"Time's up loverboy. Get your father to step down and the lady is all yours. Tick tock, tick tock," Mike says into the phone. I don't get a chance to input another word before he ends the call and walks off to his seat.

I gulp and wipe the tears streaming down my cheeks, still dazed from hearing Paul's voice. Mr Adams too. They are coming to get me. I try to focus on that, Paul's promise of shawarma and a sad smile flits to my lips, I chuckle, I will be fine, they promised. All I have to do is stay positive, help will be here soonest. Paul is trying to make amends so he won't lie to me again, Mr Adams also has connections, they can get me out of here.

A tear leaks out of my eye, I sniff and swipe the back of my hand against my cheek. No crying, I will be alright. I have to stay strong for them. On cue, my eyes well with more tears which trail down my face, soon enough I am sobbing into my palms. I want to go home. I don't care that Paul or Chi lied to me, I want this to be over, I am tired.

My shoulders tremble as sobs rack my body, I wrap my arms around myself and refuse to look up when Mike's feet appear in front of me. How can they make such a request? His father doesn't even know me, why should he step down? Why can't they play their dirty politics without involving me? I sigh. My head is still reeling from the information dump, my boyfriend, the chef is the son of the Governor of my state, how?

"Please," I say with my eyes on the carpet and sniff. My hands run up and down my knees, I try to switch to a better position but my legs are still tied. Mike was kind enough to uncuff my hand but not my legs. "Please, let me go. I promise I won't go to the police."

Seconds crawl into more seconds of his prolonged silence, I lift my eyes to his face, unashamed of the tears streaming down my cheeks. I want to go home. "Mike. I don't even know what you look like. Please, for the love of God. You don't have to do this."

His green eyes soften, he crouches in front of me and my heart nearly bursts with joy thinking he wants to untie me. I release a shaky breath, my chest rising and falling in anticipation of my freedom. God will bless him. I don't care how bad they treated me, I am done. I won't follow this case up, I just want to resume my normal life. Instead, he places his hands on both sides of the chair, keeping me captive and my eyes widen.

I try to keep still as his hot breath fans my face. He is close, too close for comfort and I want nothing more than to wrap my weak hands around his neck so he can experience the feeling of helplessness I did earlier. The thought vanishes as soon as it pops into my head, my only job is to stay alive until Paul comes to save me. He better hurry, I don't know how much longer I can hold on.

"If life gives you lemons," he starts in a chipped voice, "you make lemonade. If life gives you tea, you sip it." My muscles tense. Unlike the feeling of comfort that enveloped me when Mr Adams said it, hearing Mike say the same words my daddy used to cheer me up angers me. He has no right to utter those words. "Where did you hear that?"

I scoff and dry my cheeks, I will not taint my father's beautiful memory by discussing him with a criminal. "Nowhere."

Rising to his feet, he reaches behind him for something and I swallow at the sight of the gun he pulls out. "I won't repeat myself."

The shock of seeing a weapon up close has my tongue tied, I stare at the barrel of the gun and my mind goes blank as tears pour out of my eyes. God. I don't want to die. The words are stuck in my throat, the answer to his question is ready but I have trouble voicing it out. Mike waves his gun in front of my face and panic sets in, my breathing becomes ragged, I start jerking. My heart picks up speed, there is a tightness in my chest as I try to force myself to breathe but it feels like my head is held underwater.

Mike finally notices my pitiful state, he tucks the gun out of sight and lifts his hand like the conductor of a church choir. My eyes follow his movements, my chest rises and falls in rhythm with his hand gestures, in a couple of seconds, I am breathing normally again. He takes steps away from me, the air grows thick with awkward silence, I swallow and look away from him.

"My father used to say that," I say when I find him back to his former position on the chair, the distance between us sufficient enough for my fears to take a backseat. "He is dead." I look at my trousers, I will burn them once I get out of here. "Thank you."

We sit in uncomfortable silence, my eyes set on the wall behind him, I hate the colour blue now. Green too. "Who's your father?"

Without much ado, I reply him. I don't care if he won't use his gun to get the answer, I don't want to ever see it again. Mike goes silent, then he jumps out of his seat to stalk towards me like a predator to its prey. I shake my head and sink my fingernails into the chair so hard they start to hurt. I thought we had an unspoken agreement.

