The Captor's Choice

Yesterday, an Arochukwu trader accused me of stealing and dragged me from my father's compound.
Until that moment, I was only Adaora Obidinma, the poor man's daughter who kept her head low and her hands clean.
No one cared that I swore I was innocent.
No one cared that my father begged until his voice broke.
They said I would be taken to face the Arochukwu Long Juju, and after that, my fate would no longer belong to me.
The trader who captured me was called Arinze Njoku.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and silent as a blade, he looked like the kind of man who had buried every soft thing inside himself.
I hated him for taking me.
I hated the rope around my wrists, the fear in my father's eyes, and the way everyone stepped aside when Arinze gave a command.
But the road to Arochukwu was long.
Too long.
Long enough for rain to trap us beneath leaking roofs.
Long enough for hunger, fear, and silence to wear down the hatred between us.
Long enough for me to see that the man taking me to judgment was not as cruel as he pretended to be.
I expected him to treat me like a thief.
Instead, he gave me food before he ate.
He loosened my bonds when no one was watching.
And when I stumbled from exhaustion, his hand caught me with a tenderness that frightened me more than his anger ever could.
I should have looked away.
I should have remembered that every step beside him carried me closer to the Long Juju.
But somewhere between the rain, the firelight, and the lonely road, my enemy became the only man I trusted.
Then he confessed the truth.
He knew I was not a thief.
He knew I had been set up.
And still, he delivered me to his father.
By then, I carried another secret he did not know.
A child.
His child.