A WRONG TURN
Rome was supposed to feel like freedom, and for a while, it did. As the plane touched down, I pressed my forehead lightly against the window and whispered a soft prayer under my breath. It wasn't dramatic, just a quiet "Thank you." That moment carried the weight of years of longing, of nights spent wondering if I would ever escape the shadows of my past.
I needed this—a new country, a new beginning, a new version of myself. When my answered prayer came in the form of a scholarship, I didn't just accept it, I clung to it like it was my lifeline. Nigeria had too many memories, too many ghosts that surfaced whenever I tried to sleep. My coming to Rome felt like divine alignment, and for a few days, it truly was.
My neighbors were kind, a sweet old Italian couple who embodied beauty and love in old age. They smiled often, and when our accents tangled, they spoke slowly, patiently, as though language itself was a bridge we were building together. My apartment was modest but cozy, with walls that seemed to hold warmth even in silence. I visited church, and oh, what a wonderful experience it was. I ended up crying without really knowing why—perhaps a bit dramatic, but for the first time in a long while, I felt like I could truly breathe. Peace felt unfamiliar, but it was welcome.
On the fifth evening, I decided to walk home from church instead of taking a taxi. The air was cool, the night carried a different beauty, and the city seemed alive in ways I hadn't yet discovered. I could smell baked bread wafting from a distant bakery, and the rich aroma of which I now know to be espresso lingered in the air. Distracted by my favorite playlist playing through my headphones, I took a turn I thought I recognized.
I didn't.
At first, it wasn't dramatic—just quieter. The buildings grew older, the streetlights dimmer, and the comfortable hum of the city faded into something hollow. I slowed my steps, whispering to no one in particular, "This is still the way, right?"
A faint sound echoed ahead—a low, strained groan. I froze. My first instinct, like any normal person's, was to turn back. But my second instinct, the one that always got me into trouble, whispered curiosity: What if someone needed help?
The alley wasn't completely dark. A single flickering light buzzed overhead, undecided whether to stay alive or die. I took another careful step forward, then another. The metallic smell reached me first, sharp and unmistakable. My heart pounded before my mind could process what I was seeing.
A man knelt on the ground. Another loomed over him.
The kneeling man looked weak, barely upright, his shirt soaked in blood. The man standing over him was calm—too calm. He was tall, still, every movement measured and deliberate. The moonlight brushed across his face, highlighting sharp cheekbones and cold eyes that held no panic, only calculation.
My breath hitched. I knew I should have turned away, but I couldn't. I was transfixed. The kneeling man spat blood onto the other's shoe. The standing man exhaled slowly, irritated more than angry. Then, with chilling precision, he drew a gun.
Everything slowed. The world narrowed. All I could do was stare at the steady hands holding the weapon. Then he pulled the trigger. It wasn't like the movies—it was louder, clearer, more violent. The sound tore through the night, rousing memories I would rather not recall.
My ears rang instantly. The kneeling man's body collapsed forward, lifeless, hitting the ground with a dull finality that twisted my stomach. For a split second, the world stilled. Then my scream tore through the silence. I hadn't meant it—it just escaped. The shooter's head snapped toward me. Our eyes met. His brows furrowed in confusion before hardening.
I stumbled backward under the weight of his stare. Finally, sense returned—I ran. I ran like my life depended on it, because it did. But footsteps followed. Not rushed, but fast, controlled. That terrified me even more. A hand grabbed my arm, strong and unyielding. I tried to scream again, but his other hand covered my mouth, immobilizing me.
"Wrong place," he muttered near my ear, low and calm, almost regretful. "Wrong time."
He dragged me toward a car parked inconspicuously behind a building. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat screaming for escape. Before I could fight, before I could plead, he injected me with a syringe in the space between my shoulder and neck. Cold liquid burned through my veins and before darkness could swallow me whole the last thought running through my mind was "all I wanted was peace"