The first thing he does is to untie me, I gasp in relief and my eyes water from the sheer shock of being able to feel my legs again. A sound escapes me as I massage them, he motions for me to stand, I rise on wobbly feet, trying not to fall back into the chair.

"Move." I take a step forward, the slowest I have ever taken in my life. "Faster. Move." His breath blows on my neck but he doesn't lend me a hand and I continue the painful journey until my legs touch the wooden material of the bed. "Move. Lie down."

Trying to delay what I fear will happen, I hold out my hands in front of me when I feel his presence behind me. My lips tremble, I yelp when he shoves me onto the stone mattress and scramble as far away from him as I can get. With my lower back resting against the wall, chin pressed to my knees, I wrap my arms around my legs and wait. I don't know how long I stay that way but it's long enough for me to start rocking from side to side in a bid to stay awake.

The door opens, no, it closes, I don't know, I am not sure but I am past caring. Of what use is that knowledge if it's not Paul walking in through the door? I look up when a material falls over me, a material that can pass off as a blanket and Mike wordlessly makes his way to the door.

"Sleep," he mutters with his back to me and I hug myself. "I hope for both of our sakes your lover can convince his father."

With that, he is gone and the room descends into darkness. I stagger out of the bed, my hands out in front of me as I find my way to the door with my memory to guide me. It is locked. I moan in pain when my toe hits one of the chairs, I limp to the bed and wait for the pain to subside. A yawn escapes me, my eyelids grow heavier and I reach out blindly for the blanket. Curling into a foetal position, I pull the blanket over my head, too tired to fight the sleep calling out to me.

*   *   *

Seconds roll into minutes, minutes into hours and hours into days, I am now an expert sound interpreter. If I am right, if the light filtering in through the tiny space between the closed window is a sign to go by, I have been here for five days. Five whole days of being held against my will.

The elections must have happened by now.

If I survive this nightmare, if I don't go crazy from talking to myself, I might get a side job for my new ability to navigate through the dark. Or, put it as a side note on my CV about how much I love camping in the dark, falling for men who will lie to me and make promises they can never keep. I won't fail to mention how much I love being kept in the dark about things that might put my life in danger. Oh, how I love being kidnapped.

Heavy footsteps approach the door, I tense, it has to be Patrick, everything about him is loud. Even his ugliness. I conjured faces for all of them, except Mike, he is too confusing. Sometimes he's nice, other times he is quiet so the mental picture I have of him switches from ugly to average looking. Patrick has scars, enough to make people turn away from him after a first glance. Mike doesn't.

The footsteps retreat, a lighter one replaces it. Mary. I am yet to figure out how to identify Mike's footsteps, he never makes a sound. But if I am here long enough, I know I will. It can't be that hard, what else can I do in this place? My new blue walled home.

When the door opens to reveal Mary, I give myself a mental pat and add an item to the long list of treats I will give myself once this is over. At least, I am still putting my brain to good use. She leaves the door which I don't spare another glance wide open and sets a tray in front of me. Experience has shown me the punishment awaiting me if I try to escape. Even if Mike will save me from Patrick's wrath like he did last time, he can't stop him from hoarding my food.

This is my first meal of the day, I can guess Mike is not around. On the days Patrick is in charge, I get fed only once. "Water." My throat is parched, my voice comes out as a pathetic whisper, "Can I have some water?"

She steps out without closing the door and I start giggling. Patrick is in charge today and he is testing me. Too bad, I won't fall for his tricks anymore, I like my room just fine, the bed is hard but I am getting used to it.

Mary, the underweight girl with three long tribal marks on her cheeks returns with two bottles of water and I murmur my gratitude to my mute friend. I know it's far fetched but I can't help thinking Patrick gave the poor girl those nasty tribal marks, it looks like a hasty job, a wicked reminder for a sin she might have unknowingly committed. Something he is capable of doing.

If she was the one in charge, I might have escaped, probably found a way to carry her along. Her dark, dull skin can do with some sunlight, same with mine. I will bask in the sun once I leave here, I'll make sure to put on my two-piece bikini, the one that makes my stomach appear flatter, shows off my curves better. I can almost feel the sun on my face from thinking about it and my smile fades when I catch her staring at me.

Can she smell me? I hope so, maybe she will convince them to let me take a bath.

Gulping the water from the bottle with a speed that will amaze the old, civilised me, I belch and open the second bottle, nursing it like it's a glass of expensive wine. My stomach wastes no time in embarrassing me, it grumbles and I dare to laugh.

