had to respond with a high lisp of excitement at the smiling woman's greeting as she entered into the compound while internally, she wondered why such an opulent couple would not employ the service of a gate man—fishy number one.

Cynthia admired the well trimmed hedges, though; they stood as miniature leafy walls with dotting yellow flowers blooming in late June. The tiles of the portico were so clean and new she could almost see her reflections on them. Mrs. Blake led her through an ebony door into the lounge. Vast and almost empty, two new sofas and a glass centre table; an upturned photo near a new book shelf with only a ragged edge book; a flat screen television; something near the window that looked like a camera on a stand, totally covered with what looked like a white satin fabric from the distance; and few flower vases (with no flowers, synthetic or natural). "We're still in the process of settling in," Mrs Blake said looking a little embarrassed by her unannounced visit, but still trying her best to keep a smile whenever their eyes met.

Cynthia was sure of a hint of reluctance in the woman's welcome, and that Mrs. Blake just couldn't deny her visit, which to her was in a way advantageous to her quest, subtly, she was in charge. "But Blake even thinks that this is more than necessary, you know the way some men are." The woman said, gesturing at the few furniture.

Cynthia smiled and nodded, though she hardly comprehended what was to make sense of in everything Mrs. Blake had said. This was also because she was hardly listening, her eyes were scrutinizing every part of the living room and making a mental note of all that did seem amiss: Flower vases with no flowers, when the hedges in the compound are well trimmed; newly tilled portico when the interiors looked like a high school dormitory common room—more like a fancy show of at the exterior with little to show for it on the inside. But Cynthia also considered the fact that the previous occupants may have been responsible for the well manicured hedges, and the newly laid tiles? Well, she couldn't answer that.

"I've arranged with an interior deco expert, she came earlier to take the estimates and promised to return with the necessary materials tomorrow. Please be seated," Mrs. Blake hastily added before asking, "You didn't tell us that you are coming?" Cynthia could see the look of disapproval that the woman was no longer trying to hide.

"Umm..." she stammered, "I felt bored and decide to just come over and say hi."

"Oh," Mrs Blake said, with a raised brow that seem to convey the fact that she wasn't convinced, "that's so thoughtful of you," she added coldly, "You should have come with Caleb then, I like that boy," Mrs Blake, latter said on a livelier note. Cynthia recalled that Caleb and the woman never met in close range as she made it sound, Caleb was not even around the day she visited, but the woman interrupted her thoughts by saying, "I'm making dinner, what can I get you. Tea, Cappuccino, wine?"

"Don't worry, I'm fine." Cynthia said as she sat and observed the entire place once more. There was no picture anywhere except the upturned picture on the book shelf next to the book. The ceiling fan rolled soundlessly above; there was an empty metal hoop, where a chandelier should have hung.

"Excuse me," Mrs. Blake said, she ascended the stairs, and Cynthia was listening intently to the clip-clap of the soles of Mrs. Blake's shoes that soon faded into the distance.

She jumped up, and stealthily walked to the shrouded structure by the window. From the window, she could see her compound and the louvers of her own window. She looked back and listened hard, there was nothing. She held the cloth and lifted it over; it fell noiselessly to the floor. It was a terrestrial telescope perched on a stand not a camera as she had expected. It looked almost new except for the eye piece. She stealthily covered the instrument with the satin and just when she was about to sigh and return to her seat, having satisfied her curiosity, Mrs. Blake piped up from behind with a bright smile that hinted knowledge, "That's Blake's Telescope," Cynthia literarily jumped, as her heart took a leap against her chest, it took great amount of self control to steady her gait. But Mrs. Blake kept talking as if she didn't notice her reaction, "he lost the eyepiece while we moved, he loved to bird watch."

"Oh... that's interesting... I mean the instrument..." Cynthia stammered, "...I always wanted one when I was a child... I mean Caleb wanted one... you know." her lies were most uncoordinated, but Mrs. Blake nodded.

Cythia could see the side of Mrs. Blake's lip curl in a smile, "Indeed," she said. "That's interesting."

Shamefacedly, Cynthia walked back to the sofa. She inwardly reprimanded her uncouth curiosity but congratulated her discovery, the same that gave her an unjustified feeling of revulsion at the couple. What if they were spying on her with the scope? What if Mrs. Blake had purposefully removed the eyepiece so as not to arouse her suspicion? Cynthia was not stupid. She also noticed that the woman had changed her footwear to a pair of loafers, that was why she couldn't hear her descending the stairs. Besides, she also wondered if the woman did not give her such leverage only to sneak on her on purpose.

