The monstrous gates that kept the large estate within concealed from the eyes of the rest of the world swung open and a sleek black vehicle drove through. It was a jeep. A very expensive jeep.

The glass was tinted the darkest possible shade of black and the vehicle bore no license plates but everyone within the estate knew who occupied the backseat. It was the man who had once been called Chief and, before that, 'right hand' to one. Back when life was simpler.

The vehicle pulled up in front of the largest building in the estate; a mansion with cream colored walls and maroon colored columns that matched the roof, and the backseat door opened.

As expected a tall imposing figure, built like an oak with a full beard, shoulder-length sparsely-beaded dreadlocks and striking black eyes hidden in that moment behind a pair of shades, stepped out. He was clad in a black suit so pristine it seemed to absorb light. Without so much as a glance around, he made his way for the entrance to his home. No not home. His house. It did not feel like home.

A man in black T-shirt and trousers met him at the door, approaching him with the haste and coordination that had come to be expected of a chief's man.

He knew the man's name but at the moment it fled his mind. Not that he put too much effort into recalling.

The man fell in step next to him as he ascended the threshold and entered the house.

"Chief Michael," the man began.

The taller man flashed a look from behind his glasses and while the other man could not see it, it's effect was not at all diminished.

"Sir," he amended.

His correction was approved with a nod.

It was a justifiable mistake. Michael was once chief, but he had been found—by himself strangely enough—unfit for the title and the position and had chosen to hand over to his brother.

Michael walked further into the building, his long strides giving the other man a hard time as he practically jogged to keep up. As he did, he rambled on like an answering machine, informing Michael of the things that taken place in his absence and reminding him of appointments, plans and such.

He might have relinquished control but Michael still kept a wary eye on things.

However, he wasn't listening this time. He didn't care. Nothing the man said mattered to him. Nothing until...

"...and the woman arrived few minutes ago. She is waiting for you."

Michael stopped so suddenly the other man took three steps ahead before catching on and spinning around.

The woman...

It had been only a few days since he last saw her but Michael found himself in thirsty anticipation at the mention of her.

He took off his glasses and tucked it away.

"Send her up to my room. Cancel all other appointments for the rest of the day."

The man looked put off by Michael's words; upset that everything else he had said had been totally disregarded, but only for a second before he snapped to attention and hurried away. Like everyone else, he had grown used to Michael's negligence and while; like everyone else, he clearly disapproved of it, there was nothing he could do about it—like everyone else.

Michael walked to his room, left alone to his thoughts save for the greetings from the men he passed on his way; more than a few of them still stuck on calling him 'Chief'. This time he didn't bother to correct them. He didn't care about anything. Anything other than the woman.

Back in the privacy of his room, he took off his shoes and socks and then his suit, his actions conscious and meticulous. Then he sat at the edge of his bed, facing the door. Waiting.

The door opened a moment later and there she was. She was built like the depictions of ancient female warriors he had once seen at the museum. So tall that had he been standing she would not have had to look up to meet his gaze unless she was within a foot of him. So fierce her very presence seemed to dominate the room. So hauntingly beautiful that the very shape and form and memory of her was burned into his mind and just about everytime he was away from her and closed his eyes, he saw her.

"Shiva." The word came out a desperate whisper but he didn't care. He stood.

"Michael," she said in reply. Her lips tilted up in a little smile.

They stood, mere metres apart, simply content watching each other for a second that seemed to drag out for ages; each basking in the warmth of the other's presence. Then they were no longer content.

Michael wasn't sure which of them moved first but the next moment they had crashed in the middle. His lips pressed hard against hers as they both seemed to melt into the kiss yet somehow struggle for control at the same time.

He had his hands on her hips, kneading her flesh with neither delicacy nor patience. Shiva had her hand tangled in his shaggy locks and another beneath his shirt.

There was no break to speak and only little to breathe. Words would come later. For now there were more urgent matters to be addressed by the mouth. Matters that could not be put off even for a little while.

In one motion, he scooped her off the ground with one hand to her bottom and her legs locked around his waist. He spun with her and they fell to the bed.

Michael found himself staring into those stormy grey eyes for a moment too long before he buried his face in her neck and breathed her in. He was conscious of everywhere his skin touched hers and of every ragged breath she sucked in and let out and of the erratic beating of her heart, and it all drove him; with the recklessness of a driver without complete papers evading Federal Road Safety, to the brink of insanity.

Michael exhaled.

*****

Deep within the walls of Afokang prison, Calabar; locked away in solitary, a young dark-skinned woman sat, her body almost as motionless as a statue, with her legs spread eagle before her and her head bowed; a mass of bedraggled black hair fallen over a face that had not seen the light of day in a long while. Her body barely moved but mind was alive and racing so fast she could not put a pin in any thought that momentarily took up tenancy in her head before it drifted away to be replaced by a new, equally fleeting one.

In her calloused hand, she had a little rock she had pulled from the loose parts of the wall with her bare hands, and with it, she scratched the concrete floor before her over and over.

This young woman had once had a name. A name she no longer used; a name she no longer knew. Now she was Inmate 1704 and that was all that was known of her.

She had simply shown up out of nowhere a few years ago with no names, no records and no means of identification. She was; plainly put, a Jane Doe; as much one to herself as she was to the prison officers.

But she had once had a life. One that she could no longer remember but was definitely worth remembering; not that she could know that. She had family that sought her return and some that thought her dead, friends that had been left indirectly—but very negatively—affected in her absence. She had left a lover behind too, one who; unknown to her—as everything else was—, was going mad with the separation.

Maybe returning to them would have been an easy thing. She had reasons she needed to. Some even more important than returning to the man who had managed to ensnare her heart; not once but twice. Except, unlike her forgotten lover, she was very much mad in the truest sense of the word. She had lost both mind and memory and now, as the days passed unnoticed, she wasted away in limbo.

It had been over a year since she last spoke, if the nigh-incessant mumbling under her breath was to be ignored. And it usually was; she was mad after all.

Despite the fact that she looked through eyes that focused on nothing, the woman continued to write; scribbling the same four letters she had written on the walls and on other parts of the floor. A word that no longer made sense but stuck to her subconscious like araldite.

The unrelenting and rather irritating sound of rock scraping against rock permeated the air in an almost solemn rhythm as the young woman scratched once more the word: HOPE.