12 DAYS LATER
CALABAR — ETTA AGBO, MARY SLESSOR AVENUE — UNIVERSITY OF CALABAR(UNICAL)— 400 LEVEL AGRICULTURAL SCIENCE CLASSROOM — NIGHT
The classroom was dimly lit.
Fluorescent tubes flickered overhead, casting uneven light across scattered desks and open notebooks. The windows were dark. The hallway was silent. The only sounds were the hum of the old air conditioner and the soft rustle of pages turning.
Then the door opened.
Two young men and a woman slipped inside, locking the door behind them. They were laughing—low, giddy, the kind of laughter that came from doing something they shouldn't.
The first man moved first. He pulled the woman close and kissed her. Not soft. Not slow. Hungry. The second man was already pulling off his shirt, his belt, his shoes. The woman's hands worked at her own buttons.
They didn't notice the bell.
They didn't notice the man holding it.
They didn't notice the girl beside him, whistling softly, watching them with empty eyes.
"Vulgar behavior."
The voice was calm. Disappointed. Like a father walking in on children fighting.
The group froze.
The man stood at the back of the classroom, leaning against the wall. Average height. Average build. Unremarkable. But the space around him felt compressed—like the air itself was afraid to move. In his hand, a blue hand bell. Beside him, a young girl with dark hair and a strange, distant smile.
"How you take enter our class?" one of the men said. His voice was shaky, but he forced confidence. "Comot now."
The Lord smiled.
"The phobia affecting this town is a great diversion."
"Wetin you dey talk about sef."
The second man stepped forward, emboldened by his friend's bravado. "Leave, old man. But you could leave your daughter if she wants to join the fun."
Sonia stopped whistling.
The first man approached the Lord. He took one step. Two.
The bell rang.
Not a sound. A pressure. A wave of silent force that pushed the man back to where he had been standing—not thrown, not slammed, just... relocated. He stood there, panting, confused, terrified.
The others tried to run.
The door wouldn't open.
Sonia moved.
She walked to each of them, one by one, and looked into their eyes. Deadlock. Her eyes flashed—black, red, orange—and something passed from her into them. They screamed. Not in pain. In agony. In knowing.
They screamed for help.
No one came.
The Lord watched. His expression didn't change.
When it was over, the three students lay on the floor, breathing, alive, but empty. Sonia returned to his side. She didn't whistle.
"Hmm," the Lord said. "Let's wait a bit."
Then he rang the bell again and this time chairs just moved to them and they sat down.
---
BENIN — DAVID'S MOTHER'S CHILDREN BOUTIQUE — 1 DAY LATER
The shop was small but warm.
Mannequins in colorful outfits stood in the window. Racks of children's clothing lined the walls. The air smelled of new fabric and the peppermint tea David's mother brewed every afternoon.
David sat at the counter, sketching.
SHADOW OF THE SUN — CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
The main character stood over her father's body. Her hands were stained with his blood—not because she had killed him, but because she had tried to save him and failed. The panel was all shadows and regret.
His pencil moved in quick, sure strokes.
"Dave."
His mother stood behind him, hands on her hips. "You've been drawing for hours."
"I'm almost done."
"You said that two hours ago."
"I meant it then too."
"Hope this isn't all you do in school."
She shook her head, but she was smiling. She walked to the window, adjusted a mannequin's sleeve, and looked out at the street.
"So you're really going to leave me home alone and travel to Lagos?"
David looked up. "I'll be back soon, Mom."
"You said that last time."
"And I came back."
She turned. Her eyes were soft, worried, trying not to show it.
"Safe journey. You shall prosper in what you're aiming to do."
The bell above the door chimed. Israel walked in, a small duffel bag over his shoulder. He nodded at David's mother.
"Good afternoon, Mummy."
"Israel." She smiled. "Taking care of my son?"
"Someone has to."
"Davie, see how responsible your friend is."
David stood, stretched, closed his sketchbook. He walked to his mother and hugged her—tight, brief, the way sons hug mothers when they don't know how to say goodbye.
"Please be careful," she said into his shoulder.
"I will."
She pulled back, reaching for her purse. "Let me give you some money—"
"No, Mummy. We're fine."
"Dave—"
"We're fine. I promise."
She looked at him. Searched his face for the lie. Didn't find it—or chose not to.
"Amen," she said. "Go. Before I change my mind."
David grabbed his bag. Israel held the door. They stepped out into the afternoon sun.
Joy waited in the black SUV, engine running.
David turned to Israel. The street was quiet. No one was watching.
"Thanks for helping me out," David said. "Lying to my mom. Covering for me."
"No problem, bro." Israel's voice was calm, steady. "Just be careful."
"I will."
"No. I mean it." Israel grabbed his shoulder—firm, urgent. "You're not just fighting for yourself anymore. You're fighting for people who don't even know they need saving. That's heavier than you think."
David nodded.
"I know."
Israel let go.
"Go. Before I start worrying."
David climbed into the SUV. Joy pulled away. Israel stood on the sidewalk, watching until the car disappeared around the corner.
Then he walked home.
THE COVENANT BASE — 30 MINUTES LATER
Jonathan and Praise were already waiting by the helipad.
Their uniforms were clean. Their expressions were focused. Jonathan was rolling his new shoulder—still testing it, still trusting it. Praise flexed her new hands, opening and closing her fingers like she was learning to use them again.
David stepped out of the SUV, looked at the helicopter, and froze.
"We're taking that?"
"We're taking that," Joy said.
"I don't have a passport."
"You don't need one. Private aircraft."
"Since when do we have a helicopter?"
"Since always," Jonathan said. "You just never asked."
"How much money does the Covenant have?"
"Don't think about it," Praise said, climbing into the cabin. "You'll give yourself a headache."
David looked at the helicopter—the sleek dark body, the rotors already spinning, the Covenant insignia painted on the tail. He thought about his mother's shop. About the money she worried over. About the tuition she struggled to pay.
"Don't think about it," he muttered to himself. "Don't think about it."
He climbed in.
The rotor blades thrummed overhead.
David pressed his face against the window, watching the world shrink beneath him. Buildings became blocks. Blocks became grids. Grids became green—forests, farms, rivers snaking through the earth like silver threads.
"First time flying," Joy said. It wasn't a question.
"Is it that obvious?"
"You haven't let go of the armrest since takeoff."
David looked at his hands. White-knuckled. He forced them to relax.
Praise sat across from him, her eyes closed, her new hands folded in her lap. Jonathan sat beside her, staring out the opposite window.
"What's in Calabar?" David asked.
"Reports," Joy said. "More than half of the town is sick with malaria."
"Phobia?"
"We don't know yet. That's why we're going."
David looked out the window again. The sun was beginning to set, painting the clouds orange and pink and gold.
"Thirty minutes," Joy said.
David nodded.
He thought about Israel. About his mother. About the helicopter and the money and the life he was living now—so far from the boy who used to draw monsters in his sketchbook, hoping they weren't real.
The rotors thrummed.
The sun set.
They flew toward Calabar.