Just Stay Put and Trust Me

Just Stay Put and Trust Me
That Same Hour, A Different Location In Nigeria, Cynthia's POV...

The fan spun lazily overhead, pushing warm air around the cramped apartment. Cynthia sat curled up on a faded brown couch, her knees tucked under her, one hand balancing a steaming bowl of yam and potato porridge. The aroma of red oil, fresh scent leaves, and pepper lingered in the air. The small TV in front of her flickered, half-muted as the local news played on.

Her eyes stared blankly at the screen, but her mind was elsewhere— worn down from weeks of laying low in this unfamiliar part of the world. It wasn’t home. But it was safe. For now.

Then the abrupt, jarring sound of the news channel's breaking bulletin jolted her out of her daze.

The scene on the television changed.

A newscaster appeared onscreen, dressed in a vibrant blue iro and buba, her hair braided tightly into neat rows. The woman’s expression was grave, her voice sharp and urgent.

“Breaking news!” she announced, “Carlos Antonia, the Trillionaire tycoon and head of the trillion-dollar aerospace company AX-Spaceline, has just been declared wanted by the United States government—”

Cynthia froze.

“—after a bloody incident at his private estate in the woods of Manhattan. The estate was raided the early hours of yesterday by federal agents. Reports confirm over two dozen casualties, including federal officers and private contractors. Carlos Antonia’s current location is unknown, but there are strong intel saying he's in Nigeria…”

Her jaw dropped.

The bowl of porridge slipped from her hands, landing on the glass center table with a dull clatter, nearly spilling over.

“This… this can’t be real,” she whispered, rising to her feet slowly, trembling.

Her brows pinched together in disbelief as she backed away from the television.

“No, no, no... this can’t be happening.”

The newscaster continued: “Authorities suspect that Antonia is hiding somewhere within the country, attempting to escape prosecution. Citizens are urged to report any suspicious movement—”

But Cynthia no longer heard her. Her mind drowned out everything else. Her knees wobbled beneath her as she backed against the wall, one hand on her chest.

“He’s here,” she gasped. “He’s in Nigeria.”

A cold shiver ran down her spine. Her breath caught. Panic took over.

She clutched at her pulse, then spun around. Her movements were sudden— jerky. She rushed to the small bedroom, yanked her purse off the nightstand, and sprinted out of the apartment without even locking the door behind her.

“I have to get a burner phone,” she muttered as she darted down the narrow, cracked corridors of the aging building. “I have to get a burner phone… I have to get a burner now—”

Her voice rose in pitch as fear coiled around her words. Her slippers slapped hard against the cement floor. Her eyes darted back and forth, scanning her surroundings as if Carlos might appear from the shadows at any moment.

She reached the streets of Agege— noisy, cluttered, alive.

Vendors shouted over each other. Keke drivers honked aggressively. The scent of roadside suya and diesel fumes clashed in the air.

Cynthia kept her head low, weaving past the crowd, her heart thudding in her ears.

From across the road, a massive shopping complex loomed into view, painted in red and cream, its sign barely hanging straight. Her eyes locked on it instantly.

That’s it.

Without hesitation, she crossed the street, dodging a danfo bus that screeched to a stop just inches away from her.

She didn’t flinch.

All that mattered was the phone.

Once inside the cool, air-conditioned lobby of the complex, she approached the front desk. A young woman in a polo shirt looked up at her.

“Please,” Cynthia said breathlessly, “Where can I find a burner phone?”

The receptionist blinked, confused for a second, then nodded. “Head to the East Wing, Section 10. You’ll find it there.”

“Thank you,” Cynthia said, already walking away.

Her footsteps echoed across the tiled floor as she made her way past clothing racks and phone accessories until she spotted the electronics section.

There— on a shelf labeled Basic Phones— sat a handful of cheap, plastic burner phones.

She snatched the black one.

At the checkout counter, she placed the phone down with a shaky hand.

“How much?” she asked.

“Eleven thousand naira, ma’am,” the man behind the counter replied.

Cynthia pulled a debit card from her purse and slid it toward him. “Charge it from here.”

The cashier nodded, made the transaction, and handed her a small polythene bag with the phone and receipt inside. “Thank you for patronizing us,” he said politely.

Cynthia didn’t answer. She took the bag, turned, and walked out the store.

The moment the glass doors closed behind her, she ripped the burner from its box, peeled the plastic off, and powered it on. Her fingers trembled as she typed in a number from memory.

One ring.

Two—

“Cynthia?” Ethan’s voice came through the line immediately. “Are you okay? Are you feeling unsafe?”

“Yes,” she said, voice cracking. “Yes, I am. Carlos is here. He’s in Nigeria. He knows. He must know I’m here.”

“What?” Ethan asked sharply. “How do you know that?”

“It’s all over the news,” Cynthia said, pacing now in front of the shopping mall entrance. “He’s here. They're saying he’s hiding.”

“Damn,” Ethan muttered. “Okay. Listen to me. Stay calm. Go back to your apartment. Lock the door. Stay off the radar. I’ll be with you in twenty-four hours. I’ll move you out safely.”

“Please hurry,” Cynthia whispered. “Please, Ethan. I don’t feel safe.”

“I will. I promise,” he said. “Just stay put and trust me.”

The call ended.

Cynthia stood there for a long second, eyes fixed on the ground. Then, she turned and hurried back through the busy street, clutching the bag tightly in her hand. Every step felt heavier, her skin prickling with paranoia.

Back in her apartment, she bolted the door shut. Pulled the curtains. And sat in the corner of the room, knees drawn to her chest.

She was breathing.

But it felt like drowning.