Emeka Stories

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I knew the next one would die…
before it even happened.
Not because I touched him.
Not because I followed my father’s instructions.
But because he begged me not to come. And... Wait! Ever since I made up my mind to stand up to this madness, especially for my sister's sake and for my sanity... Okay! That is it! So this was why he died without even touching me, let alone sleeping with me.
His name was Daniel.
That night, as I sat in the back of the Escalade, the usual message came in.
A name.
A location.
A room number.
But this time… there was something extra.
A second message.
From him.
“Please… don’t come. I don’t know who sent you, but something is wrong.”
My heart stopped.
That had never happened before.
They never knew me.
They were always… waiting. Smiling. Ready. As if they had been paid to play a role they didn’t fully understand.
But this one?
He sounded… terrified.
I told the driver to turn back.
He didn’t.
I raised my voice.
He didn’t even blink.
That was when I realized something that made my stomach twist—
I was not being driven to the hotel.
I was being delivered.
By the time we got there, my hands were shaking.
Room 312.
The door was slightly open.
And the moment I stepped in… I felt it.
That same cold presence.
That invisible weight in the air.
Like something unseen had already entered the room before me… waiting.
Daniel was pacing.
Not sitting.
Not smiling.
Pacing.
The moment he saw me, he froze like he had just seen a ghost.
“Don’t come closer,” he said immediately.
His voice cracked.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I swallowed. “You sent me a message.”
“Yes. Because I’ve seen you before.”
My chest tightened.
“No… you haven’t.”
“I have,” he said, stepping back. “Not in person. But… your face. It’s been showing up.”
My blood ran cold.
“Where?”
He pointed to the mirror.
I turned slowly.
And that was when I saw it.
Not my reflection.
No.
Something behind it.
Faint… distorted… like a shadow trying to take shape.
And for a split second—
It smiled.
I screamed.
I didn’t mean to.
It just tore out of me.
When I turned back, Daniel was already shaking his head.
“I told them I didn’t want this,” he said. “I told them to cancel it. But they said it was already paid for.”
Paid for.
The same words my aunt used.
“Everything you are enjoying today… was paid for in full…”
And hey, before I continue, let me share a bit about my family background so you know where I am coming from.
I never realised untill recently that the reason my father is too attached to me and my immediate younger sister was because he was preparing us for a day like this - a day we would be sent to sleep with different men in order to maintain and retain the family wealth, our legacy. I am twenty-one years old while my sister is nineteen years old, and we are part of the fifth generation of the Nnaji family, the most popular and richest family in the eastern part of Nigeria, and among the richest in the whole country. This wealth runs as far back as our great great grandfather who founded the wealth.

He was among the few Africans who ran trans atlantic slave trade with the European slave merchants. This was pre-amalgamation before the missionaries came. The proceeds of that trade was invested in gold exploration in Ghana, palm oil business in Nigeria, and later invested in coal mining and crude oil business across oil producing countries in Africa, before diversifying to other industries. In fact, till date, any male child of the Nnaji family becomes a billionaire once you are forty-five as his share of the wealth would be transferred to him with chains of companies across several industries he will be in charge own.

