Abducted.
Remi’s morning began like any other—chaotic but predictable.
She fought through Lagos traffic, cursing under her breath as the sun blazed down. The sweat on her brow mirrored that on her daughter, Shola’s forehead, who dozed fitfully in the back seat, her tiny fists clenched in restless dreams. Her son, Bayo, restless as ever, tapped an erratic rhythm against the car window. The traffic horns blared, hawkers maneuvered between cars, and the scent of roasted plantain and fried Akara hung in the thick, polluted air.
