(POV: Zara)
Three days have passed since that narrow-alley disaster. But my life has turned into an F1 nightmare titled "being hunted by three crazy teenage boys."
Ever since the "Aunty Superstar" incident, I've never gone home using the same route twice.
I took detours through the fish market, cut into the laundry alley, and even once ended up lost inside an air-conditioning repair shop.
Each morning—right as I step out the gate—
"AUNTY SUPERSTAAAR!!"
Their voices bounce like an accident alarm.
I run.
Not normal running.
Running with all the dignity I still want to protect in this life.
But their voices always get closer.
"We dey see you ooo!!"
"Good morning ma. We don wait here since 6am."
"Aunty wait small naa!!"
I want to cry.
Or throw something at their faces.
Or both.
But that day was worse than my worst nightmare.
Just as I was about to jump the fence to escape (reflex, not intention), Mama's voice boomed from behind the house:
"ZARA! COME BACK HERE!"
I froze like a goat in headlights.
Mama walked out carrying a big tray of cake covered with lace cloth. The peanut-butter smell punched my nose. She pointed her chin at the three boys—who instantly stood like sworn soldiers.
"Zara, take this cake go and give them."
I stood there, hollow inside.
"Ma… why me? WHY ME?!"
Mama glared.
The kind of glare that says: fear me or don't fear me—your knees still die today.
"Your hand no break. Go!"
Dad looked at me with full pity, like watching a chicken being sent to the slaughterhouse. I picked up that tray with the emotional weight of a funeral. The boys appeared the moment I opened the gate—like summoned demons.
"Aunty Superstaaaar—"
I didn't think.
Didn't plan.
I RAN.
Left the tray.
Empty-handed.
Family name disgraced.
WHO CARES!!
I wanted freedom.
"AUNNNNTYYYY WAIT!! SHE RUN LEAVE THE CAKE MAAA!!"
Three boys puffed their chests proudly.
"Ma we appreciate! This cake go sweet die!"
"Ma God go bless you!"
Mama nodded with satisfaction.
"Good boys. Follow Zara. Make sure she no run."
WHAT.
They all turned to me.
My mouth dried instantly.
"No. No no no—DON'T FOLLOW ME—"
They SPONTANEOUSLY grabbed Mama's cake tray—
AND RAN.
Full speed.
Like a stolen-bread chase scene from a 90s movie.
The problem?
People around had no context.
All they saw was:
FOUR TEENAGERS RUNNING, ONE OF THEM HOLDING SOMEONE'S CAKE TRAY.
"HEY!! THIEF!!"
"STOP THEM!!"
"THEY STEAL AUNTY'S CAKE!!"
The boys screamed:
"NO OOO WE NO BE THIEF!!! THIS CAKE NA GIFT!!!"
But nobody listened.
The crowd grew.
The neighbors joined in.
I—
finally understanding the situation—
Shouted:
"WAIT!!! I'M NOT WITH THEM!! I'M NOT—"
Too late.
Someone pointed at me while running:
"SEE THE SMALL ONE! SHE BE RINGLEADER!!"
RINGLEADER?!
I wanted to evaporate.
I sprinted past clotheslines, shoved away plastic tables, slid under a mini-truck.
My hands flew for balance.
My hair whipped like a 50-million-dollar action scene.
Behind me the mass roared:
"CATCH AAAM!!"
"THE GIRL GET SPEED OO!!"
"NO LET AUNTY SUPERSTAR ESCAPE!!"
The three boys were chased too.
But because they carried the cake, their pursuit doubled in brutality.
"DROP THE CAKE!! DROP IT!!"
"WE NO FIT DROP OOO, NA HER MAMA GIFT!!"
I nearly crashed into a vegetable cart.
Jumped aside.
Grabbed a fence.
Twisted mid-air.
Landed on a stack of rice sacks.
My breath burned.
My legs were on fire.
"Auntyyyy stopp!!! We wan give you the cake!!!"
"I DON'T WANT THAT CAKE!!!"
"Aunty Superstar don vex again!! SHE GO FLOG US FOR REAL!!"
The chase lasted forever. I no longer knew whether I was human or a treadmill hamster.
When the crowd shifted focus and began chasing the boys harder, I slipped away.
Crawled behind a neighbor's wall.
Sneaking like a wounded ninja.
Holding my breath like my lungs owed someone money.
I climbed the fence slowly until my arms trembled. Then hugged my own backyard ground like a long-lost lover.
I slipped in through the back door.
Quiet steps.
Quiet breath.
BUT MAMA WAS ALREADY IN THE KITCHEN.
Not standing normally.
No.
Mama stood with both hands on her hips, leaning forward—
the signature pose of a muscular mom assessing whether her child deserves to live or requires retraining.
Her eyes trailed slowly from my dusty feet to my chaos-hair.
Her eyes narrowed.
Her face flat.
Silence.
But the kitchen air felt sharper than a bread knife.
"Zara."
Her voice soft.
Soft—dangerous.
Deadly.
"Where is the cake?"
I snapped upright like a rookie soldier saluting.
"…They… are the ones carrying it, Ma…"
Mama closed the cupboard with one finger—but the sound hit like a battleship door slamming. She eyed my dusty clothes, bruised knees, hair that looked dragged by a truck.
"Who beat you?"
"No one—I just—was being chased by—"
Mama raised her hand.
A small gesture.
Enough to silence me completely.
She stepped forward.
Slow.
Heavy.
Full authority.
Without warning, she grabbed my wrist and twisted it slightly—as if checking which martial-arts technique I botched.
"Ahn-ahn, see? Your balance no stable."
She smacked my shoulder.
Hard.
I lost half my oxygen.
Dad, from the living room, covered his mouth like he wasn't sure whether to save me or hide. Mama leaned in until our noses nearly touched.
"Zara… if ordinary running make you look like dis…"
Her finger tapped the tiny bruise on my forehead.
"…then your training never finish."
"M—my… what?" I whimpered.
Mama smirked.
A terrifying little curve.
Like a tigress watching her cub fall off a motorcycle.
"I tell those boys follow you. They follow you?"
"…yes, Ma…"
Mama nodded slowly.
Not proud.
Evaluating.
Like a professional coach judging an athlete who still can't pass warm-up.
"Good. Tomorrow…"
She stretched out her arm and snapped her fingers like summoning spirits.
"…you go greet them properly. And if you run again…"
Mama tilted her head slightly, shoulder rising—
small move, massive aura—
the aura of: I can body-slam you and the neighbor's child with a wooden spoon.
"…I train you from scratch."
My heart collapsed into my stomach. Dad whispered from behind the fridge:
"Sweetheart, just obey… please…"
I looked at Mama—hair wild, breath shaky—
and the only thought in my mind was:
I WANT TO REINCARNATE.
—To be Continued—