Every aspiring or sitting president of Nigeria must pay homage to the family for financial support as their influence can move mountains in Nigeria politics. To say the least, our family wealth runs deeper than the Atlantic ocean, but they manage media as to stay off from publicity. That is one of our family's policy. No member of the Nnaji family is into any form of entertainment business that will attract unwanted attention to a family whose wealth is more mysterious than one can imagine, and that's the part no one know. What they don't know is that every girl born in that family is a vessel that keeps the wealth running in the family through generations. This is a family ritual.
“I don’t understand what’s happening,” I whispered.
But deep down… I did.
This had never been about pleasure.
Or control.
This was a transaction.
And I was the middleman.
“Listen to me,” Daniel said, stepping closer despite his fear. “Something is attached to you.”
My heart began to race.
“Every night for the past three days, I’ve been dreaming of a woman standing behind you. I can’t see her face. But she keeps saying one thing…”
I felt my knees weaken.
“What did she say?”
He looked straight into my eyes.
And when he spoke… his voice wasn’t fully his anymore.
It was layered.
Like two voices speaking at once.
“The debt is not complete.”
The lights went out.
I don’t remember how long the darkness lasted.
But when the lights came back on…
Daniel was on the floor.
Still.
Eyes open.
Empty.
I didn’t touch him.
I swear on everything I have left—
I did not touch him.
That was when I knew…
This thing?
It no longer needed permission.
I ran out of the room.
Barefoot. Crying. Not caring who saw me.
When I got home, I went straight to my father’s study.
I didn’t knock.
I didn’t care.
I pushed the door open—
And froze.
He wasn’t alone.
My aunt was there.
And someone else.
An old woman… dressed in white… sitting quietly in the corner.
I had never seen her before.
But the moment her eyes met mine—
I recognized her.
She was the one in the mirror.
My father didn’t look surprised.
He just sighed… like a man whose secret had finally caught up with him.
“Amara,” he said calmly, “you were not supposed to find out this way.”
My voice trembled.
“What is happening to me?”
Silence.
Then the old woman smiled.
The same smile.
The one I saw behind the glass.
“You are not taking from them, child,” she said softly.
Her voice felt like cold fingers around my throat.
“You are feeding me.”
My world stopped.
And then she said something that shattered whatever sanity I had left—
Something about my sister.
Something they were planning.
Something far worse than what they did to me.
“I hope you’re ready,” she whispered.
“Because her turn… will not be like yours.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

🔥A CURSED LEGACY: THE FORBIDDEN ROLE I WAS BORN INTO💀 - EPISODE TWO🔥
[Forbidden Romance, Dark Family Legacy, Betrayal]

© Emeka Tales

Follow me for more stories that will amaze you

Episode 2: The Invitation You Can’t Refuse
🔥🔥🔥
The silence on the other end of the line felt heavy, like the humid air before a Lagos thunderstorm. My thumb hovered over the red "end call" button, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “We’ve been watching you.” Those four words turned my blood to ice. In a country where you’re either the hunter or the prey, being "watched" is never a good sign.
"Who is this?" I finally managed to whisper, my voice cracking. I looked around my small, cluttered room at my parents' house. The peeling green paint, the stack of old textbooks, the single fan that groaned with every rotation—everything suddenly felt exposed, as if eyes were peering through the cracks in the window louvers.
"A friend, Tunde," the voice replied. It was smooth, cultured, and devoid of any discernible accent. "A friend who knows that yesterday you skipped lunch because you didn't want to ask your mother for another five hundred Naira. A friend who knows you spent four hours at a cyber café last Tuesday applying for a job that was already filled by a Senator’s nephew."
I froze. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. How could a stranger know the intimate humiliations of my daily survival?
"What do you want?" I asked, my fear slowly curdling into a desperate kind of curiosity.
"I want to offer you a seat at the table," the man said. "There is a black SUV parked two blocks away from your street, right next to the abandoned filling station. In the glove compartment, you will find an envelope. It contains fifty thousand Naira. That is just for the transport to come and hear what I have to say."
Fifty thousand. That was more money than I had seen in three years. It was rent, it was food, it was a temporary escape from the suffocating shroud of "failure." My mind raced. Was this a ritualist? A kidnapper? Or was this the "break" I had been praying for every night on my knees?
"I'm not coming," I lied, even as I was already reaching for my worn-out sneakers.
"The choice is yours, Tunde. But remember: the ceiling in your room isn't going to give you any answers. And your father’s pension is running out. You have twenty minutes."
Click.
The line went dead. I stood there for a long moment, the heat of the phone still pressed against my ear. I looked at my reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall. I saw a man who was tired of being a ghost in his own life.
I slipped out of the house through the back door, avoiding my mother’s gaze as she sat in the parlor shelling egusi. I ran. I didn't stop until I saw it—a sleek, jet-black SUV with tinted windows, idling silently in the dust of the abandoned station.
My hand trembled as I approached the passenger side. The door was unlocked. I pulled it open, and there, sitting on the leather seat, was a thick brown envelope. I grabbed it, my fingers shaking as I flicked through the crisp, mint-condition notes. It was real.
But as I moved to step back out, the child-lock clicked.
The car began to move.
I lunged for the door handle, but it wouldn't budge. I turned to the driver’s seat, expecting to see a thug or a masked man. Instead, there was no one. The steering wheel was turning by itself, guided by a glowing screen on the dashboard that displayed a single GPS coordinate.
Then, a small speaker in the headrest crackled to life.
"Relax, Tunde," the voice from the phone said, sounding closer now. "You took the money. You signed the contract the moment you touched that envelope. Now, let's see if you have the stomach for what comes next."
The car accelerated, weaving through the Lagos traffic with terrifying precision, heading away from the suburbs and toward the high-rise shadows of Victoria Island. We pulled into the underground garage of a building I didn't recognize. The engine cut out, and the door finally clicked open.
A man was standing there, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than my father’s house. He wasn't holding a gun. He was holding a glass of champagne.
"Welcome, Tunde," he said, smiling with teeth that were a little too white. "I hope you’re hungry. We’ve been waiting for you to join the 'inner circle.' But before we eat..."
He stepped aside, revealing a massive floor-to-ceiling monitor. On the screen was a live feed of my parents' living room. My mother was still shelling egusi, but there was a red laser dot resting right on the center of her forehead.
The man’s smile widened. "We need to discuss the price of your new life."
🔥🔥🔥
TO BE CONTINUED... ✍️

