Cyprian's POV
I stood by the bus outside the waiting area, the rough, small paper ticket I'd been handed after paying the fare clenched tightly in my hand. The air was thick with the weight of the sunless morning. The cold breeze tangled with the noise—static from the TV inside the waiting area, the low murmur of drivers calling passengers, the shuffle of footsteps going to and fro.
But none of that could distract me from the ache in my chest.
Just yesterday, I had seen Jane in church—beautiful, quiet Jane. She had always been in my class back in secondary school, but I'd never truly looked at her. Or any other girl, for that matter. Not until that moment in church, when I saw her again after she'd returned from Lagos, where she'd been living with her uncles.
Something about her babyish face and shy smile stirred something warm in me—something unfamiliar, yet comforting. For the first time in months, I felt less afraid.
Lately, I had started to wonder why I wasn't like the other boys, especially now that puberty had set in and everything was supposed to make sense. I was starting to fear that what Luca had done might have ruined me. But the warmth I felt when Jane and I spoke after mass… that was the first time I thought, maybe this is how a crush should feel. How desire is supposed to feel.
I had planned to talk to her again this Sunday after mass. Maybe even start something small, something I could boast about to my friends. I was tired of being the only one left out of the stories. But now—I was being shipped off like cargo. Taken from her before I'd even gotten the chance.
What if I didn't like anyone where I was going? What if what Luca did starts to come back, creeping through the silence? I was scared.
Aunt Felicia's house would be a battlefield. I knew it in my bones. I wasn't used to being away from home—especially not for this long. A whole month in that woman's house. A woman who didn't like me and never pretended to. All because I'd once stood up for my mother against her.
Still, I had always felt like my family was my responsibility. Maybe that was the curse of being the first son—loving in silence, bearing weight no one sees, bending until you break.
Soon, it was time.
I climbed into the bus, seat number 8, tucked toward the back. My chest ached with a worry I couldn't shake. My mother had promised to speak with my boss about the sudden time off, but I doubted he'd wait for me—not when there were so many other boys eager to take my place.
Though I knew he liked me. I was the most hardworking among them. I had no choice. I wanted to take my family out of poverty. It was my duty as the stepson. But even as hardworking as I was, getting up and leaving just like that was a turn-off for him. I could only hope my mother's sweet mouth—the one she used to woo customers at the market—would help. She had always known how to talk to people for me. Maybe that's why I was a bit shy. I grew up with her always speaking for me.
Jobs were too few. Every naira counted, and I needed the money if I was going to get into university. I didn't trust my father to pay my fees. And I couldn't let my mother carry the burden alone with her small stall at the market.
I slid into my seat—second row behind the driver—and plugged in my earpiece, letting the familiar rhythm of Michael Jackson's Dangerous wash over me. My favorite artist. There was just something about his music that made me feel happy, even on days like this.
The engine rumbled beneath us, a low mechanical growl that promised motion… and maybe doom. The bus began to fill with the sticky heat of bodies and the quiet murmurs of strangers settling into discomfort.
I stared out the window—not really looking at anything. Just watching the world blur into shadows and dust as we drove out of Warri, past filling stations, kiosks, noise, traffic…
And for the first time, I felt it.
Not fear.
Not anger.
But displacement.
That quiet, gnawing ache of being unwanted. The sense that you've been pushed aside like a piece that no longer fits.
And like clockwork, the sadness stirred something in me. It always did. Pain had a rhythm, and my fingers knew how to translate it into words. I unlocked my phone, ready to write—ready to empty myself into poetry.
But then the bus jerked violently, snapping me upright.
The driver slammed the brakes without warning. Bodies jolted forward. Someone gasped. A bag thudded to the floor.
Tension spread through the cabin like spilled oil—fast, slick, suffocating. I yanked my earpieces out, the music cutting off mid-beat.
"Stop now!"
Two voices outside—male, rough, urgent. They weren't asking.
Inside, the silence thickened. Eyes darted. Breaths hitched. No one spoke, but every passenger felt it: something was wrong.
The driver tried to move forward, nudging the accelerator in a quiet act of defiance.
But something told me—
This wasn't going to end well.