Hey, everyone. I wrote this story over a year ago. Just went through it today and decided it was pretty neat. Read and let me know in the comments if you think I should build it up as a serial story (story that gets released like film episodes).
Lay low, go far away, start a new life, and never ever tell anyone whose son I was.
That was my plan as I boarded the bus. Where was the bus going? Far, far away. Far away from the place I had called home for a long time.
I was never a runner. But, damn, this time, they had actually killed me. They would do it again.
I sat in the back row, my cap low over my face and my aviator sunglasses on. Until we left that city, I wasn’t taking any off. My friend Dare, was dressed the same as me. We’d ditched our military pants for jeans and our windbreakers for plain T-shirts. His hat was black, mine was blue, our glasses were the same colour.
We didn’t want to be noticed, and we didn’t want anybody to recognize us.
We couldn’t trust anybody, not while we were still in this city.
It was a private bus, not many people could afford to pay so the bus was barely full when it left the park.
The bus was big. Big enough that we could each have a row of seats to ourselves. Even with that, people still crowded around us.
That was the thing about us. People could sense what we were. And it attracted them to us. That’s was how it was all the time.
I’ve spent most of my time around my fellow demigods, but when I was around non demigods, I could see and feel how they felt. There was this awe or admiration that, in Lagos, quickly turned to fear.
There are demigods in all of Yorubaland. Yorubaland was created by the gods and from time to time, they roam the earth in human form. That leisurely stroll usually results in half-god, half-human babies. From what we’ve been told, they do that so that our lineage remains strong and all that. All over Yorubaland, demigods live among mortals and we all live happily together.
I was brought up as a soldier. A warrior. A killing machine. And so were all the demigods in Lagos.
You see, Lagos was the smallest kingdom in all of Yorubaland but it prided itself in having the most white men and the strongest army. Every single soldier in the Lagos army was a demigod. Every last one.
We patrolled the streets, we dealt with crimes and we did some dirty work.
Demigods were a blessing to the land but in Lagos, the mortals had learnt to fear us.
I wondered what would happen if the people on this bus knew what we were.
Maybe they felt it, but didn’t really know.
Anyway, Dare and I were not going to let them find out.
Lay low, we had reminded each other several times. Don’t let them know who you are.
But we were two sixteen year olds. No luggage, going very far away. We looked suspicious.
“Fuck,” Dare whispered and slid down his chair. I did the same.
The bus had stopped and two men had gotten it. A closer look told me what was up. Although they were wearing jeans, their jackets were very familiar.
“White men,” the woman beside me spat.
White men were not white at all. We all had the same black, brown, chocolate, whatever color you called it skin. They were called white men because they had spent most of their lives abroad. Lagos was crawling with them. In fact, they ran the city.
One of the men, the older of the two stopped in the middle of the aisle and stared at me. For a long time. I looked away. He and his companion took a sit on the fourth row, far away from us. But not far enough.
Dare glanced at me. “What the hell are they doing on a bus?”
The left shoulder of the older man’s jacket had five stripes. He was a senior official. He wouldn’t be riding a bus.
“Maybe they found us out,” I whispered.
Dare shook his head. “If they knew where we were, they wouldn’t be sending us a government official and a fat man.”
He was right. If somehow, they found out we were missing, (I mean, Dare. I was supposed to be dead), they would be coming at us with full force. We’d probably be dead by now.
So, what do you guys think? Let me know in the comments 😉