Updated: Dec 9, 2020
An abused wife flees to London with her baby to escape her husband, despite finding new life and romance, danger follows her.
Asma’u Verity Gambo desperately makes her way to London with her child to escape her abusive husband, Fabian. There, she becomes an executive assistant to the kind and handsome Clinton.
Escaping a second time, she’s found by construction workers hired to renovate the office building, Clinton takes her and the baby into his home. Alarmed by his rapidly growing feelings for Asma’u, he decides to test a theory of his – but he is mistaken for a former Czech gang legend who is presumed dead.
Meanwhile, Asma’u’s estranged husband, Fabian, has an affair with a woman named Lizzy who poses as an au pair. Lizzy reveals where Asma’u is staying and reports to Fabian, secretly putting Asma’u in danger.
With Fabian hunting Asma’u and Clinton in unexpected trouble with the law, their romance must take a backseat to the danger that follows them. She returns home. Finding herself in a complicated situation, her last hope is Clinton. To rescue her, Clinton must return to Aberfeldy to confront his demons.
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Asma’u braved the wind and stoically walked into the tall, edgeless building. She listened to the whispers of the harmattan wind whipping its clear walls and cringed; it sounded like wailing and screaming of pain mingled together. It felt like the desire for freedom but instead found the abominable and would like to unsee it; it portrayed her pain. It expressed her pain, offering her the freedom to curb it as well as revel in it. How else could she express the death of curious Aminu Joseph Gambo, her only brother Aminu and her mother, the genteel Mrs Aniebiet Verity Gambo aka Hajia Kinane. She sighed at the comfort their wailing offered.
Ahead of her were her teachers. While Ms Fontayn was the vice principal of their school, and Dr Mrs Ezinhe was the leader of the group. Mr Orume, the principal, excitedly left soon after he’d brought in their suitcases. She watched them zigzag around the other group of their party, her classmates. She had carried hers with great reverence which attracted Ms Fontayn’s attention and the suspicious Mrs Abdullah. While her teachers eyed her suitcase, her classmates had taken different angles of posture on the available seats in the airport. Drowsy with sleep as they were, it was a wonder that none of them fell.
She had seen an old woman in crutches vacate a seat and lurched towards it. The woman returned moments later, but Asma’u returned to get up much to the consternation of her teachers. The people around them had something unpleasant to say about a girl who wouldn’t give her seat for an elderly person, albeit that the elderly woman had laid claim to it first.
Asma’u heard them talk, but to her, they sounded like the dying rumbles that echoed through a thirsty tap. With her chin still resting on her knees, she looked down at her feet and counted her toenails. Her mother would never have let her wear the sandals she had on. But was she there to stop her from wearing them, or from carrying the silk sarong, the gold bracelet with matching earrings and necklace?
No. Her head was kissing the concrete floor of their living room and would soon clamour with arid dust. She cringed as thoughts of her brother lying awkwardly in her mother’s bathtub clawed its way into her thoughts. She fought to erase it from her thoughts, but it stood firmly almost as firm as her brother’s dark hand wrapped around their mother’s pink lace sarong. She wondered if he’d gone to get it for her because she griped about taking it; he probably didn’t want h