Dele made her understand the consequences of her dilemma. They won’t believe you. No one will. Your story is a hard sell, Shakira, dump it. With such a tale, most people will think you’re crazy, babe.
On and on he went about the tight corner she pushed herself into. She hated the way he called her “babe” and wanted to understand his problem about her dilemma but couldn’t.
“This is my main problem. This is not America. Not even close. Nigeria is like a graveyard. Nothing is happening, yet my best opportunity is right here.” He paced. “How will I convince you otherwise? I am not a bad person, and I mean no harm.” He sighed. “But this is my chance. I finally got my chance!”
With tears in her eyes, she asked what he needed her to do.
“The plan is simple. Play along. Read your Bible, pray every day.” His singsong tone rankled. “Then we’ll be fine. I will not hurt you. I have sisters about your age.”
She remembered how little he thought of his sisters, and trembled.
“But listen well, Shakira, if you speak to anyone about our plan, I’ll hurt you. The American embassy is far from here, and you may not be lucky a second time to find a police officer as good as Dauda.”
He’d said so earlier, and for him to repeat this meant he was not joking around. She would be free of him soon, but she didn’t want to get hurt before she was free. She now had a new focus: to be free to return home. It wasn’t as difficult as what brought her all the way here. As long as she didn’t derail from Dele’s plan, she could be free in a few days.
“Now, let’s plan today.”
The door was still locked, and her seized property was still in his custody. She lowered herself to the bed, afraid her knees would not hold, with her hands folded on her lap, and her back straight like a school child about to be given the riot act.
“The pastor comes to see us soon. Since we now have an agreement to do this together, we will not give him an audience. Helps with the suspense. Now,” he rubbed his hands, “tonight is going to be big. We will both preach. I will give you a scripture to read and prepare a short message on. Tonight they will take an offering for us, so we must pray for the people. Have you seen how praying is done before?”
She shook her head. Her heart beat faster. This was worse than being with Glory in the brothel or visiting Mo in the ghetto in Houston. It couldn’t be compared to any form of fear she’d ever experienced.
“You place your hand on the forehead. Don’t push. You can mumble. Say God bless you, or anything at all.”
She closed her eyes. God would never forgive her for this. She was doomed to hell.
“Are you listening, Shakira?”
She nodded.
“After the prayers, we will close the service. I can do this. We will ask for the money raised if they don’t give it to us straight up.”
“When you have the money, can I leave? Go back to Lagos, and to my home?”
“It depends on how much they give us.”
How could he? Her eyes popped open. “You said you’d be fine once you had the money.”
“If the money is enough, we leave together. You can go back to your country—”
“How much do you expect?”
“Enough.” He glared at her, and she returned his gaze. “And you don’t need to ask me how much because I don’t know.”
She jerked her face away from him. He was worse than any criminal she ever knew. There was no justification for what he did and made her agree to.
“Listen to me, Shakira. I’m not going to go over this with you anymore. Play your part and you will be fine.” He went back on his knees and scribbled on the piece of paper she’d left for him. “Study this scripture.”
She didn’t remember having a Bible when she left home, but now they both held one each. She wondered what lies he told to get them because he didn’t have money to buy the Bibles. This was the worst kind of fraud. She doubted she’d ever come to terms with it.
Shakira stared at what he’d written on the paper: 1 Peter 3:11. She had no clue where it was in the Bible and had to go to the contents page.
She sat on her side of the bed and read the verse over and over again. Why would he choose such a verse? It meant nothing to her. She didn’t want to ask him what he thought of it, so she read the whole chapter to get a better understanding.
Each scripture seemed to jar her. She heard voices at the back of her mind, asserting her, encouraging her to focus on God and let Him touch her. The Bible in her hand burned and sweat broke out all over her body.
Dele continued to shake and mumble on his knees. He didn’t notice something was happening to her. She slid to her knees and clutched her stomach. Her life played out before her and tears dropped from her eyes to the floor. Was she having an encounter? And if she was, shouldn’t she face her fears and tell the truth? It would take only a few days if the money was enough.
She didn’t want any money. She only wanted to do right. She sobbed for a long time. When she had thought she was hungry for food it passed. Now there was a new hunger in her and an anger against what Dele was putting her through.
She begged God’s forgiveness and healing of all her anger against Him, her husband, and even Florence Odu. It was time to move on.
At peace with herself, she clutched the Bible to her chest and waited for Dele to be done. She decided she would not share any more of her fears or faith. Once he got the money he needed, and she was back in Lagos, she would send a message to Detective Dauda and report everything. The policeman would know what to do about his friend’s fraudulent activities.
Sometime later in the day, Dele opened the door and asked the lady from the church to serve food. Shakira overheard him tell her they just finished praying and wanted to break their fast. All well, she thought. Since she had read from the Bible, she hadn’t been hungry.
They were served pepper soup, which was so hot and spicy she couldn’t take more than a sip. Then a dish of stir-fried rice was served. But it didn’t taste as spicy as she assumed, and she ate enough to fill her stomach.
After the meal, Dele asked, “Would you like to freshen up? They should be here to pick us up in an hour or so.”
She shook her head. “No, thanks.”
He started to say something, but his phone rang, and he picked it up. She realized after a few words exchanged that it was his detective friend, but they spoke his local language, and she didn’t understand a word of it. The conversation was intense by the sound of Dele’s voice, and several times he paused for long minutes.
Finally, he hung up.
“Shakira, it’s Detective Dauda.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Things have changed a little bit. I told him what we are doing now, and he said we must continue, like undercover. The police in Lagos have information on your—the woman, Florence Odu. She’s headed to Efayaw and will be here any moment now.”