Health?
Freedom?
Is that what we chase when we run before dawn,
while the sun is still negotiating with the sky?
Cold wind on my face.
Music loud enough to drown market level noise.
Ankara Sundays by Somi playing like a promise.
I lived in Elelenwo then.
Port Harcourt quiet in that strange way it only gets at 5 a.m.
No traffic. No shouting. Just breath and road.
I was jogging to feel light.
Ajebutter person, yes.
But tired of sitting still inside my own body.
Did I see the car parked by the roadside?
Maybe.
Did I register the people standing beside it?
No.
Their conversation wasn’t happening.
I know that now.
I tried to go around them.
Polite. Careful.
Still holding onto that soft morning peace.
Then a hand pulled me back.
Hard.
How quickly does calm turn to clarity?
How fast does music leave your ears when survival enters the room?
Five people.
One gun.
One cutlass.
Too many breaths too close to mine.
“Remove your glasses.”
My world blurred instantly.
Sight is a privilege until it is taken.
Pockets emptied.
Protest attempted.
Mistake made.
Gun to my head.
Cutlass to my neck.
Is fear loud?
No.
It is very quiet.
I had heard the stories.
Bodies in Woji.
Whispers about Akpajo.
Names attached to Elelenwo like warnings people share casually.
I never imagined the road would recognize me.
Hands up.
Slow steps back.
Agreement without words.
They returned to the car.
A shape I couldn’t follow anymore.
What stays with you when vision is gone?
Sound.
Memory.
The long walk home.
Every pothole suddenly a threat.
Every step a calculation.
Every shadow unfinished.
I wanted health.
I wanted freedom.
I wanted to feel alive.
That morning reminded me
that in Port Harcourt,
peace before sunrise is borrowed.
And safety,
is never assumed.
Have you ever gone out looking for yourself
and come back only grateful you returned at all?
