C2 CHAPTER 2

But my celebration was within me — a cocktail party where all the guests knew each other and I anxiously counted my days till freedom. I was going halfway around the world to a place I had never thought of being in before, although, I did not know Lagos or anything, it was still my home. I knew that my life was about to change, I might have to unlearn everything I already knew, which was pretty close to nothing. I closed my eyes in deep thought, put Obongjayar’s “Gone Girl” on repeat on my JBL speaker, and began to imagine what my first day in Russia was going to be like.

(Amina)

Papa had emphasized sweaters—not just any kind of sweater but furry sweaters and a bunch of other winter clothes. I had thought I was ready to face the weather here, but that was not the case.

On the first day I went to class, I was struck in the guts with the cold. I had to take a public bus and hike the remainder of the journey. Papa begged me not to go to school until he sent me money for a car, but I was free now. I was having none of his protection here. By the time I got to class, my gums ached and my teeth threatened to collapse from excessive chattering. The classes were already ongoing when I walked in. I hurriedly sat beside a boy in a thick blue plaid shirt. He threw a curt smile my way and focused on the lecturer as though I were never there. His eyes made it difficult for me to listen to what was going on — they were a soft blue, the color of morning, and he smelled sweetly like vanilla. My brain was processing a lot of things in very little time. In my entire life since I was six, this was my first time being around people, yet everyone acted like it was normal for me to be here like there wasn’t anything else I should have been doing at that moment. I was bothered by the fact that I might spend a whole year here and still not have a single friend! What were the basics? Did I have to walk up to them, smile, and shake hands, or did I just wait to speak to the first person who sounded the slippers slightest bit friendly to me? For God’s sake, what did people in Russia like? I was overthinking a whole bunch of things, I almost fainted from a panic attack.

After a series of lectures, it was time to head home, and my head ached with the thought of hiking to the bus station. I sat on a bench, dreading my demise and regretting that I had not listened to my all-knowing father. As I sat with my head in my hands, a voice glided to me from behind:

“Do you need a ride?” It was the guy from the first lecture; I could swear he was an angel. His hair was blonde and curly, with a part of it falling into his eyes, so he had to brush it off occasionally. Lord must have known how much I needed a savior and sent me one of his angels to help me off the edge of falling apart on a foreign continent.

“Yes, yes I do!” I cried. “I live down at Pokovkra Street,” I said, hoping I had not pronounced it wrong. I recited it at breakfast so I would not bite my tongue when the occasion arose.

“That’s nice; I am going that way too. My name’s Ivan.” The blue-eyed boy said to me, his smile was so welcoming that I let myself relax in my seat.

“My name’s Amina, but you can call me Jewel.” My father would be disappointed that I had given out so easily his nickname for me to a total stranger, but whatever, anything goes.

Ivan and I chatted as he drove, and I didn’t even notice we had been driving for almost an hour without getting to our destination. It was warm in his car, and his aura was warm too. I felt like sitting in his car all day. But as he kept driving, the temperature in the car dropped, and a silent cold filled the air. Ivan’s face was no longer that warm visage that kept me comfortable beyond reason. It was frigid; he ground his teeth, and his eyes seemed to darken with mystery.

“Ivan?” I called. “Ivan, where are we going?” I asked, and fear began to creep into my throat and down to my abdomen.

“Ivan?” I called again, and I looked at his eyes this time, trying to decipher the clouds of codes written in them.

“Shut up.” Ivan spat, and I knew I was in danger. I knew nobody in this place, and I was certain that if I phoned Papa, he would send somebody to my rescue. I was just not certain that Papa would not panic and fly me back to Lagos the next day, so I decided against calling him. Ivan swerved onto a dirt road where a black minivan was parked. Two hefty, blonde, bearded men, one with his eyes half closed by a scar, alighted the van and walked towards us. They had pistols tucked into their trousers and knives in the gray holsters dangling from their belt holders.

“Ivan, you brought the girl?” asked the man with a scar overlapping his eyelids.

“Konstantin,” Ivan said and nodded in affirmation.

Even in the debilitating cold, sweat trickled down my spine. On my first day of freedom, I was kidnapped. While they discussed, I pulled out my cell phone from my pocket and tried to remember the emergency number—was it 211 or 234? No. +234 was the Nigerian country code. It was 112, and I could hear Papa’s voice echoing through my consciousness: “112 If you’re in trouble and cannot reach me, dial 112.”