WATER...

I waited, tired and out of breath. I could still hear some gunshots in the far distance. I broke into another sprint, running blindly in the forest under thick darkness. A million thistle pricks and scratches left my body on fire. 

Suddenly, I heard footsteps. In the darkness,I could make out a figure moving a few feet from me Another passenger? One of the robbers? The figure kept moving further away into the forest. I followed. The figure ran. I pursued, using both hands to clear the twigs and branches in my path. I heard a loud thud. And a female shriek pierced the night. 

The figure now lay before me, writhing in pains. As I approached, she was screaming,'No! No!' 'Quiet!' I said, trying to keep my voice down. She stopped screaming,but her tearful sniffs were still audible. 'Were you in the bus?' I asked.

 'Yes.'

 She broke into sobs. 

'Are you hurt?' 

'Slightly,'she replied,trying to get up. 

'We must keep running,'I told her,helping her up. 

'They may be coming after us.' 

We must have ran for another two hours before succumbing to weariness. I was awoken by the blinding noonday sun. My whole body ached terribly. My throat was dry. I struggled up, looked around and despair set in. For all I could see were cassava plants. Covering hectares from where I stood. I heard some rustling and turned. 

Then,I saw her. Lanky. Dark-skinned. Torn clothes. A frown distorting her pretty face.

'Nothing,'she said. 

'What?'I asked, confused. 

'Nothing to eat. Nothing to drink. I woke up early and went to search. Nothing but cassava roots.' 'Then let's get going. I hope we reach a village or something,'I said, looking around in disbelief. 

Her name was Lola. She was going back to Lagos for the Christmas holidays. She had entered Onitsha from her school in Owerri that evening and decided to take the night bus. And she was sitting directly in front of me. Third row. 

'How did you manage to slip into the bush?'I asked her,albeit rhetorically.

'The robbers could have shot you!'

'Or me...'I softly added.

It was night before we got to a settlement. An array of mud huts with light emanating from some windows. We approached the first hut. A woman sat in front, plaiting her daughter's hair. On seeing us, she froze. She called her husband who came out, cutlass in hand. We struggled to narrate our story. 

Hungry. Thirsty. Delirious. 

Only four words in our story made sense. 'Bus'. 'Lagos'. 'Thieves'. 'Run'. 

Maybe they understood. I could hear them embracing us in sympathy. 

My legs felt too heavy. 

I fell. 

As I lay on the cool sandy soil, my parched lips contorted in gratitude, only one thought was on my mind: 

Water.