Chapter 4: Mrs. martins !!!
(January 2000)
**Lola's POV (Mrs. Sunday)**
I glanced over my shoulder, my eyes landing on the woman in the back seat. Her face was contorted with pain, her breath shallow, her body wracked with tremors as she fought against the suffering inflicted upon her. Every grimace, every ragged breath, whispered of torment.
I stared at her—at the sheer vulnerability etched into her weary frame—and for a moment, I saw myself in her. The chaos of war had shattered so much, but I was luckier. My husband was alive. He was here, fighting to get us to safety.
I turned my gaze to him, sneaking a glance to see how he was holding up. Joseph met my eyes, a weary but reassuring smile stretching across his lips before he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to my arm.
The gesture was comforting, but when I looked deeper—beyond the warmth of his touch, beyond the tenderness of his smile—I saw what he was trying to hide. His eyes betrayed him. Beneath the calm exterior, anxiety churned. Fear lived in the cracks of his expression, tightly masked yet undeniably present.
It was in that moment I understood—no matter how well we disguise it, true fear can never be hidden behind a forced smile.
---
**Joseph's POV (Mr. Sunday)**
A man's duty is to protect his family. That was what I had always believed. That was what I clung to in moments like this.
Yet, no matter how much I tried to suppress the overwhelming weight of fear, it crept through me, threading itself into every breath, every heartbeat. Anxiety, nerves—it was consuming me from the inside out, like a second respiratory system dictating my every movement.
I didn't approve of Lola's decision, not entirely. But she had given her consent to help the woman, and I needed to make sure we were on the same page.
How could I argue against it?
"She is a pregnant woman, for crying out loud, in pain," I wrestled with myself, the argument raging within me.
Then, through the rearview mirror, I saw Lola watching her. Pity filled her eyes—silent, powerful. She wanted to assure the woman that everything would be okay.
To comfort her, I kissed Lola's hand, taking the opportunity to ask the questions weighing on my heart.
"I hope you're feeling better, ma'am," I started, my voice measured.
"What happened to your husband?"
"You can relax. We won't harm you. I'm Joseph Sunday, and this is my wife, Lola Sunday."
"How should we address you?"
I kept my eyes on her, waiting for an answer.
---
**Mrs. Martins' POV (The Pregnant Woman)**
***Some Moments Ago***
We had been stuck in traffic when the world cracked apart.
A tremor. A deep, violent rumble.
Then the deafening roar of an explosion.
The blast shook the ground beneath us, rattling my bones. My husband shot me a glance before stepping out of the car, his instincts urging him to investigate.
I sat, watching him go, my fingers gripping the seat like it was the only thing tethering me to reality.
At first, nothing seemed wrong. A woman rushed past our car, arms laden with goods, desperate to make a sale. Another followed, hurried. Then another.
Then more—too many.
The urgency in their steps shifted from mild concern to sheer panic.
I lost count of the bodies streaming past us, the fear carved into their faces.
War had reached us.
It had devoured a place once believed to be safe and spat it out in ruin.
My husband returned, frantic.
"Babe, we need to go. Now."
He reached for me, gripping my waist, steadying me as we fled, abandoning everything.
Hope flickered when we escaped the bridge—until my husband saw a little girl standing frozen in terror, unable to move.
People darted past her, uncaring, indifferent.
But my husband was a humanitarian. He couldn't ignore it.
"I'll be right back, love. Hold on," he said.
"No! Don't go!" My voice was raw with fear. "What if you die? Just leave it, please."
He turned to me, eyes filled with something far greater than fear—conviction.
"Those who expect love must express love," he murmured. "You carry something made from love inside you. And that child on the bridge—that's someone else's love, just as cherished, just as precious. I can't turn my back on that."
Those were his final words.
Minutes later, after he had saved the girl, the explosion came.
A rocket-propelled grenade struck.
The blast ripped through him—and the child.
Their bodies fell, lifeless, swallowed by the wreckage.
I screamed until my voice broke.
Until my soul shattered.
Until I was drowning in grief so deep, it felt like I had died with him.
But even grief couldn't afford me time.
Because survival was now my only way to honor him.
Survival was the only way to protect the child he had left inside me.
---
***Back to the Present***
I was alive.
Rescued.
Inside the car with strangers—kind strangers.
Yet, the ache inside me only worsened.
Across from me, Lola watched me, sympathy shining in her eyes.
I immediately felt sorrow wash over me. If only Christian were here.
I clenched my teeth, swallowing back the wave of agony.
Then Joseph's voice cut through my haze.
"I hope you're feeling better, ma'am," he asked.
"What happened to your husband?"
"You can relax. We won't harm you. I'm Joseph Sunday, and this is my wife, Lola Sunday."
"How should we address you?"
I met his gaze through the mirror.
"My name is Mrs. Toyin Martins," I said softly. "My husband is dead."
I let out a breath, barely holding onto composure.
"Thank you for your assistance. I only hope I live long enough to raise his child well."
---
**Lola's POV (Mrs. Sunday)**
Concern laced my voice as I asked, "Where do you plan to go? A safe place is better than an unsafe one."
"I don't know," Mrs. Martins murmured. "But I want to leave this country first."
"We're heading toward Ghana. Would you come with us?"
"I don't know… but Ghana doesn't sound bad."
"My husband and I planned for the U.S.," she admitted.
"We, too, are heading to the U.S.—but not legally."
"Oh… I have a green card. My husband was a citizen. We were on our way to the embassy before the attack," she explained. "I could access the U.S. embassy in Ghana."
With nothing left to say, silence fell over us.
We had left Iyana-Ipaja.
Now, we were heading toward Iyana-Iba.
Badagry, Seme Border, Benin Republic, and finally Ghana.
The journey was far from over.
And there was too much at stake.
_ _ _
Author's Note: I have chosen to refer to Mrs. Toyin Martins simply as Mrs. Martins throughout the story. Rather than using her first name, Toyin, I will consistently address her by her surname.