Chapter Eight: The Verdict

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 W******p threats from family, screenshots of Pastor Victor’s lives naming you, affidavits from your network. You described real things: the Lekki party almost raid, Garki house search, the Kano crusade calling for your ‘deliverance.’ You mentioned SSMPA, the 2024 military ban, extortion raids, no protection from the state. On paper, this meets the fear of persecution test for sexual orientation.”

Chino felt Wale’s pinky hook his under the table. Small anchor.

Ms. Moreau kept going. “But Canada has to ask about internal flight. Could you move safely inside Nigeria back to Lagos, Port Harcourt, even Abuja with new names?”

Chino spoke first, voice steady even though his chest shook. “No, ma’am. The video went everywhere national. Blogs, W******p, family groups. Pastor Victor has people in every state. My father sent uncles to hunt us. Police are in it now, tipped off. No corner left. The law is federal. The hate is everywhere cultural, church, mosque. Even big cities have extortion squads. We’ve been running weeks. We’re tired.”

Wale added, quieter but sharp. “We tried hiding. Lost jobs, homes, friends. My uncle offered money to hand me over for ‘correction.’ Chino’s sister got forced to give our location. If we stay, we die slow or fast. Either way, we disappear.”

She typed for a long minute. Then looked up.

“I’m granting refugee status to both of you. Humanitarian and compassionate grounds, plus Convention refugee. Confirmation letters today. Travel docs in 10–14 days. Local NGO will help with temp housing till departure. Congratulations.”

The room tilted.

Chino felt tears burn behind his eyes. Wale’s grip crushed his finger. They stared at each other disbelief first, then joy so sharp it stung.

Ms. Moreau slid forms over. “Sign here. And here. You’re free to go. Security escorts you out the side exit. Avoid main gate there’ve been… reports of people waiting for cases like yours.”

They signed with shaking hands.

In the corridor, Wale pulled Chino into a shadowed corner. Mouths met hard, desperate, tasting salt and win. Hands fisted shirts, bodies pressed tight. No time for more, but the promise crackled soon, no hiding.

They stepped out the side gate into blinding sun. Black SUV waiting NGO driver, tinted windows. They slid in back, hearts pounding.

Driver glanced in rearview. “Congratulations. First stop safe house in Maitama. Then we plan flight.”

Chino leaned into Wale, forehead to forehead. “We made it.”

Wale kissed him soft. “We made it.”

SUV pulled away.

Ten minutes later, driver’s phone rang. He answered in low Hausa, then swore.

“Problem,” he said tight. “Pastor Victor’s people blocking main road ahead. Police with them. Someone tipped said two men matching you just left embassy. They searching vehicles.”

Chino’s stomach dropped.

Wale looked at him. “What now?”

Driver sped up, turned down side street. “Alternative route. Longer. But we get there.”

They drove tense, weaving backstreets. Chino’s hand never left Wale’s.

Then driver braked hard.

Ahead: two police jeeps blocking. Officers with rifles. Behind, white van with banner: “Deliverance Fire Crusade Pastor Victor Ministries.”

And in front Papa Okonkwo. Gray suit, Bible in hand, face carved with grief and anger. Beside him: Pastor Victor, mic live, streaming to thousands. Uncles flanking. No Adanna.

Driver cursed again. “They knew the side route too.”

Chino stared through windshield. His father stepped forward, voice carrying over engines.

“Chinedu! Come out! Last chance. Pastor agreed—no prison if you come for deliverance today. We go home. Fix this. Your mother dey sick because of you. Adanna no dey eat. Come out, my son!”

Pastor Victor raised mic. “Devil blinded them, but God merciful! Surrender now, fire burn clean!”

Wale’s hand tightened. “Don’t.”

Chino looked at his father really looked. The man who once carried him to church on shoulders. Now standing with armed police to drag him to exorcism.

Chino opened the door.

Wale grabbed his arm. “No!”

Chino turned, kissed Wale once deep, final, goodbye taste. “I love you. Always. But if I no go, they kill you here. Kill driver. Kill our chance later.”

Wale’s eyes filled. “Chino”

Chino stepped out. Hands up. Walked slow.

Papa’s face crumpled relief, shame, triumph mixed.

Pastor Victor smiled big for camera. “See? God moves!”

Chino stopped ten feet away. Looked at father. Voice low but clear.

“I’m going with them. But not for prayer. For you to see I’m still your son. And I still love a man. And that never change.”

Papa flinched like slapped.

Chino turned to police. “Arrest me if you want. But know this: Canada already grant us asylum. Papers signed. Ten days, we fly. You fit beat us, pray over us, but you no fit erase us.”

Officers hesitated. Phones out recording. Live stream rolling.

Pastor Victor’s smile slipped.

Chino walked back to SUV. Opened door. Pulled Wale out kissed him right there, daylight, lips on lips, hands on face. No hiding.

Then looked at father one last time.

“Tell Mama I love her. Tell Adanna I forgive her. And tell yourself… I’m not lost. I’m found.”

He climbed in. Slammed door.

Driver floored it tires screeching, jeeps too slow. Gunshots cracked warning into sky.

They sped away.

Back seat, Wale buried face in Chino’s neck, sobbing quiet. Chino held him, tears falling into curls.

They didn’t talk for miles.

At Maitama safe house, given a room. Door locked. Security outside.

That night, real bed first time in months, they made love slow every touch careful, every kiss promise. Chino inside Wale, moving gentle, eyes never leaving. When they came, together quiet, shattering, like breaking free from cage they carried too long.

After, tangled, Wale whispered, “You could have died back there.”

Chino kissed temple. “I rather die than let them take you without fight.”

Ten days later, Nnamdi Azikiwe Airport they boarded Toronto flight. Escorted, protected, papers in hand.

Plane lifted off. Chino looked out at shrinking Lagos lights. Wale’s hand in his.

No big music. No fade out.

Just two men, finally above storm.

And somewhere below, a father watching same sky, Bible open but unread, tears on pages he no longer understood.

The End.