Cyprian's POV
"You all calm down," the driver said, trying to steady his voice, his knuckles pale on the steering wheel.
And for a heartbeat, we did.
His hands flew over the gear—fast. Too fast. The engine growled beneath us, tires spinning up dust and muddy rainwater as he tried to flee.
My heart was pounding. Everyone was standing in the bus, shouting over each other. Me—I was peering through the small window, trying to see if there was a way I could possibly escape. Maybe even jump.
"Start to dey pray," the driver muttered as we turned off the main road and entered a lonelier one—far from town.
Everyone around me burst into tongues. I just held onto my rosary in my pocket, too disoriented to actually pray.
Then it came.
A sharp crack—like God clapping once in anger.
Gunshot.
The window beside the driver exploded in a burst of glass and wind.
"Osalobua!" the driver screamed, swerving violently.
The bus careened off the road and slammed into a tree. Heads jerked forward. Someone crashed into the bags stacked between the seats.
We'd barely crossed Warri's boundary, and already, we were caught in its ghosts.
Panic followed like fire to fuel.
Screams.
Hail Marys.
Sweaty prayers soaked in terror.
The air thickened—you could taste the fear. Hot. Metallic. Almost bitter.
I froze in my seat where I had fallen during the crash.
Across from me, a woman clutched her daughter close, rocking her back and forth like the motion alone could turn back fate.
"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus… Save us, Lord God," she muttered. Her words trembled under the chaos.
Everyone seemed to have someone.
I had no one.
So I wrapped my arms around myself, gripping tight like I could hold all my pieces together from the outside.
My first instinct was to call my mum—but I didn't.
She'd panic.
She'd cry.
And if her heart failed from the fear, I would never forgive myself.
She loved me deeply—as the first son, her hope always sat on my shoulders. I couldn't let it be my voice that broke her.
Then came the sound.
Boots. Running.
The bus door screeched open.
Three men entered—two with their faces covered in black scarves, and one with no mask at all.
That last one was unforgettable.
Tall. Wide-chested. Muscles and abs carved like sculpture. And etched into his cheeks were tribal marks—thick and ragged, like claws had tried to rewrite his face. He moved with the weight of someone used to bringing terror.
"If you speak, I will shoot," one of the masked men growled, clutching a rusty AK like it was his firstborn.
He didn't have to shout.
His voice carried death.
He stalked down the aisle, eyes scanning every face like he was searching for something—or someone. The tension in the bus was thick enough to slice with a fingernail.
He stopped at the row in front of mine and pointed at the girl seated there.
"You. Get out."
The girl didn't move. Her lips quivered. Her mother's arms tightened around her.
"Please, my son—have mercy," the woman pleaded.
"Who be your son? You dey craze," the man snarled.
"I said get out!" he barked again, louder.
The mother tried to speak again—to beg, maybe—but the response was immediate.
A crack to the head with the butt of his gun.
She dropped.
No words. No warning. Just collapse.
The girl let out a scream that pierced the air. She tried to claw her way back to her mother—but the second man pinned her and dragged her out like a sack of rice.
Then came another.
A girl from the next row, barely older than sixteen. She didn't struggle. Only kissed her little brother's forehead before peeling his hands off her dress.
The boy wailed like his world had cracked open.
Two girls gone.
No boys touched.
I started to feel sick.
The girl beside me hadn't blinked. Her fists remained clenched. Her leg trembled beneath her skirt.
She knew she was next.
And indeed, she was.
The man turned to her, slowly. Like he was picking and choosing his next meal.
"You. Follow them."
The girl was shaking. Crying. No words came out. She was alone—just like me.
I could smell her fear.
And that was when something snapped inside me.
A voice I didn't recognize rose out of my throat before I could stop it.
"No."
It wasn't loud.
But it was enough.
I shifted in my seat, placing myself slightly in front of her. She leaned back against the chair, heaving.
My hand reached for her wrist—a small gesture, but it steadied her.
My voice wavered.
"Please," I said, breath catching in my throat.
"Leave her. Don't touch her."
Silence.
Heavy. Dense. Charged.