"I'm not hungry," I say and my insides knot violently as if to punish me for the blatant lie. She shrugs and pushes the tray closer to the foot of the bed, I hide a smile. "Help me." My hand circles her wrist in a gentle grip, I sigh when she flinches but relaxes when she doesn't back off. "As a woman to another woman, help me. Mary, please."

Her eyes dart between the door and me, she whispers her first complete sentence to me since my captivity, "I can't. I'm sorry."

Minutes after she leaves, I stare at the food on the tray like the conversation with her never happened. My stomach rumbles again, I pick up the plastic fork from the tray and dig into the rice. I don't bother with a prayer before meal, at this point, food poisoning isn't such a bad way to go see daddy.

*   *   *

I rouse with a start, my eyes open and close in hopes to clear the fog in my brain. The ever-familiar blue walls greet me, I am still here. I blink, I remember going to sleep but it feels like I slept longer than I usually do.

The door bursts open before I can identify the person's footstep, Mary walks in with a loaf of bread and bottle of water she dumps on my lap and makes a run for the door. I laugh at her retreating back, no idea why I am doing that but I can't get myself to stop laughing. I wipe the tears leaking from the corners of my eyes and laugh harder. Maybe I have finally crossed over to the crazy side because, what the fuck is going on?

After an internal battle that lasts less than a second, I take a swig from the bottle and dive into the bread. I guess I will have to ask them to improve my diet since I will be spending a long time with them. The bread tastes funny but I am too famished to care. My teeth come in contact with an object, I bite harder into it until the tiny voice in my head reminds me I am supposed to take a look rather than try to chew through it.

Opening up the bread, I stare in confusion at the penknife begging me to touch it. Giggles escape me, I have dreamt so much of leaving, now I am imagining things. My fingertips brush the tip of the knife, waves of shock pass through me at the small contact with the cold metal and I jump out of the bed with renewed vigour to escape.

It is real. The knife is real.

Oh my days. Mary. Tears of relief flood my face, I wordlessly pray for her and tuck the leftover bread into the pocket of my trouser, I will need it later. On hearing whispers and rustle of footsteps outside the room, I go to hide under the bed. Now, I have a weapon, I can fight back. I start counting down from one hundred to keep my mind at alert and the door opens when I reach seventy-six.

A pair of shoes appear in my line of vision, I take a deep breath and slash through the air until I hear a grunt. I hope it is Patrick but there's no time to find out as I dash for the door. A string of curses slips from my lips when a strong pair of arms grab me and my legs and hands flail. A strength I never realised I possessed until now floods my being and I lodge my elbow into his ribs with a force that has him dropping me.

"Do you want to die?" it is Mike's voice and it is barely above a whisper. I spin to face him, he coughs and I hold up the knife in front of me, poised for a fight should he try anything stupid or funny. "Close the door."

"No."

My heart skips a beat when my eyes lower to the drops of blood around Mike's feet and I cringe. I did that to him. The sight makes me queasy, the realisation gnaws at my conscience. When he edges towards me, I shuffle out of his way, my body hunched as I watch him close the door. I don't know why I feel safe in his presence but the hand with the knife lowers and I look at his unusually swollen upper body for an explanation. I have always pictured him as a muscled guy but something is off about his niqab.

He bends over like he's about to throw up and something comes flying at me. I pick the shirt, hold it between my thumb and index finger while Mike begins to pace.

"What's going on?" I ask but he keeps mute.

Shrugging out of my old top, I dab it with water, use it to clean my face and armpits then put on the new but baggy shirt. For the same reason I feel safer in his presence, I start pacing, walking back and forth the opposite end of the room with my hands in my pocket. I smile as my fingers brush the metal, no assurance better than the knife.

I stop pacing. "What's going on?"

"You know," he starts in a low voice but the silence lends strength to his words. I turn to him, arms crossed, waiting for what I don't know yet. "I was there when they first diagnosed your father with cancer."

The only thing I want to do is laugh out loud but I seem to have lost that ability so I stand there with amusement dancing in my eyes and watch his slanted figure wear out the brown carpet. He knows my father. I cackle. Everyone here is mad, starting from Mary who sandwiched a knife between the bread and it feels good to know I am not the only one who has gone cuckoo. Finally, I have companions in this small, mad world of mine. Cheers. Now can I get out of here?