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So yesterday I decided to take a little break and as I remembered a friend of mine is having a book launch in Abuja today, I hopped on the next available bus to Abuja. It was going to be a good getaway, I thought.

On getting to Abuja, I called my friend on my way to get an affordable hotel room, to inform him I was already in town for his event. His excitement filled my ears as I chuckled on dropping the call. He promised to link up later in the evening by the way.

After settling in, I decided to stretch my legs on the peaceful road of Wuse 2. This is something I do anything I visit Abuja. While enjoying the beautiful view, I spotted a jewellery shop and remembered I had nursed all week the idea of buying a new watch. So I figured this would be a perfect opportunity, although I know "Abuja things too dey cost". Anyways, window shopping won't be bad if their prices are above my budget.

As I walked in, I noticed a man arguing over diamond sizes with the sales rep. A lady with tiny waist and oversabi attitude was with him. They looked like a couple on honeymoon.

I wouldn’t have paid them any attention until the man turned to speak and I saw his face clearly.
It was Kingsley.

Not just any Kingsley—my friend’s husband.
Married to my friend, Uju. Uju that just celebrated her one-year wedding anniversary on Facebook with Bible quotes and matching pajamas.

The moment Kingsley saw me, his facial expression changed like NEPA light during rain.
I smiled.

He smiled back—but the kind of nervous smile you give your landlord when rent is overdue.

"Good afternoon sir," I said, as I walked to the counter beside them.

The girl with him looked me over and gave a beautiful smile. But she didn't even greet me.

No wahala.

The sales girl returned with a pair of rings and announced, “Sir, this is our luxury couple set. One million naira.”

Kingsley cleared his throat and said, “Hmm… okay. This looks good. What do you think, baby?”

The side chick giggled and said, “Perfect. It’s giving rich husband vibes.”

I coughed.

Loudly.

Then turned and said, “Kingsley, I didn’t know you and Uju are renewing vows already. You people didn’t tell me.”

The girl looked at him like, “Uju who??”

Kingsley scratched his head. “Uhm... my dear, this is just a friend from work. She jokes too much.”

I laughed. “Yes, I joke o. Just like your wife joked when she called me last night to say you travelled for a conference in Kaduna.”

He began sweating. The AC was on full blast but the heat on his forehead looked like he was frying akara.

Before I left, I turned to the sales rep and said, “Please give them three pairs of rings. Uju might want to pick for herself when she arrives.”

Then I winked at Kingsley.

“Tell her I said hi.”

This morning, I did something I’ve never done before.

I didn’t brush. I didn’t eat. I didn’t even say a word to anyone.

I just wore my slippers, picked up my phone, and walked straight into Amara’s compound — not as a neighbour… but as a man with a burden I could no longer ignore.

