A Dynasty of Deceit

Chapter Five: Running Without Moving

They didn’t run that night, not because they lacked courage, but because they knew better. Zayn and Adanna weren’t naive lovers swept away by passion, they were children of dynasties, forged in fire and deception, taught that the world did not forgive rebellion easily, especially not when it came wrapped in forbidden love and political consequence, so instead of fleeing into the night like desperate fugitives, they met in silence beneath the baobab tree that stood on the edge of the Maduako estate, shielded by darkness and the sound of waves crashing beyond the gates, their fingers interlocked like broken promises holding each other together, and whispering fragments of plans and stolen futures while pretending, for a few stolen minutes, that the world beyond them didn’t exist, “I want to disappear,” Adanna whispered and Zayn, who had built his entire life around the concept of emerging, not disappearing, looked at her and said, “We won't vanish, Adanna. We will take everything,” and she stared at him, uncertain if he meant the world or her heart or both, but nodded anyway, because she believed in his fire more than she believed in anything else.

The following days passed like a storm held back by glasses full of danger waiting to shatter loose, and while Lagos moved forward with its usual traffic and noise. Zayn and Adanna began building a plan beneath it all. They got burner phones, new IDs, bank accounts registered under aliases, a series of exit routes, safehouses in Ibadan, Port Harcourt, even Ghana if needed because if they were going to run, they were going to do it on their terms, not as prey but as ghosts, untouchable and untraceable.

Meanwhile, the engagement preparations doubled, with the Maduakos and Ojukwus moving like armies preparing for a coronation. Guest lists swelled, designers were flown in, traditional rites were announced in newspapers, and Tobe, ever the polished heir, was everywhere, giving speeches, posing for photographers, holding Adanna’s waist like a possession he’d already claimed, while she perfected the art of smiling through agony, her mind always elsewhere, always with Zayn. He watched from a distance, his heart bleeding but his mind sharper than ever, knowing that time was their only real enemy, that every day brought them closer to a point of no return, and so he worked faster by liquidating portions of his company, securing cryptocurrency transfers, converting assets into physical gold and offshore bonds, all while keeping Kelechi in the dark and smiling through every investor call as if nothing beneath the surface was cracking and his team noticed the shift. Zayn, who was once composed and methodical, now worked with feverish urgency, his eyes grew darker, as though he knew something was coming, and they were right. The first warning came not from the Maduakos, but from Amara, his mother, who showed up at his Yaba flat one morning unannounced. Her hands trembled while clutching a newspaper with a headline he hadn’t seen yet "Ojukwu-Maduako Merger to Birth Nigeria’s First Family of Power," and below it, a photo of Adanna and Tobe, smiling like royalty, her hand held out to display a massive ring Zayn had never seen before “She’s gone,” Amara said with fear, “You need to let her go before you get yourself killed,” and Zayn, who had spent his whole life letting go of things he loved, his father’s name, his childhood, his peace, shook his head and said, “I’d rather die than watch them take her too,” and Amara slapped him hard, her voice cracked as she screamed, “Then you will die, Zayn, because they don’t just take, they erase!” and that was the first time he saw her break, the strength she had carried for decades now leaking out of her in sobs as she collapsed onto the couch and whispered, “Don’t do this. Don’t make my pain your legacy,” but it was too late. Zayn’s heart was already in the fire, and nothing short of death would pull it out.

Days later, Adanna sent a single message. It was encrypted and buried in a shared Dropbox folder named after a Yoruba proverb which simply read, “Next Friday. 2AM. Oshodi terminal. No phone. No looking back.” and Zayn stared at those words as if they were scripture, because they were not a plan, but a covenant. The week crawled like a condemned man to the gallows, each day heavier than the last, and Zayn spent it preparing meticulously. He was closing out accounts, transferring equity to dummy directors, writing a final letter to Kelechi disguised as an investment briefing, and then, hardest of all, telling Amara goodbye. She refused at first, begging him to stay, to fight in the light, to take down the Maduakos legally, to use the system he had mastered instead of risking everything for a woman whose blood was laced with tradition and betrayal, but when she saw he had already chosen, already packed, already closed the door in his heart to everything else, she held him and wept, not because she believed he would die, but because she feared he would win and lose himself in the process.

In the night of the escape, Lagos was unusually quiet, the streets were empty, the moon too was bright, as if the city itself was holding its breath, and Zayn arrived at the terminal early, waiting in the shadow of an old bus stand, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, a small pistol tucked into the back of his pants just in case. Minutes haspassed, then an hour, then two, and just when he thought she wasn’t coming, a cab pulled up and there she was. Adanna, hooded, no makeup, she was wearing jeans and sneakers and holding nothing but a single backpack and a passport, her eyes wide with fear and fire, and they didn’t speak as she reached for his hand and he pulled her close, whispering, “You’re late,” and she replied, “You waited,” and in that moment, it felt real, not like a dream but like a war they had already decided to win together.

They boarded a private minibus bound for Ibadan, booked under a name Zayn had created months ago, and as it rolled away into the dark, neither of them looked back because the life they left behind wasn’t life at all, just illusion and obligation stitched together by other people’s ambitions. They spent three days in Ibadan, hiding in an apartment above a butcher’s shop, eating instant noodles and listening to the hum of generators laughing like children when the power came on, crying quietly when it went off. They hold each other in the dark as if their bodies were the only place left untouched by betrayal, for people like them, was never meant to last, and on the fourth morning, while Zayn went out to buy airtime from a nearby kiosk, a black SUV pulled up to the building and Adanna’s scream split the sky.