The ride across Lagos felt longer than it should have.
Shina sat in the back seat of the Uber with his hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had turned pale. The driver had the radio playing quietly, some late-evening Afrobeats program, but Shina barely heard it. His attention kept drifting back to the same place again and again.
His phone.
The message was still there.
Tonight. Location coming soon.
Then the second message.
Address.
He had read them so many times that the words were starting to feel unreal. Like they belonged to someone else's life.
Outside the window, Lagos moved with its usual restless rhythm. Cars pushed through traffic with impatient horns. Street vendors held up bottled water and snacks to passing drivers. The glow of small shops spilled out onto the pavement in warm yellow light.
Everything looked normal.
But inside Shina, nothing felt normal.