The woman switched on the TV, while she sipped coffee and rush at intervals to her kitchen. Cynthia sat silent all the while, except when the woman would make a comment about any piece of news to which she would give the briefest reply.

She finally told that she was leaving, and Mrs. Blake escorted her back to the gate. "How about Mr. Blake?" she finally asked.

"Oh, he is still stuck with business."

"Business? Where does he works."

"An ammunition procurement company in Lagos." Mrs. Blake succinctly replied, "Good bye." She said watching her leave through small door by the gate. Cynthia could hear the forceful slam as metals clapped behind her as the door closed.

When she finally got to her house, she smiled inwardly at the little adventure, more so at her fears. Part of her wanted to conclude that she was just paranoid and that there was nothing to it, but another facet of her mind would rewind to the sight of the telescope without an eyepiece, looking blindly towards her window. She couldn't deny the feeling though—something was wrong.

The next time she checked her mental suspect list she doubted if she should add Kate (her secretary) or Joyce to the list, but Joyce was a single mother who hardly had time to poke into other people's business; and Kate, well, Kate as well as a lot of people actually knew about her schedule and could relate it to an outsider, the information could have gotten into wrong hands, that could  be how Bello knew. She just had to be careful.  Cynthia finally gave up the chase anyway, and laughed at how suspicion could lead one to the pedestal of stupidity.

That night, she ensured that the stutters were shut and the curtains were put to judicious use. She also carried sleeping Caleb from his room to hers, and double checked all the doors, ensuring that they are locked. Though she had little to justify her fears just yet, she was better safe than sorry.

Caleb had as smile on his face, his eyes closed; Cynthia smiled too, though her best guess was that Caleb was having a blissful dream.

As she searched her closet for a clean night gown, her eyes caught the sight a pink file just above the shoe rack. Though she knew what it contained she reached for it and flip the covers open. That was where she kept some copies of important documents: her certificate, practice license, wedding certificate, Nnamdi's death certificate and Caleb's adoption paper. As she held the page and straightened the curling corners, she read through reminiscing the events that surrounded the adoption of the boy that now meant heaven and earth to her. Her chances of conception were closer to zero after the invasive procedure that save her life when the doctors discovered so late that her pregnancy was ectopic and that she had bled so much internally. Then came the day Nnamdi returned from work looking sad, he talked less and hardly ate.

He later recounted (to her) how a car ran over a young heavily pregnant girl and left, he with some onlookers took the girl to the hospital—where he also worked. The unknown girl was mute, and wasn't in the least educated, so none of the nurse could gain information about her identity. That same night she went into labor and Caleb was born with cystic fibrosis—not caused by the accident, just born with the syndrome.

To top the pathetic story, the girl passed on that night. Few weeks later came the news of a 'baby factory' not too far from where they lived. The police arraigned the suspects as about fourteen pregnant women were caught—women who were ready to give birth for sale. Some of them were forced as the woman in charge of the 'factory' later confessed, some were illegal Togolese immigrants, and it happened that when the police interrogated her about the young woman that gave birth to Caleb, the suspect confirmed that she was sold to her.

Cynthia had listened intently to the entire story as it unfolded day by day, just as she listened to Nnamdi narrate how each work day went. Not until Nnamdi proposed to adopt the child few months later did she felt the need to stand her ground. "No, I won't take it, I'm sure you're so emotionally involved with this case but trust me, the relative of the girl will come back and claim the boy. He'll be fine. I'm not signing up for this." She had protested, till pressure from in-laws mounted past her breaking point, she felt the need for a child in the family and accepted that she may never truly be a biological mother.

Caleb came and five year later, no one had asked of him or his actual mother. Cynthia still hopes to tell him the truth should she need to, but for the moment she was contented. And as she looked at the portrait of her husband that hung on the wall, she smiled at him, a deep reverent regard deified him in the shadows of her heart. Nnamdi was the wisest man she ever knew.

*******

"We are everywhere... there's no place to hide..." the threat kept ringing in her ear, as she shove through the crowd that night, her hands clutched tight and brow creased over leaking eyes. This is the end.

As she looked back, she could see Wizen, the man in black leather jacket, well hidden in the dark alley but he was watching... always watching.

The light that shone at the bus stop was a riot of neon and halogens, giving the illusion of scattered daylight. Blazing head lamp pierced the exhaust-fume filled air as buses roared away, more taking their place. She looked up at the large neon sight, "Green mould Maiduguri", she was at the right place. Right where Wizen wanted her to be.

