A man stepped out. He looked too clean for the compound, too expensive—like the kind of person who didn’t belong near cracked walls and rusted zinc roofs. He wore a bright white caftan that looked freshly ironed.
A red cap sat on his head like a crown.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t look confused. He looked like he came for something—and he would not leave without it.
Two hefty security guards stepped out behind him. Both dark-skinned Nigerian men, tall and wide, with faces that looked like stone. They scanned the compound left and right like hunting dogs.
Claraara’s neighbors backed away like the air suddenly became dangerous.
Claraara swallowed. Her fingers trembled as she pulled the curtain aside and stepped out.
The man’s eyes locked onto her immediately.
He took two steps forward, slow and calm. The security guards followed like shadows. Claraara’s throat dried up. She tried to speak, but her voice hid inside her chest.
The man stopped in front of her and said in a steady tone, “Excuse me?”
Claraara nodded quickly, her eyes wide.
He stared at her like he was checking if she was real. Then he asked, “Are you Claraara?”
Claraara’s heart skipped. How did he know her name?
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