My dad was already outside, seated in the truck, the engine humming softly in the quiet night. Everything was packed, loaded, ready to go—as if our entire lives could be neatly boxed up and carried away without a trace.
I stepped outside, the crisp night air biting at my skin. The house loomed behind me, dark and hollow, stripped of the warmth of familiarity. Just another empty shell we were leaving behind.
I clutched my bag a little tighter, my feet hesitating on the porch. A strange feeling stirred in my chest, something restless, something uncertain.
With a slow breath, I pushed it down and forced myself forward, moving toward the truck. The weight of the night pressed around me as I climbed inside, closing the door behind me.
As the engine rumbled, I stole one last glance at the house, my stomach twisting with an unease I couldn't quite explain.
The ride was quiet, the hum of the truck filling the silence like an unspoken truth no one dared to say. The road stretched endlessly ahead, darkness swallowing everything behind us.
Then, my mother broke the silence. "Don't worry, Dara. You'll love Lagos. And hopefully, you'll make friends this time."
Friends?
I scoffed under my breath. "Friends, huh?" The word felt foreign in my tongue, like something I was never meant to have.
How could I make friends when every kid my age looked at me like I was some kind of freak? When their eyes widened in unease the moment they noticed mine—those unnatural, cursed purple irises that set me apart, marked me as different.
Weirdo. Outcast. Strange, they always say.
I had heard it all before. I had seen it in their whispers, in the way they stared just a little too long, in the way they avoided my gaze like I was something wrong.
So no, I didn't believe her.
Lagos wouldn't change anything.
Because no matter where we went, I would still be me.
My mother always told me I was born this way. That there was nothing wrong with me. That my violet eyes were just… unique.
But every time I asked her why—why I was so different, why no one else had eyes like mine—she never gave me a real answer. Just a soft smile, a hand on my cheek, and a change of subject.
I remember the last time we had that conversation.
It was late. The house was quiet, shadows flickering against the walls from the dim glow of the bedside lamp. I was younger then, small enough to curl up beside her, my head resting against her lap. I had looked up at her, searching for something—an explanation, a truth I didn't even know I needed.
"Mama, why do I look like this?" I asked, my fingers brushing against my eyelids as if I could erase the color. "Why am I not… normal?"
She had sighed, her gaze distant, as though she were looking at something beyond me, something I couldn't see. Then, she stroked my hair and whispered, "You are the first of your kind, dara. And you are very special. You must always remember that."
The words had settled in my chest, warm yet heavy, filling me with both comfort and confusion.
The first of my kind? What did that even mean?
I wanted to ask, to press her for more, but even back then, I had sensed the weight of something unspoken.
And now, sitting in the truck as we drove into the unknown, I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever secret she had been keeping—whatever truth she had been hiding—was about to catch up with us.
Almost four hours into the ride, the truck rumbled toward a police checkpoint—the last one before we entered Lagos. Flashlights cut through the darkness, bright beams slicing across the road like searching eyes.
The truck slowed to a stop.
A uniformed officer stepped forward, his face shadowed under the dim glow of the streetlights. He rapped his knuckles against the window, his voice calm but firm. "Can you all come down, please?"
My mother's fingers twitched against her lap before she turned to me. "Honey, stay in the car." Her voice was steady, but there was something in her eyes—something uneasy.
I watched as she and my father stepped out, their movements tense, careful.
The officer's gaze flicked toward me through the windshield. He straightened, then repeated, this time with an edge to his voice. "I said, all of you."
My mother stiffened. "It's cold, officer. "I don't want her to catch a cold. Her voice was light, almost too casual, but I could hear it—the thin thread of desperation woven between her words.
The officer didn't budge.
"Out of the car. Now."
A heavy silence settled between them, thick and suffocating.
My heart pounded against my ribs.
I hesitated, fingers hovering over the door handle. The air inside the truck suddenly felt suffocating, thick with something I couldn't name.
Slowly, I pushed the door open and stepped out. The night air bit at my skin as I lifted my head—only to find the officer staring straight at me.
The moment his gaze locked onto mine, his entire body went rigid. His breath hitched, his eyes widening in what looked like shock—or fear.
Then, just as quickly, he staggered back a step.
I barely had time to process his reaction before he did something that sent a shiver crawling down my spine.
He apologized.
Directly to me.
His voice trembled as he spoke, his hands twitching at his sides like he didn't know whether to salute or kneel. He barely spared my parents another glance before turning sharply to my father, motioning him toward the corner.
I watched as they stepped away, their voices hushed, their words slipping just beyond my reach.
My father's shoulders tensed, his head nodding slightly at whatever the officer was saying.
Something wasn't right.
The unease slithered up my spine, coiling tight in my chest. My fists clenched at my sides as I tried to make sense of what was happening—why the officer had reacted that way, why my father suddenly looked so grave.
Then—
"Go back inside the truck, honey."
My mother's voice cut through my thoughts like a blade, sharp and unwavering.
I turned to her, but she wasn't looking at me. Her gaze was fixed on my father, on the tense conversation happening just a few feet away.
And at that moment, I knew—
Whatever was happening wasn't just unusual.
It was dangerous.
Frustration burned in my chest as I yanked the truck door shut behind me. My hands clenched into fists on my lap, my pulse still racing from the officer's reaction.
Something was off. I knew it.
A minute later, my parents climbed back in. My father's expression was unreadable, but his grip on the steering wheel was tight, his knuckles white against the leather. The truck lurched forward, rolling back onto the road, but the tension in the air sat heavy, suffocating.
I couldn't hold it in any longer. "Dad, what did the officer say?"