She pressed on, past a conductor that kept shouting "Potiskum! Kano! Zaria!" The girl could still feel the gaze of the man in the shadows burning into her nape, ever watchful. There was no one she could talk to, she couldn't even talk as her tongue lay heavy in her mouth after they introduced the hypodermic injection that left her with an oily taste at the back of her throat and a tongue that wouldn't move. Shouting would make no sense, no difference, they've told her, the only hope there is is death, an expensive price to pay for her freedom.

The unknown girl who could hardly remember her face as it reflected on a silver panel, pale and gaunt with her cheek bone edging sideways, wondered how life could change in such a short space of time. She could remember that night, the sight of fire, of blood, and the coarse grip on her limb pushing her towards a looming truck. Every day she spent listening to heresies and nights she spent as their play thing replayed as vivid as ever.

No one around at the stop noticed her presence. No one cared about her, even in such an open space, no one cared that she shed tears. All were busy about their personal business. She could imagine the possibility of a mob lynch like the one he showed them last night.

"Your job is simple, deliver this devices to the appropriate site and you are safe in the hand of our god. If you make any noise, they will kill you like they did to this innocent madwoman in Kano...can you see her mangled body and the tires they would have set afire around her... they don't care that you are girls, they will kill you before you kill them."

He was always right. Wasn't he right when he told them the consequence of attempting to escape? That night when she was caught by villagers and returned to the camp where she was starved for days? How about when he denied her access to medicine when she was dying of Malaria till she accepted his offer and promised to never run away? He was always right. Either way, the life of a victim will certainly end in death.

The girl contemplated running away and dying alone, but that was too late in itself, she had just two minutes and before she would ever pass through the throng, the same intention would be accomplished. Besides, they watched her, if she run, all he need do is click a button and she would explode to smithereens. He said it; she believed he could do it.

She walked toward a trader who displayed loaves of bread on a tray—instinctively drawn by the aroma that tempted her, and grumbling in the pit of her stomach. A small lamp illuminated the wares, loaves, daintily wrapped in fine transparent wrappers that sang with the reflection of lights where they crinkled to tease the eyes of onlookers.

The trader was chatting happily with a young man in a posh car to whom she sold a large loaf and was grinning happily as the man drove off. "Enhen! Wetin you want?" the woman scolded her, her beautiful simile all diminished to the look of the one who could initiate a mob lynch, the girl scurried away moments before a small van sped through splashing a puddle on her clothes as well as some others who hurled curses like "waka! stupid! idiot!" at the receding brake lights. A man whose white attire had been greatly stained went to the extent of screaming how bad luck will forever follow the driver and his generations after him.

No one would ever like her; He told her that, the jinx on her will make her death even slow and terrible if she venture to raise alarm. They have been schooled over and over and he could hear His joyous baritone ringing with gusto. "To die for Allah is the grandest purpose of existence, count yourself lucky to be recruited in this line, you will be greatly rewarded!" Though the man was always right in all his predictions of doom, she doubted the truth in his teaching. If being a suicide bomber is the grandest purpose of life, she wondered why he had not volunteered to participate in the actual act instead of being the supervisor. She could see it on his face each time he thinks no one is looking, when he sits next to embers that reflected from his one good eye in the cold of the night—even he was afraid of death.

The weight around her torso, pinched her in the waist, but it would soon be over. It would soon be over. Then, she may be able to meet her parent on the other side, the same parent that died to protect her, the same that were killed right in front of her before she was carted away.

She knew that there was no justice in this world. It was all a rat race to a oblivious end, an end where if she can't even find justice, she may at least find rest. Rest from the endless punishment for the most trivial flaws, rest from the horror that unfolded every day, rest from those deranged eyes—one brown with taints of red and the other heavily discolored with cataract—those eyes that watched her all the time.

This unknown girl would die and be labeled as a terrorist—when she was merely a helpless instrument. She would be termed a rebel—when in truth she was a victim too.

Though, there was no way she would go alone, hope rekindled as she remembered that her mother once talked of the place beyond the grave where everyone goes back to God. A place where everyone is free from sickness and oppression from the black ghosts that roam the eerie night time and frizzled haired witches that wreck havoc during the midday. She could remember when mother told her about this place, it was when grand ma died last year. Maybe that is true, she thought, Mother! Here I come.

After the thought, she heard a resounding bang that ploughed the soil beneath her feet, alongside so much pain such that in split seconds, the unknown girl knew no more.

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