Nia didn't stop until dawn. She spent the night navigating Lagos's rooftops and side streets, always checking over her shoulder for any sign of the Watchers. By the time the sky turned gray, she had slipped onto a battered bus leaving the city, heading north toward the coordinates she'd found in Dr. Ibekwe's book.
The journey was long and cramped. People squeezed onto the bus with sacks of produce, noisy children, and the occasional chicken in a wicker cage. The air smelled of sweat and roasted peanuts, and the sun baked the metal roof until the interior felt like an oven. But Nia barely noticed. Her mind was on the photograph, the cryptic notes, and the looming threat of the Watchers.
She kept the book hidden in her bag, glancing at it only when the bus hit a lull. Its pages offered little clarity. Symbols she couldn't decipher lined entire sections. Strange sketches hinted at ruins, hidden chambers, and a spiral motif that appeared again and again. But one word in Dr. Ibekwe's notes stood out each time she flipped through: Zeke.
A restless sleep claimed her sometime in the afternoon. When she woke, the bus had stopped in a small roadside settlement to refuel. The driver called for a short break, and passengers stretched their legs under the shade of a lone baobab tree.
Nia stepped out, shielding her eyes against the glare. The land here was different vast stretches of savanna, the air drier and cooler than the coastal humidity she was used to. She felt exposed, as though the open plains offered her nowhere to hide. Still, she sensed she was moving closer to whatever secrets lay buried in her past.
She found a small stall selling akara deep-fried bean cakes and purchased a few with the last of her cash. As she ate, she scanned the other travelers. Nobody seemed out of place, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her. Paranoia, maybe. Or maybe not.
When the bus was ready to depart, she climbed back on and settled into her seat by the window. Outside, the sky was a blazing white-blue, and the road ahead looked endless. A frayed radio crackled near the driver's seat, playing a static-laced tune.
She opened the book once more. Tucked against the photograph was a note she hadn't noticed before—folded so thin it nearly blended with the pages. Carefully, she pulled it free. The handwriting was faint but legible:
"Zeke: last seen near the old missionary post by the Kaduwa River. Beware watchers. Trust no one."
A jolt went through her. The watchers clearly the same ones who'd come for her in Lagos. The note confirmed what Dr. Ibekwe had said: Zeke was still alive, or at least he had been when that note was written. But how long ago had that been?
She traced the outline of the spiral on the map in the book, matching it to the location described in the note. If the Kaduwa River was where she suspected, it lay even farther north, beyond the bus's final stop. She'd need to find another way from there—maybe hire a local guide or continue on foot.
The bus lurched back onto the dusty road. Hours passed, the scenery shifting from sparse villages to rolling grasslands. As evening approached, the driver announced they were stopping for the night in a larger town. Nia decided to spend what little money she had left on a room in a small guesthouse. It wasn't much four walls, a bed, a single flickering bulb, but it was safer than sleeping outside.
That night, she dreamed of the auction hall. She saw the swirling vials of memories, the silent crowd of masked bidders. In the dream, Zeke stood at the center of the stage, his eyes pleading with her. But every time she tried to reach him, the watchers appeared, blocking her path, their faces hidden behind dark hoods.
She woke in a sweat, heart pounding, the flickering bulb casting ominous shadows on the walls. Her mind whirled with fragments of the dream: the swirl of memory, Zeke's desperate expression, and the watchers looming like specters. She pressed her palm to her forehead, trying to calm her racing thoughts.
She rose from the bed, rummaging in her bag until she found the photograph. By the faint light, she studied Zeke's face again, so alive, so full of promise. If he was truly out there, she would find him. She had to. Perhaps he held the missing pieces of her identity, why she had been important enough to erase, what knowledge she possessed that someone feared.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the shutters. She took a deep breath, set the photograph on the bedside table, and forced herself to lie down again. Tomorrow, she'd press on. She would head to the Kaduwa River and follow the clues wherever they led.
No matter what dangers waited, she refused to let her memories slip through her fingers again.