Romans de David Ekenta

Canadian High Commission, Abuja – March 15, 2026, 9:07 a.m.The waiting room smelled like cold air-con, old carpet, and that faint metallic fear everybody carries when they’re begging another country to save their life. Chino and Wale sat side by side on hard plastic chairs, knees just touching enough to feel real. New burner phones powered off and buried deep in their bags. Hoodies up, sunglasses on indoors trying to look like any other visa people, not two guys whose faces had been splashed across gossip blogs and prayer crusades as “sodomites on the run.”The interview room was small and cold: one table, three chairs, a Canadian visa officer named Ms. Elena Moreau behind a laptop, with a local interpreter who barely said anything. Late forties, calm eyes, no wedding ring, voice flat but not mean.“Mr. Okonkwo. Mr. Balogun. I’ve read your applications and everything you sent. The video is strong evidence. The WhatsApp threats from family, screenshots of Pastor Victor’s lives naming

Kano Motor Park – March 10, 2026, 3:47 p.m.The sun beat down like it had a personal grudge. Dust kicked up thick every time a danfo or trailer rolled in or out, stinging eyes and sticking to sweat. The park smelled like burnt engine oil, roasted corn, and the sharp, nervous sweat of hundreds of people moving fast some running to something, most running from. Chino and Wale sat on a low concrete bench near the edge, hoods pulled low, faces half-hidden behind cheap sunglasses they’d bought from a street vendor for 500 naira each. Their bags sat between their feet like anchors holding them down.The Abuja to Kano bus had dropped them at dawn after a night of tense checkpoints soldiers waving flashlights, demanding “papers,” taking “small something” from the driver so the bus could roll on. Nobody got pulled off. Yet.Wale’s knee bounced restless. “How long till the next move?”Chino checked the burner Signal chat with the lawyer still open. “Appointment March 15. Five days. We need to s

Wuse Zone 2, Abuja – March 8, 2026, 4:19 a.m.The knock started soft three careful taps, almost polite, like whoever it was didn’t want to wake the whole place. Then harder. Then fists pounding.Chino snapped awake, heart slamming so hard it hurt his ribs. Wale was already sitting up, sheet bunched around his waist, eyes wide and dark in the gloom. The window unit kept rattling, but it covered nothing now. Footsteps shuffled outside the thin curtain that passed for their door more than one set.Mama T’s voice cut through the wall from the living room, low and sharp. “Who dey there?”A man answered deep voice, thick Onitsha Igbo accent. “Open door. We dey look for Chinedu Okonkwo. Family business. No trouble.”Chino’s blood went cold. Papa. Or uncles. Or both. Adanna’s warning had come true way too fast.Wale grabbed Chino’s wrist tight. “Back window. Now.”They moved quiet naked bodies scrambling into yesterday’s clothes in seconds. Chino shoved their small bags under the mattress; no

Wuse, Abuja – March 5, 2026, 10:22 p.m.The new safe house was this tight two bedroom flat sitting above a closed tailoring shop in Wuse Zone 2. No real fan just a window unit rattling and spitting cold air in weak bursts. Walls thin enough you could hear the neighbors fighting like they were in the same room. Mama T had shifted them here three days earlier, right after the Garki tip line started buzzing with anonymous calls pointing at “two Lagos boys hiding nearby.” No raid had come yet, but the waiting felt like dust in your throat.Chino and Wale had the smaller room, single mattress jammed against the wall, a thin curtain hanging where a door should be. They lay naked under one sheet, skin slick with sweat even with the AC trying its best. Wale’s leg was slung over Chino’s hip, hand heavy on his chest like he was staking claim. The day’s weight still hung between them lawyer meeting earlier, affidavits signed, video screenshots clipped to the asylum draft.Aisha, the lawyer soft

Garki, Abuja-February 28, 2026, 11:47 p.m. The flat smelled like stewed egusi left too long, mosquito coil smoke, and that faint metallic edge of fear that never really went away. The fan spun slow overhead, pushing warm air around but doing nothing about the harmattan dust sneaking through every crack. Chino lay on his back on the thin mattress, Wale curled into his side, head resting on his chest. Their breathing had fallen into the same rhythm hours ago slow, careful, the only thing they could still control. Mama T had left after group dinner: jollof stretched thin to feed everyone, stories shared in whispers. The others Khalid from Kano with that scarred cheek from a “correction” session, Emeka from Port Harcourt still twitchy from the raid that took his laptop and what was left of his pride had gone quiet in their corners. House rules were strict: lights out by midnight, no noise, no visitors. But rules bend when bodies need reminding they’re still alive. Wale’s hand was traci

Lagos to Abuja Night Bus – February 22, 2026, 8:15 p.m.The God is Good Motors terminal in Jibowu stank of diesel, fried plantain, and that heavy kind of desperation you only smell in places where people are running from something. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, throwing long shadows across rows of plastic chairs. Passengers clutched their polythene bags garri, groundnut oil, Bibles like lifelines. Chino and Wale sat way at the far end, hoods pulled low, burner phones face-down on their laps. They blended in like any two young guys heading north for better hustle: one in a faded Chelsea jersey, the other in a plain black hoodie. No eye contact. No loud talk. Just quiet.Chioma had sorted everything. Slipped the conductor extra 50,000 naira for “discretion.” Got them seats at the back near the toilet less chance of anyone noticing. The driver, stocky guy with tribal marks, barely glanced at their fake IDs (Emeka and Tunde) before waving them on. In Nigeria, cash talks louder than