I had barely slept. I kept seeing her face — those quiet, screaming eyes of a girl who knew she was being sold off, but didn’t have the words to fight back.

I was tired of talking about it behind her back. Today… I wanted to talk to her parents.

As I entered their sitting room, the smell of fried oil and old curtains filled my nose. Her father sat by the corner, drinking pap from a stainless plate. There was akara on a plastic plate beside him. His eyes were glued to their old television set, where a half-naked man was being slammed to the floor in a local wrestling match.

Amara’s mother sat by the door with a tray of egusi, gently peeling the shells and humming a gospel chorus in a voice so faint, even heaven might miss it.

They didn’t look surprised to see me.

Maybe they were expecting me. Maybe they had already rehearsed what they would say. Maybe, just maybe… they had closed their hearts long before I ever opened my mouth.

But I spoke anyway.

“I came to talk about Amara,” I began.

No one said anything.

I took a slow breath and stepped further in. “I’ve been watching her. Not in a bad way. But I see her. I see the way the joy has disappeared from her face. The way she stares into space like someone listening to the funeral of her dreams. That girl is barely 18. She still has a future. She has hope. She has—"

Her mother cut in without looking up.

“Uncle Emeka, we appreciate your concern… but do you know how much food costs in this house?”

I paused.

She dropped her egusi tray, wiped her hands on her wrapper, and looked up at me.

“Do you know how many mouths we feed every day? She’s the first daughter. Her younger ones are watching. If a man wants to marry her and take care of her, is that a sin?”

Her voice was sharp… but beneath it, I heard something else.

Desperation.

Still, I turned to her father, hoping he’d say something different.

He took a spoonful of pap, smacked his lips, and spoke without looking my way:

“We are not rich people, sir. We can't train everybody. This girl has finished secondary school. She’s not going university, and she knows that. That boy has money. He wants to marry her. Will she not eat better food in his house? Or do you want her to stay here and be drinking garri with us? Will it be a bad thing if she starts to contribute to the upbringing of her siblings?"

My mouth opened. But nothing came out.

They weren’t even hiding it. To them, marriage was not about love, or choice, or future. It was about survival.

I gathered myself.

“But sir, Amara told me about her passion in learning tailoring—”

Her mother hissed quietly, almost like I was wasting time.

“This tailoring,” she said, “how much will it bring in? Do you know how long it will take before she even makes money from it? That boy said he will open shop for her. Let her go and be useful. You people won't help us, but now you want to block help when it comes.”

Help.

That was what they called it.

Giving their daughter to a boy with a flashy Lexus, tattooed arms, and an unknown income source…

Help.

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I stood there. Feeling like someone who had brought clean water to people who preferred mud because they were used to the taste.

Nothing I said moved them.

Not her age. Not her dreams. Not the fact that this boy had a reputation on the street that made decent men shift uncomfortably in their seats.

They had made up their minds.

And at some point, I stopped talking.

I realised… I wasn’t there to win.

I was there to stand.

To let Amara know that even if her own parents had given up on her, someone still saw her worth.

I stood up slowly.

The mother went back to peeling egusi. The father had started watching the wrestling match again — it was like I had never been there at all.

As I stepped outside, I saw her by the gate.

She must have heard my voice. She must have known what I came for.

She stood there, hands trembling, eyes red… as if waiting for a verdict she already feared.

I walked to her.

Held her hand — slowly.

She looked up at me, her lips slightly parted, her breath short and shaky.

I said the only thing I could say without crying:

“Trust me… everything will be fine.”

I don’t know what that means. I don’t know how it will happen. But I said it. And I meant it.

Because this fight… I’m not backing down.

She may not be my child, but I shall look inward...I've got to find a way to SAVE AMARA. I don't have a plan yet, but you see this battle, I'M IN!

I AM EMEKA SYLVESTER MUOMEZIE, and I am a writer about to turn an activist and a philanthropist.

PLEASE FOLLOW LIKE COMMENT AND SHARE SHARE SHARE SHARE SHARE SHARE SHARE.

