Sleep caught up with Shakira all the same, and she came awake about three hours later. She attributed it to fatigue. She was anxious and sad, and her roommate offered no comfort. She sat up and stared at him for a few seconds, then rushed to use the bathroom.
When she returned, he was still in the kneeling position, his hands clasped on his forehead, which shook with a fast left-to-right movement. She couldn’t make sense of anything he was saying because he spoke another language. Was he praying in his local dialect?
After her resolve to return home, she felt lighter than she’d been in all the months since her tragedy struck. The stress of fighting back lifted, and she stifled a giggle. She missed her tacos and strawberries. She didn’t belong here.
No need to waste any more time. Home was what she longed for. She picked up her cell phone from the floor and flung it in her bag. Since Dele didn’t seem interested in her final decision, and would probably ignore her till she left, she figured she’d have to talk to the pastor herself. He should be more sympathetic and would be grateful she didn’t deceive him into taking all the money from his poor congregants.
Shakira took her bath and wore one of her simple dresses. Judging from the strenuous journey from Lagos, she knew she couldn’t leave Efayaw immediately. The following morning, however, would be good.
Dele continued to mumble and spurt out inaudible words on his knees, and she considered leaving a note for him out of respect. She tore a sheet off her notepad and scribbled an excuse, which she placed on the open Bible in front of him before she picked up her bag and luggage.
“Goodbye,” she muttered, and opened the door.
At first, she thought the hinge was hooked. Then she realized the handle didn’t budge. The door was locked. Her reaction was slow as she tried to process what could be wrong. Earlier, Dele had walked through this door without difficulty. Could they have been locked in after he returned? Did he know about it?
She stared at his ridiculous profile, muttering gibberish and shaking his head copiously.
“Dele! The door is not opening.”
He didn’t respond. She opened her bag to check the time and noticed her phone was off. Something was wrong because her battery had been charged before she went to sleep. She switched it on, but it wouldn’t boot up.
“Dele. Dele!”
He stopped shaking. “Yes?”
“The door is not opening, and I need to leave.”
His tone was even. “As you can see, I am praying. I will call the church to let them know there’s a problem with the door when I’m finished.”
“When will this be?”
He shrugged. “As the Lord leads me.” He promptly resumed the theatrics.
Shakira took in several deep breaths. She could wait him out. If she had the pastor’s phone number, she would call by herself, but she didn’t. To take her mind off his annoying rambling, she took her cell phone from her bag, remembered it was off, and proceeded to charge the battery.
Nigeria’s electricity sucked. There hadn’t been once since she arrived that it wasn’t out for several hours a day, so she made sure her battery was full when there was power. She plugged the charger and discovered the battery wasn’t even in the phone. No one had to tell her what this was about. She never took her battery out.
She tapped Dele. “Give back my battery and open the door. Now.”
Dele stopped his noise and narrowed his eyes. “Oh, you figured it out.”
Warning bells rang in her ears. “How dare you! You think you can stop me, get away with this crime?”
“I may not stop you, but I can pause you.” He corked his neck. “And I have right now.” He pulled the key and her battery out of his pocket. She reached out to take them, but he withdrew just in time. “Not so, my dear.”
“What do you want?”
“I need you to stay.”
She clasped her hand over her mouth to curb her sob. “You’ve kidnapped me.”
“Kidnapped?” He chuckled. “What a word to describe our situation.” He lifted himself off the floor. “You arrested me and took me away from my home.”
“How?” she cried. “You had no home. You were just looking for who to hang your senseless life onto.”
“And I found you.”
She sniffed. “You won’t get away with this. You think you’re smart—”
“I am smart.”
She moved around to stand right in front of him. “Give me the key. And my battery.” When he folded his arms across his chest, she screeched, “Give me!”
“Lower your voice, Mrs. Thomson. We have company in the house.” He breathed in. “And you don’t want to upset her.”
“I don’t care who gets upset. Let me out!”
“Screaming at me will not solve your problem. You see, Nigerians may be anything to Americans, but we are also believers. We believe most things we are told.” He leaned against the wall and studied her. “Especially when it comes to your people and your weird diseases.” He rubbed his hands. “I will tell them you have a mental problem. It comes on you every now and then. They will believe it’s why I had to lock the door, so you won’t run into the streets. They will feel sorry for me and be extra sympathetic.”
She moaned. Her situation became clear. This man was a sociopath. From anger and pain at her loss, she now felt helpless. She thought of the many movies she’d seen and how a desperate woman would end up in the bunker of some deranged “nice” man’s house.
She shuddered. “You’re not going to hurt me, please.”
“I won’t. Unless you are not ready to deal.”