"I never wanted this lifestyle for myself."

At Mike's utterance, the laughter racks my body. Madness. I let out mirthless laughter and slap my palm against my forehead. Mad people everywhere. I will not spend a second talking about my father with this animal spewing rubbish. To what end?

He stops pacing to face me, a corner of my lips twitches. "People always talk about how good it is to be different," he says, "liars." His fingers move to his eyes and my palm closes over the knife until his hand comes to rest at his sides. "Your father raised me."

My hands go to my head, I grab a fistful of my hair as memories flash behind my eyes. I cannot get past the fact he claims to know my father, to be raised by him. Did daddy cheat? I shake my head as more images roll in my mind, he was always busy, barely around on some weekends but it doesn't mean he was with another woman, right? He loved mummy. They loved each other.

"It's so hard being an albino but the colours of my eyes made it even worse. Papa Nnu-"

"Shut up. Stop talking."

"Papa Nnukwu didn't care, he took me in and didn't mind when no one agreed to adopt me. I was the oldest kid there, he-"

"Stop talking about my father," I scream.

Without opening my eyes, I know Mike is before me but I refuse to look at him. I can't. I shake my head, I won't. Maybe if I stay this way long enough, he will vanish or run away like Mary did. "There was no other job." I plug my fingers into my ears, he sighs. "I didn't know you are his daughter."

What if I wasn't? I fall to my knees and run my fingers through my hair, Paul has killed me. What is going on? If this is punishment for something I did, it has gone on long enough. Too long. I need to wake up from this, whatever this is. Wiping the tears that leak from my eyes, I pull the hoodie over my head and stand, I am done listening.

"Are you helping me or not?" I ask with the knife in a vice-like grip. "Mind you, I'm leaving this place with or without your help. Find someone else to tell your lies."

Mike starts shaking his head, I hiss and make for the door, I refuse to let another man play with my head again. "Wait."

Tapping my feet to the ground, I wait for him to join me by the door. As much as I hate to be in his presence, I'll need his help if I want to leave here alive. Mike produces a picture which he stretches to me and I reluctantly accept it. It is a picture of my father and me on one of our vacations outside the country. We went to India that year. The memory is vivid because Mma locked me up in my room and refused to open up until I promised to no longer use the word: namaste. It irked her, it still does but I say it only to annoy her. I was the only child then.

"I stole that from him," he murmurs, his eyes trained on me. I avert my gaze, maybe my mind is playing tricks on me again but one of his eyes has changed colour. To blue. "He was a good man." I scoff at the longing I hear in his voice, how dare him?

Ripping the picture to shreds, I ask in a cold voice that shows I am not buying his nonsense, "Are you helping me or not?"

If he is telling the truth, he is a shame to daddy's legacy and I am glad we closed the orphanage after his death. He spent more time with other people's kids than he did with his only for one of them to turn rogue, a kidnapper. Oh, daddy. I hope he sees this.

The seriousness is back in Mike's voice when he mutters, "Follow me." I nod, that's the version of him I want around me.

We go down the unending stairs, taking it at a speed that will amaze a sloth. Stopping in front of a door, Mike touches his index finger to his lips and I roll my eyes. I have been quiet, I know what's at stake. Without notice, I am pushed into a room and my head comes in contact with the wall. I am not allowed to dwell on the pain as the door opens and a clothe is shoved into my hand.

"Put that on," he whispers. I frown at the niqab and nod, anything to get out of here. His attention is redirected to the vibrating phone he extricates from his pocket and he groans. "I'll be back, don't go anywhere."

"Wait." I don't like him but I don't want to be left alone again, the solitude is killing me. "Please stay." He shakes his head and I nod. "How about we go together? I'll be quiet."

Mike holds his phone to my face but I can barely make out the words written on the screen. My mind is a mess, I can't process it.

"They know you are gone," he explains, "I'll be back." I stare at his retreating figure as he nears the door, he turns abruptly to face me, remorse swim in his eyes and I look away. He did this to himself. "I'm sorry."

**********

Picture: Beverly Naya

Who noticed now long this chapter is? Very long, longer than my longest chapter. 😫😫

I'm so excited for what's coming next .... Lemme hear your thoughts.

Comment. Vote. Share. Drop an encouraging statement for me.

Sorry it came later than it usually does, I have had a long day.

See ya Friday 😉😉😉