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MY FAIRY GODMOTHER – THE REASON I AM STUPENDOUSLY RICH
EPISODE SEVEN: THE DAUGHTER I NEVER HAD

They say legacy is what we leave behind — but sometimes, it’s what we never knew we planted.

Three days after Titus Ayegbeni died, I started bleeding from my nose.

No warning. No headache. Just blood — thick and black, like tar.

Doctors said I was fine. Blood pressure: Normal.
Blood work: Clean.
Scan: “Perfect for your age, sir.”

But I knew better.

The godmother had shifted her gaze again.
And this time, she was looking deeper than skin.

That night, while Amaka slept beside me — blissfully unaware of the debts creeping under our bed — I received a message on my encrypted phone. The one I hadn’t used in over two years.

No number.

Just a single line:

"Do you want to meet her?"

I didn’t need to ask who.

I knew.

The next morning, I flew to Calabar.
The message had included coordinates, not an address. Deep into Oban Hills — a place where even MTN prays for network.

I hired a local guide.
Offered ₦300,000 cash.
He took the money and said he’d wait in the car.

The hut was waiting for me.

It was made of red mud. No windows. One wooden door that opened before I knocked.

And there… sitting on a carved stool… was a little girl.

She looked seven — maybe eight.
Skin smooth like Amaka’s.
Eyes sharp like mine.

And around her neck…

A pendant. A broken mirror — shaped like a teardrop.

I froze.

“Sit,” the woman beside her said.

I hadn’t noticed her before.
She wore a cloak that shimmered between red and black.
No face — just shadow where her eyes should be.

“Who is she?” I asked, voice cracking.

The girl smiled at me.
“Daddy,” she said.

My knees buckled.

“She is the legacy you traded,” the godmother said. “When you asked to become stupendously rich.”

I shook my head. “I never asked for a child!”

“You asked to rise,” she replied. “And all things that rise… cast shadows.”

The girl stood and walked toward me. She handed me a hibiscus — this one not black, but blood red.

“She is yours, and not yours,” the godmother continued. “You will not remember creating her. But she is your balance.”

Tears fell.

Not from fear.
From something deeper.

Guilt?
Loss?
Recognition?

I tried to touch her.
She vanished — just like that.

And in her place was a new item:

A scroll. Sealed with wax.

I opened it.

Inside, six words:

“THE SEED IS NOW IN BLOOM.”

I flew back to Lagos in silence.

That night, I watched Amaka again.
This time, she was cradling her belly in her sleep.

I stared at her.
Then I stared at the mirror across the room.

It didn’t crack this time.

It smiled.

Rule Five: The gods do not give gifts. They give anchors — and every anchor must weigh something down.

Because now…
I don’t know who will be born.

A daughter?
A debt?

Or both.

TO BE CONTINUED…
Next Sunday: “THE NAME SHE MUST NEVER BE GIVEN.” 🔥🔥🔥

™

I PAID ₦300K TO A “CONNECTION” JOB AGENCY FOR A CBN JOB… I ENDED UP IN PRISON INSTEAD
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A Nigerian graduate’s confession | Based on true events
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If you’re reading this and you’re unemployed, I want to beg you with tears in my eyes — never let desperation push you into darkness, like it pushed me.

I’m a graduate of Banking and Finance.
Second Class Upper.
Did my NYSC in Lagos.

But after four years of endless job hunting, rejection emails, unanswered applications, and depression, I did something I regret every single day.

In March last year, I got a WhatsApp broadcast from an old coursemate, David.

“CBN is secretly recruiting. Just 300K for slot into the Accounts Department. My cousin runs a connection agency. Only serious candidates should DM.”

At first, I laughed.
“Na scam,” I told myself.
But I didn’t delete the message.

Why? Because I was tired.
Tired of waking up jobless.
Tired of begging for transport money.
Tired of seeing my mates posting “First Day at Work” selfies.
Tired of praying and fasting with no results.

So, I reached out.
David swore with his mother’s life.
I even did a video call with the "agency rep" — a sharp-looking guy who called himself Mr. Oseni.
Said he worked “inside” and “had boys in HR.”

