Ruth's POV
It's been months of different men coming in for me. Every night, every day faces I didn't know, hands I didn't want. I stopped counting how many. I stopped screaming too. What was the point? No one was listening.
I was in a large compound, the kind with high fences and locked gates. There was no escape. I tried once. Just once. Someone snitched. Maybe it was the girl who shared my room, the one who never spoke but always watched. Or maybe it was the guard who pretended to be kind. Either way, I was caught.
And they beat me. Oh God, they beat me like I wasn't even human.
Since then, I've been sick. Very sick.
My body aches in places I didn't know could ache. I barely eat. My skin burns like fire, and I shiver even when the sun is high.
That afternoon, Madam T barged into the room.
Big. Mean. Wicked to the core.
"All this one wey you dey lie down, na pretend I dey see," she barked.
"Madam, please… I'm sick. I can't work today," I whispered, my voice barely above a breath.
She sneered, "You think say you fit come chop my food, sleep for my house, then come form sick? Na lie. Work dey."
And just like that, she shoved a man inside.
I could barely move. My body was too hot, my head spinning. The man didn't last long. After a few minutes, he stormed out, cursing.
"Why her body dey hot like this? You wan give me wahala? This one fit die o!"
I heard him yelling at Madam T.
"She no fit perform," he spat. "Na sick she dey."
Then the door burst open again.
Madam T.
Her eyes blazing. Her fists clenched.
"You dey make me lose customers, abi?!"
I tried to speak, but her boot met my stomach before the words came out.
I screamed.
My body curled in on itself.
"If I call doctor and you dey pretend Ruth, I go show you say I wicked pass the devil!"
She slammed the door and left.
Later, a man walked in. Not a client this time. He looked different. A bit gentle. Medical bag in hand.
He took one look at me and frowned. "You're sick," he said, more to himself. "I'll run some tests. Let's see what's going on."
He gave me some drugs. They didn't help. The fever only got worse. I drifted in and out of sleep, sweat soaking through the mattress, body shaking.
Then… midnight.
I heard footsteps.
Voices.
"Oya, oya—get up."
Two men. Rough. Familiar. I couldn't fight. I couldn't run. They dragged me out, pushed me into a truck.
We drove for a long time, the cold air slapping my face through the open window. Then we stopped.
A bridge. A river below.
My heart sank.
One of the men got out. "Frank, do the job. I dey go meet my wife."
I turned.
Frank.
I knew him.
His sister had been trafficked too.
He stepped closer, his face shadowed.
"Ruth," he said quietly. "Your results came back. You get HIV. Madam T talk say she no need you again. You too sick to work…"
He paused.
"So… I gots kill you now."
My knees gave out. "Please… please, Frank… don't do this."
He looked away, jaw clenched. I could see the battle in his eyes.
I sobbed. "What if it was your sister? The one you've been searching for? Would you want someone to save her?"
Silence.
Then slowly, he turned back.
"I no go kill you."
He walked to the car, dug in his pocket, and brought out a small bundle of cash.
"Oya. Make you run. Go back to Nigeria. At least if this sickness wan kill you… make e kill you for your country."
He handed me the money. I took it with shaking hands.
"Go," he said.
I ran.
For the first time in months, I ran. Weak, sick, broken but free.
And even though I didn't know what tomorrow held… I was alive.
I was still Ruth.
And I wasn't going to die in that place.
Not tonight. Not like that.
I didn't stop running.
My feet were bare, the cold biting into my skin as I stumbled through the dark, unfamiliar streets. I didn't know where I was. I didn't care. I just kept going. One foot in front of the other. One breath after the next.
My throat was dry. My chest ached. My legs screamed with every step. But I kept running until I found a small abandoned building—cracked windows, a rusted gate, silence.
I collapsed inside.
The next few days were a blur.
I hid. Slept on the floor. Ate nothing. Drank rainwater that dripped from a broken pipe. The money Frank gave me was still in my bra, soaked with sweat and fear.
I was burning up. My body refused to obey. The fever wouldn't break. I started to see things shadows that whispered my name, voices from the compound calling me back.
But I didn't go back.
I wouldn't.
One morning, I woke up to someone shaking me.
A woman.
Dark skin. Wrinkles on her face. Kind eyes.
She said something in French I didn't understand it, but her tone was gentle.
I tried to speak, but I just coughed.
She called someone. A young boy. He disappeared, then returned with a man in a worn-out white coat. Another doctor.
They carried me somewhere.
A clinic.
Small. Overcrowded. But clean.
The doctor took my blood again. Hooked me to a drip. Gave me tablets I couldn't pronounce.
"Tu es Nigériane?" he asked softly.
I nodded.
His face softened. "Tu es en sécurité maintenant."
You are safe now.
Safe.
The word sounded strange. Foreign. Like a lie I wanted so badly to believe.
Weeks passed.
I got stronger. Slowly. I still couldn't eat much, but the fever finally left. My body stopped shaking. My mind stopped screaming.
The old woman Mami Jeanne, they called her let me stay in her small flat behind the clinic. She spoke little English, but she smiled a lot. Sometimes that was enough.
One day, while helping her wash clothes outside, I felt the sun on my skin and didn't flinch. I looked up and whispered, "Thank you."
Not to anyone in particular.
Just… thank you.
I still had HIV.
I still had scars.
But I was alive.
And maybe, just maybe… I could find my way back home.
To Nigeria.
To Mama if she was still alive.
To myself.
Got it! Here's the rewritten continuation with that shift—Ruth chooses not to return to her parents out of shame:
---
A month later, I was on a plane.
Paid for by a support organization partnered with the embassy.
I wore secondhand clothes. My hair was tied in a rough scarf. I didn't look like the Ruth who left home years ago. And I wasn't.
But I wasn't going back to them.
Not to my parents. Not to that street. Not to the small gate with peeling paint and memories I couldn't bear to face.
I told the shelter I had no one. That was easier than explaining the truth.
That I couldn't bear the look on my mother's face if she saw what I'd become.
That I'd rather start over as a ghost in my own country than carry the weight of their disappointment.
They thought I was dead. Maybe it was better that way.
So I stayed in Lagos.
Started from the dirt.
I lived in a church shelter for months, doing odd jobs washing clothes, sweeping, helping in the kitchen. I didn't complain. I was breathing, and that was enough.
Eventually, I saved enough to rent a tiny room in Agege. One window. No fan. But it was mine.
Sometimes, I still woke up in a sweat, the scent of heavy cologne and sweat clinging to my skin like a curse.