ONE CHNACE
It was a cool evening in Gwarinpa, and I had just finished a long, frustrating day.
The city lights flickered as I stood by the roadside, waiting for a taxi to take me to Wuse, a green and white painted cab slowed down beside me.
The driver, a middle aged man with tribal marks, leaned out.
“Wuse?” I asked.
“Enter, na one seat remain,” he replied.
The back seat had three women, well dressed and chatting casually and that put me at ease.
I settled in beside them, The car smelled of air freshener mixed with something else, something I couldn’t place.
As we drove, the driver started a conversation about the state of the country. “This Nigeria don spoil finish,” he said, shaking his head. The women hummed in agreement.
I wasn’t interested, I just wanted to get home.
The next thing I knew was that I woke up with a pounding headache, my body weak, my clothes were still on, but my wrists and ankles were sore.
I tried to move but I was chained.
The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood.
I turned my head, and my stomach clenched, Human skulls stacked like firewood, limbs, torsos, and flesh hanging from hooks like a butcher’s shop.
My breath came in shallow gasps.
A man in a dirty apron walked past, carrying a severed arm as if it were a piece of goat meat.
In the dim flickering light, I saw buyers, they pointed at different body parts, negotiating prices.
I was in an abattoir for humans.
Panic sets in, my mind screamed, but my mouth couldn’t, the air felt thick, suffocating.
I wasn’t alone, beside me others were chained, some unconscious, some awake but too weak to fight.
Then, I saw her. One of the women from the taxi, She was standing freely withno chains, she whispered something to a guard, then walked toward me.
“You’re awake,” she said.
Her tone was casual, as if we were discussing the weather.
“You…you were in the taxi…” My voice cracked.
She smirked. “Of course. We needed a full car.”
I wanted to scream, to curse, to cry but what was the point?
Just then, a commotion broke out. A man in a white kaftan stormed in, his voice booming. “Where is my order? I don’t have time”.
The butcher hurriedly brought a tray, the man examined a severed head, poked at the limbs, and then suddenly frowned.
“This is not fresh enough” He shouted. “I need someone alive”
My heart stopped.
“Bring that one,” the butcher pointed at me.
The butcher grabbed my arm, his grip ironclad.
My body was weak, my limbs barely responding.
The man in the white kaftan studied me, his eyes cold and calculating. “This one is fresh. How much?”
“Alive, 15 million,” the butcher said, tightening his grip on my wrist. “Dead, we process it and give you parts.”
“Alive,” the man said without hesitation.
Terror swallowed me whole, my breath came in ragged gulps, this was it. My body was about to be sold like a piece of meat.
The woman from the taxi smirked, leaning against the blood stained wall.
I clenched my fists, I refused to die like this.
Suddenly, the lights flickered.
The generator sputtered, the momentary darkness was enough then, gunshots.
The entire room erupted in chaos.
A group of armed men stormed in, shouting, the captors scrambled, some running, others pulling out weapons.
A bullet shattered a lantern, and flames erupted. I felt hands on me, firm but urgent.
“Move Move”
I was yanked up and pulled through a narrow passage, legs barely worked, but I ran.
Outside, I gulped fresh air, coughing. The night sky stretched above me like salvation.
I was thrown into a waiting van, surrounded by people, some crying, some unconscious.
It was later I learned the truth.
The police had been tracking them for months.
A syndicate, selling human parts to the highest bidder ritualists, organ traffickers, the worst of humanity.
They raided just in time, I survived but many didn’t.
I sat in silence, staring at the city lights through the van window.
Abuja looked normal and peaceful .
But now I knew the truth, Some taxis aren’t taxis. Some passengers aren’t victims and some roads lead to places you never return from.
Bilkiss writes
#fictionONE CHNACE
It was a cool evening in Gwarinpa, and I had just finished a long, frustrating day.
The city lights flickered as I stood by the roadside, waiting for a taxi to take me to Wuse, a green and white painted cab slowed down beside me.
The driver, a middle aged man with tribal marks, leaned out.
“Wuse?” I asked.
“Enter, na one seat remain,” he replied.
The back seat had three women, well dressed and chatting casually and that put me at ease.
I settled in beside them, The car smelled of air freshener mixed with something else, something I couldn’t place.
As we drove, the driver started a conversation about the state of the country. “This Nigeria don spoil finish,” he said, shaking his head. The women hummed in agreement.
I wasn’t interested, I just wanted to get home.
The next thing I knew was that I woke up with a pounding headache, my body weak, my clothes were still on, but my wrists and ankles were sore.
I tried to move but I was chained.
The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood.
I turned my head, and my stomach clenched, Human skulls stacked like firewood, limbs, torsos, and flesh hanging from hooks like a butcher’s shop.
My breath came in shallow gasps.
A man in a dirty apron walked past, carrying a severed arm as if it were a piece of goat meat.
In the dim flickering light, I saw buyers, they pointed at different body parts, negotiating prices.
I was in an abattoir for humans.
Panic sets in, my mind screamed, but my mouth couldn’t, the air felt thick, suffocating.
I wasn’t alone, beside me others were chained, some unconscious, some awake but too weak to fight.
Then, I saw her. One of the women from the taxi, She was standing freely withno chains, she whispered something to a guard, then walked toward me.
“You’re awake,” she said.
Her tone was casual, as if we were discussing the weather.
“You…you were in the taxi…” My voice cracked.
She smirked. “Of course. We needed a full car.”
I wanted to scream, to curse, to cry but what was the point?
Just then, a commotion broke out. A man in a white kaftan stormed in, his voice booming. “Where is my order? I don’t have time”.
The butcher hurriedly brought a tray, the man examined a severed head, poked at the limbs, and then suddenly frowned.
“This is not fresh enough” He shouted. “I need someone alive”
My heart stopped.
“Bring that one,” the butcher pointed at me.
The butcher grabbed my arm, his grip ironclad.
My body was weak, my limbs barely responding.
The man in the white kaftan studied me, his eyes cold and calculating. “This one is fresh. How much?”
“Alive, 15 million,” the butcher said, tightening his grip on my wrist. “Dead, we process it and give you parts.”
“Alive,” the man said without hesitation.
Terror swallowed me whole, my breath came in ragged gulps, this was it. My body was about to be sold like a piece of meat.
The woman from the taxi smirked, leaning against the blood stained wall.
I clenched my fists, I refused to die like this.
Suddenly, the lights flickered.
The generator sputtered, the momentary darkness was enough then, gunshots.
The entire room erupted in chaos.
A group of armed men stormed in, shouting, the captors scrambled, some running, others pulling out weapons.
A bullet shattered a lantern, and flames erupted. I felt hands on me, firm but urgent.
“Move Move”
I was yanked up and pulled through a narrow passage, legs barely worked, but I ran.
Outside, I gulped fresh air, coughing. The night sky stretched above me like salvation.
I was thrown into a waiting van, surrounded by people, some crying, some unconscious.
It was later I learned the truth.
The police had been tracking them for months.
A syndicate, selling human parts to the highest bidder ritualists, organ traffickers, the worst of humanity.
They raided just in time, I survived but many didn’t.
I sat in silence, staring at the city lights through the van window.
Abuja looked normal and peaceful .
But now I knew the truth, Some taxis aren’t taxis. Some passengers aren’t victims and some roads lead to places you never return from.
Bilkiss writes
#fiction
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