The air of the dead city hit him like a physical blow. After the sealed, musty silence of the tailor's shop, the open street felt vast and terrifyingly exposed. The rain had stopped completely, and the jaundiced sky seemed to press down on him, the light thick and syrupy. Every sound was sharp and distinct: the drip of water from a broken gutter, the whisper of wind through a shattered window, the soft, sloshing sound of the water in the containers he carried. He was a snail without its shell, a creature of the darkness forced into the open.
He stood for a moment in the doorway of the tailor's shop, his eyes scanning the street. It was empty. A ghost town. But he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that it was not deserted. It was a hunting ground, and he was now the prey.
The journey required a new kind of calculus. He couldn't carry everything at once. The toolbox was too heavy, the water containers too awkward. He would have to move in stages, a painstaking process of leapfrogging his precious cargo from one island of shadow to the next.
He took the two water containers first, his most vital prize. He scurried across the street, his body low to the ground, and deposited them in the deep, concealing darkness of a recessed doorway. He then sprinted back, his own footsteps echoing unnervingly in the quiet, and retrieved the red toolbox, moving it to the same spot. It was a slow, agonizing process. Each trip across the open street was a roll of the dice, a fresh invitation for a predator's eye to fall upon him. The hundred yards to the corner of his own street felt like a hundred miles.
He was halfway there, hunched behind a burned-out car, about to make another run for the toolbox, when he heard it. Voices. Coming from the direction of his building.
He dropped flat to the ground, pressing his body into the grit and grime of the pavement, his heart hammering against the concrete. He risked a peek around the edge of the car's rusted fender.
Two of Jago's men had emerged from the compound. It was Small-Boy, the jumpy one, and another, broader man with a thick beard. They were carrying the limp, empty sack that had held the goat and were heading for the large refuse bins at the end of the alley. They were laughing, their voices sharp and loud in the quiet air, still flush with the success of their feast.
Adekunle's blood ran cold. The alley. They were heading for the alley—the only way he could get back into his own building undetected. He was trapped. He watched as they reached the bins, which were already overflowing with weeks of refuse. They dumped the sack, then lingered, the bearded man lighting a crudely rolled cigarette, its smoke a thin, grey plume in the yellow air.
They were talking, their conversation drifting down the street.
"Jago is in a black mood," the bearded man said, taking a deep drag. "The gin is almost finished."
"He is always in a black mood," Small-Boy replied, his voice still holding its nervous edge. "But the meat was good, eh?"
"The meat was good," the man agreed. "But it will not last forever. We need to find a real score. Something with drinks. This place is picked clean."
They stood there for what felt like an eternity, their casual conversation a form of exquisite torture for the boy hiding a hundred feet away. Adekunle lay pressed to the ground, every muscle screaming with the need to move, to run, but he was pinned down. He thought of Funke, alone, waiting, her fever perhaps rising again. The desperation was a physical, metallic taste in his mouth.
Finally, the bearded man flicked his cigarette butt into a puddle. "Come. Let's not leave Jago waiting."
They turned and walked back toward the compound, their laughter fading as they disappeared back inside.
The moment they were gone, Adekunle moved. He didn't wait. He didn't hesitate. He grabbed the toolbox and ran, a low, desperate scramble that was fueled by pure adrenaline. He reached the mouth of the alley and plunged into its familiar, refuse-choked darkness. The smell was overpowering, a thick stench of rot and decay that made his eyes water. He didn't care. The darkness was his friend. It was safety.
He reached the section of corrugated iron fence he and his uncle had bent open what felt like a lifetime ago. The opening was still there. He pushed the toolbox and the water containers through the gap one by one, then squeezed through after them, the metal scraping against his back.
He was back in the yard. His own yard. The smell of the roasting fire still lingered in the air, a greasy, taunting ghost. He could hear the low murmur of the gang's voices from the open window of the ground-floor flat. They were so close.
He crouched in the shadow of the back wall, his heart pounding a deafening rhythm in his ears. This was the final hurdle. He had to cross the open yard, get to the back door of the stairwell, and begin the silent, treacherous climb.
He took the water containers first, one in each hand. He moved like a creature of the night, his steps whisper-soft on the packed earth, his body a low, fleeting shadow. He reached the stairwell door and gently set the containers down. He turned to go back for the toolbox.
As he did, a shaft of candlelight fell across the yard. The door of Jago's flat had opened.
Adekunle threw himself flat against the building's foundation, pressing his body into the narrow space behind a large terracotta pot that had once held one of his aunt's prized ferns. He held his breath, his cheek pressed against the cold, damp concrete.
It was Ikenna. He stumbled out into the yard, a half-empty bottle of gin in his hand, his movements unsteady. He was muttering to himself, his words slurred. He walked to the center of the yard, not ten feet from where Adekunle was hiding, and began to relieve himself against the back wall, his dark shape silhouetted against the light from the open door.
Adekunle's world shrank to a single, terrifying point. He was utterly exposed. If Ikenna turned his head, if his gaze swept the yard for even a second, he would be seen. The tyre iron was with the toolbox, twenty feet away. The only weapon he had was the sharpened file tucked into his belt, and the monstrous, sleeping strength in his hands. He felt it stir, coiling in his muscles, a predator sensing a threat, ready to be unleashed. He fought it down, his mind screaming No! Not now! Not here! The noise of a confrontation would bring the whole pack. Stealth was his only weapon.
Ikenna finished, zipping up his trousers with a clumsy, fumbling motion. He took another long pull from the bottle of gin. He stood there for a long moment, his back to Adekunle, staring up at the sickly yellow sky as if it held some profound answer. Then, with a grunt, he turned and staggered back inside, pulling the door shut behind him and plunging the yard back into darkness.
Adekunle didn't move for a full minute. He lay on the ground, his body trembling, every muscle locked tight. The monster inside him slowly, reluctantly, went back to sleep.
He finally pushed himself up and retrieved the toolbox, his movements now frantic with a new, desperate urgency. He brought it back to the stairwell door. He had everything. The key was at the lock.
He slipped inside the stairwell, pulling the door closed behind him. He didn't use the keys this time. He braced the door shut with the tyre iron, wedging it under the handle. It was a temporary measure, but it would have to do.
He looked up the dark, spiraling abyss of the stairs. He was exhausted, his body aching, his hands raw and bleeding. But he had the water.
He took the containers first, leaving the toolbox at the bottom. He would come back for it later. He began the climb, his legs heavy as lead. He moved on pure, unthinking instinct, his body a machine programmed with a single command: get to the third floor.
He reached their landing and gave the signal—three soft, distinct taps on the door. He waited, his ear pressed against the cool wood. He heard a faint scraping sound from the other side as his aunt moved to the door.
The locks began to turn, the soft, oiled clicks a beautiful, welcoming symphony. The door swung open, and he saw his aunt's face in the darkness, her eyes wide with a relief so profound it was like a physical light.
He stumbled inside, setting the water containers down on the floor with a heavy, final thud. He leaned against the closed door, his legs finally giving out, and slid to the floor.
Funke crawled over to the water, her hands stroking the cool, smooth plastic of the containers as if they were holy relics. She looked at him, her eyes shining with tears.
"You came back," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.
"I told you I would," he replied, his own voice thick.
He looked at the water, then at his aunt, then at the sealed door of their fortress. He was exhausted, terrified, and haunted by the thing that lived inside him. But in that moment, none of it mattered.
He was home. And he had brought the rain with him.