“₦300K is for logistics, code clearance and vetting. You’ll get your CBN ID card, appointment letter, and onboarding schedule in 3 weeks max.”

He even sent samples of previous appointment letters.
The logo was clean. The grammar was tight. The paper looked legit.

My instincts screamed SCAM.
But my situation whispered HOPE louder.

I borrowed ₦150K from my mother’s church thrift group.
Another ₦100K from my uncle in Onitsha.
Sold my only laptop for ₦50K.

Transferred the money in full.
Mr. Oseni replied: “Congratulations. You just secured your future.”

I danced that night.
I cried.
I finally told my father that I’d be working in CBN.
He slaughtered a goat and gave testimony in church.

The next two weeks? Silence.
Then, Mr. Oseni called.

“There's a small delay. DSS is reviewing all names. Standard process.”

Then a week later…

“You're to report to the CBN HQ with your file. Don’t tell security you came through a slot. Just act like you’re there for onboarding.”

That was the last normal day of my life.

I got to the building, dressed in my best.
Security looked at my printed "CBN appointment letter" and asked me to wait.

Five minutes later, a woman in black suit walked up and said:

“Sir, you’re under arrest.”

I thought it was a joke.
Until I was handcuffed.
Until I saw SARS.
Until I was thrown into the back of a Hilux.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one.
They had already arrested eight other victims who showed up that week with fake letters.

We had all been played.
But guess what?
The person behind the agency was a syndicate of tech-savvy criminals.
Mr. Oseni? Not his real name.
David? Denied everything.

They used foreign numbers, voice changers, cloned CBN letterheads, and a convincing backstory.

The police claimed we “forged our letters intentionally” and charged us with attempted impersonation and fraud.

I spent 7 weeks in Kirikiri awaiting bail.
My mother sold her shop.
My father became hypertensive.
My uncle stopped picking my calls.

Till today, the real scammers are free.

But society branded me a criminal.
Even though all I was — was a desperate youth looking for a way out.

If you’re reading this… share it.
Let someone else learn from my pain.
That ₦300K job offer may look like salvation, but it may be your ticket to hell.

What do you think? Would you fall for it too? Should job seekers be jailed for being scammed?
Let's talk in the comments👇



゚viralシalシ

MY FAIRY GODMOTHER – THE REASON I AM STUPENDOUSLY RICH
EPISODE SIX: THE DEBT THAT NEVER DIES

They say when you settle a score with the gods, they don’t forget — they just wait.

It had been 11 days since I saw the video.
11 days since Amaka returned to my life like sunlight after a funeral.
11 days of silence from the godmother.

And yet…
I could feel her.

Everywhere.

In the chill that followed me to the bathroom.
In the flicker of lights when I kissed Amaka goodnight.
In the way mirrors now distorted my reflection — ever so slightly.

I had chosen love.
And she had let me.

But gods never erase debt.
They just… defer it.

That Friday, I received a black envelope.
No stamp. No name. Just my name in gold — hand-written.

Inside, three things:

A dried flower.

A slip of paper with a name: Titus Ayegbeni.

And a familiar phrase: “Balance must be paid.”

I knew the name.

Titus was the bank manager who once mistakenly froze my account for “suspicious inflows” before I rose to power.
The same man who later begged me to invest ₦500 million in his new crypto fund.
The same man who disappeared with the money six months ago.

The godmother wasn’t asking for money.
She wanted blood.

But that wasn’t what scared me.

What scared me was the flower.

It was black hibiscus — extinct for over 30 years.
Only one person I knew had ever seen it bloom:

My mother.

I flew home that night.
Back to Aba.
Back to the house I swore never to return to after the first ₦100 million hit my account.

Mama was waiting on the verandah like she knew I was coming.

She didn’t smile.

She just looked at me and said:
“She came.”

I nodded.

“She took your photo from the wall,” Mama said, her voice trembling. “And she left the flower.”

I knelt.

“I didn’t mean for you to be involved, Mama…”

She cupped my cheek.
And I saw the fear in her eyes.

“The gods don’t want me, my son. They want your legacy. Your lineage.”

