The sun had barely risen when i stepped into the cramped kitchen and dialed my mother's number.
She picked on the first ring.
"Tomiwa?"
"Mummy" My voice cracked.
"What is it? Why are you calling this early?"
I looked at the floor, heart heavy. "I'm safe, but i have to leave town for a while. It is not something I can explain over the phone."
A long pause.
"Tomiwa, are you in trouble?"
Tears gathered in my eyes. "Not anymore, but i was and staying would make things worse, i need you to trust me."
She sighed tired, worried, the kind of sigh only mothers know.
"I don't have to understand it all, just promise me you are not running from the police."
"I promise."
"Do you have food? Money?"
"I will be fine."
Another pause, then her voice softened. "When you come back, come home, this house is always yours."
"I will, i love you, Mummy."
"I love you too, my daughter."
I ended the call and let the tears fall.
The bus left Lagos before dawn.
I sat by the window, watching the city fade buildings turning to trees, noise giving way to silence. Chinedu sat beside me, one arm around my shoulder, but neither of us spoke.
There is a strange ache that comes with escape, freedom should not feel this heavy.
We reached Enugu by midday.
The town was slower, gentler, no horns, no high fences, no suspicious eyes.
Chinedu had a friend Mr. Okeke who owned a small bungalow behind his mechanic shop. It was dusty but clean, with two rooms, a tiny kitchen, and a creaky ceiling fan that whined like it had secrets.
"This will be home for now," Chinedu said.
I nodded.
But it did not feel like home.
Not yet.
That evening, while Chinedu went to the market, I sat on the bed with my phone clutched in both hands.
I have not called her yet.
My mother.
The one person who would never stop waiting for me, no matter how long I was gone.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Then her voice.
"Tomiwa?"
"Mummy" She went quiet.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm safe, i just needed you to hear my voice."
Her sigh cracked through the phone. "Do you know what it is like to wake up and not know where your child is?"
"I'm sorry."
"Where are you?"
"I can't say, not yet."
Another pause.
"But you are safe?"
"I promise." I heard her sniffle.
"I still kept your stew in the freezer, thinking you had come back to eat it."
My heart broke.
"I miss you, Mummy."
"Then come home."
"I will, but not now, i need to fix some things first."
"I don't need you fixed. I just need you."
"I know."
"I pray for you every night, Tomiwa. Don't let your heart go cold in a strange land."
"I won't."
"Okay, at least let me send you some money"
"No. Please don't worry about me, i will send something to you once i settle in."
That made her go quiet again.
Finally, she said, "God is with you, i won't ask more questions."
And just like that forgiveness wrapped me in warmth.
I ended the call and cried into my hands.
Because i missed her.
And because i was not sure when I will hold her again.
Later that night, Chinedu returned with groceries and a new SIM card for me.
"No more using your old number," he said. "They could trace it."
I nodded. "I called my mum."
His face lit up. "Good."
"She did not ask much, she just wanted to hear my voice."
"That's how you know it is real love."
He handed me a pack of noodles and a small tin of milk.
"We don't have much, but we have each other."
And for the first time in a long while, i smiled.
The next morning, I walked through the narrow streets alone hoodie up, eyes low.
Enugu felt different, safe, but unfamiliar. I was not Tomiwa the maid anymore. I was not even sure who I was.
But I knew one thing:
I was not ready to stop fighting.
When I returned home, Chinedu was typing something on his laptop.
"What are you doing?"
"Job hunt," he said. "There's a new restaurant opening in town, they need a manager, i might try."
"And me?"
He grinned. "You? You are going to write."
"Write?"
"You keep everything in your head, all those secrets, all that pain write it down, tell your story, even if no one reads it."
That night, i opened a notebook and stared at the first blank page.
Then I wrote:
"This is the story of a girl who ran, but did not lose herself."
And somehow, that felt like a beginning.