Across from the circle of murderers, their victim burning in the middle, Amaka and Chioma stared at each other. The crowd heaved while the body crackled and dripped burning fat.
The boy who pointed Chioma out melted into the crowd and Amaka stood alone in the midst of killers and accomplices, her mind in a swirl that drowned out the noises and blurred everything except Chioma standing unapologetically on the other side.
Amaka wanted to look at the body, at the kill, but she kept her eyes locked on Chioma, as if there was a danger of losing her; as if Chioma would merge with the crowd and become as faceless as the other killers.
Chioma began to move, edging her way through the bodies. Her eyes and Amaka’s remained locked. Amaka moved with her on the other side, pushing her way through, then she turned, and with her shoulders and her elbows, she cut a path through the crowd.
Amaka stepped out of the mass and walked to the Prius. She got into the driver’s seat and closed the door, shutting out the fumes and muffling the noise.
Chioma broke through the crowd and the two women looked at each other through the windscreen. Chioma climbed in the passenger side, shut the door, folded her hands across her body, and stared out of her window.
Amaka sat in silence, watching, but Chioma kept staring out the window. Amaka texted Ibrahim: ‘I was wrong. Chioma didn’t come to Oshodi. She’s not here. She was never here.’ She clicked send and looked at Chioma, then inserted the key in the ignition. ‘You realise you’re now a murderer,’ she said.
Amaka pulled out onto the road, used her horn to clear a path in the crowd, then turned around and drove the wrong way like other motorists were doing to avoid the inconvenience of the lynching.