Chapter Six: The Knock

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 time to grab the rest. Wale cracked the bedroom window the rusted latch gave with a squeak that sounded way too loud. One story drop to the alley behind the tailoring shop. Doable if they didn’t land wrong.

Another knock louder now. Voices rising.

“Chinedu! We know say you dey inside. Pastor Victor send us. Your papa dey cry every night. Come home make we pray for you.”

Pastor Victor. The name hit like a slap. The “deliverance team” had tracked them down.

Mama T again, steady but edged. “Nobody here by that name. Go away before I call police.”

Harsh laughter outside. “Police? Dem go help us find am. Na dem we go call first.”

Chino and Wale froze at the window. The other guys stirred Khalid muttering curses in Hausa under his breath, Emeka already at his own window.

Mama T appeared at their curtain, face grim. “Go. Now. I go delay dem. Take this.” She pressed a folded wad of naira and a new burner into Chino’s hand. “Signal group chat new link. Lawyer say biometrics appointment come through yesterday. Embassy next week if you no get caught. Run to Utako night bus to Kano, then cross to Niamey if you must. But try stay Abuja till interview.”

Chino gripped her arm. “Come with us.”

She shook her head. “I stay. Hold dem off. Others need me. Go.”

Wale was already climbing out legs over the sill, dropping to hang by his hands, then letting go. He landed in a crouch, pain flashing across his face but no sound. Chino followed drop jarring his knees, ankles screaming. They sprinted down the alley, bags slung, hearts in their throats.

Behind them: door crashing open. Shouts. “Search every room!”

They cut through backstreets Wuse Market still dead asleep, shutters down. Dawn graying the sky. Sirens far off not for them yet. Chino yanked Wale into a shadowed doorway near a closed buka.

“Plan?” Wale panted, chest heaving.

“Utako. Bus. Then lawyer. We no fit miss that appointment.”

Wale nodded, then pulled Chino in sudden and fierce. Their mouths crashed desperate, tasting salt and fear. Tongues clashed, hands fisting shirts. Chino pressed Wale against the wall, thigh between his legs, feeling the hard length already stirring despite everything.

“Not now,” Chino breathed, but his own cock betrayed him, thickening against Wale’s hip.

“Just small,” Wale whispered. “Remind me say we still alive.”

Chino’s hand slid down, palming Wale through jeans firm squeeze, quick strokes over fabric. Wale moaned into his mouth, hips grinding. Chino unzipped just enough fingers wrapping hot skin, stroking fast, slick with precum. Wale did the same hand inside Chino’s fly, pumping rough.

They jerked each other frantic backs to the wall, eyes locked. No time for more. Just this: quick, dirty proof they were still here. Wale came first shuddering, spilling over Chino’s knuckles, biting his lip bloody to stay quiet. Chino followed hot pulses coating Wale’s palm.

They wiped hands on shirts, zipped up, kissed once more soft now, grounding.

“Together,” Chino said.

“Together.”

They ran again toward Utako terminal, dodging early okadas, blending into the first morning workers. At the terminal, they bought tickets with Mama T’s cash Abuja to Kano, no questions. Bus leaving in twenty minutes.

On board, back seats again. Engine roared. They held hands under a shared jacket, fingers sticky, hearts still racing.

Chino’s burner buzzed new Signal link from Mama T.

They search house. Take nothing but break plenty. I safe scatter others. Pastor Victor post live: “The boys run but God dey pursue.” Police now involved tip line active. Embassy appointment confirmed: March 15, Canadian High Commission. Bring all evidence. Do not miss. Hide till then.

Another message Adanna, from an unknown number.

Bros, I dey sorry. Papa force me give location. Him say na for your good. I cry whole night. Please run well. I love you. No hate me.

Chino stared at the screen. Tears burned his eyes. Wale squeezed his hand.

“She still love you,” Wale said quietly. “Even if she fear.”

Chino nodded, throat tight. “I no hate her. I hate them wey make her choose.”

The bus pulled out Abuja shrinking behind them. Kano ahead riskier, Hisbah territory, but a temporary hideout. Then maybe Niamey, or back for the embassy. Or arrest on some roadblock.

Hope, appointment locked. Canada’s doors still cracked 65% Nigerian approvals in 2025, LGBTQ claims winning when evidence was strong. Video viral, family threats documented, raid patterns provable. Lawyer fighting “internal flight” no safe corner left in Nigeria.

Devastation: Pastor Victor’s hunt public now. Police alerted. Family betrayed the location. House lost. Friends scattered. SSMPA shadow growing longer every day extortion, beatings, no convictions but constant terror.

Reach the embassy? Get through interview without detention? Approval or rejection? Cross border if denied? Or get pulled off the bus at a checkpoint tip line working, faces known?

They leaned heads together, watching the road unspool north. Bodies still humming from the alley touch. Hearts bruised but beating.

Chino whispered against Wale’s ear, “If we land Canada, first thing fuck in open. No hide. No curtain. Just us.”

Wale smiled small, fierce. “Then beach. Then home we build. With Adanna if she come. With Chioma. With everybody wey survive.”

Outside, Nigeria rolled past dust, billboards of smiling politicians, churches and mosques shoulder to shoulder, same hate preached in both.

Inside the bus, two men held on.

Still running. Still loving. Still refusing to break.