That was the night I realised something horrifying:

The debt wasn’t about me anymore.
The godmother had accepted my sacrifice — but demanded interest.
And in her world, interest compounds through generations.

The next morning, a breaking news headline shook me:

Titus Ayegbeni found dead in a Lagos hotel.
Cause of death: undetermined.
Witnesses say he screamed, “I see the cracked mirror” before collapsing.

I never touched him.
I never even called him.

But she had.
The godmother had.

And just like that…
Her message was clear:

“Balance must be paid — one way or another.”

That night, I watched Amaka sleep.

Her breathing, calm.
Her fingers, curled around my shirt.
Her face, innocent of the storm circling above our heads.

I whispered the new rule under my breath:

Rule Four: The gods never stop collecting. They just pause.

Because I know now…
The mirror didn’t just crack.

It opened.

And on the other side, something ancient is keeping score — not just of what I owe,
But of who will pay when I finally can’t.

TO BE CONTINUED…
Next Sunday: “THE DAUGHTER I NEVER HAD.” 🔥🔥🔥







゚viralシfypシ゚viralシalシ

So, this afternoon, I had one simple mission: get to Owerri for a business summit I was invited to. I got to Calabar motor park early enough and secured my usual spot in a public fare — back seat. Don’t ask me why, but that seat has a spiritual comfort. 😌

Soon enough, the Sienna bus filled up, and we were ready to move. But just before we left, a girl walked in and took a seat right in front of me.

Let me pause and say this — the girl fine no be here. Not the loud type of fine, but the calm, expensive kind. Classy. Clean. Composed. There was this aura around her that made the atmosphere shift. Every guy on board took one awkward turn or the other to “just look small”. Even the women looked at her twice — you know those envious looks they try to package as compliments. Don’t ask how I know. I’ve got eyes. 😎

We hit the road and didn’t go far before we got caught in a traffic jam somewhere inside the city. Everyone relaxed. The Sienna was comfy, the AC was on point, so nobody complained. As usual, I whipped out my phone to do what I love — write a few lines of a story.

Then boom. Life decided to write a story of its own. 🫣

A black G-Wagon jeep drove up beside us, honking gently, as though trying to get someone’s attention. At first, we didn’t know who it was for, until the tinted passenger window came down slowly — and out came the face of a man that looked like he stepped straight out of GQ Magazine.

Sharp haircut. Beards well-lined. The type of fashion sense that smells like Dubai and whispers “generational wealth”. The driver of our Sienna wound down to ask if he was referring to him, and I kid you not, this guy's cologne entered our bus and settled there like house rent.

But guess who didn’t move a muscle? The fine girl in front of me. Sis was focused on her phone like she was analyzing World Bank data. 🙄

The G-Wagon guy signaled to our driver, who surprisingly pulled over without argument. Riches must come with anointing o. We were all curious — what’s going on?

G-Wagon prince stepped down, walked to the driver, whispered something, and the driver grinned from ear to ear. Then turned to us and said:

“Abeg make una exercise patience. This brother wan talk to this sister.”

He pointed at the girl. I almost choked on my thoughts. Like, are we stopping mid-journey because one rich Romeo wants to “talk to” Juliet?

Before any of us could start protest, the man himself leaned toward the driver’s window and spoke with a calm smile:

“I understand I’m delaying your journey, and I apologize sincerely. But this is very important to me. Please allow me just one hour to speak with this beautiful angel. I’ll compensate each of you with ₦50,000 for your time.”

You see that moment when someone talks and everywhere goes silent like God entered the room?

That was it.

One guy in front didn’t even allow the air to settle:

“₦50k for just 1 hour? Oga, take the whole day if you want.”

Then he turned to the girl:

“Oga, do you need my help talking to her?”

The whole bus exploded in laughter. Just like that, we all stepped down from the car and stood by the roadside like movie extras, watching love in action.

The girl finally looked up. And tell me why she was now smiling like a goat they’re preparing for Christmas. 😁

As we waited, I overheard some girls saying things like:

“God, even if na leg I take waka come this park today, would it have been too much to let it be me?” 😭

Even the guys around me were muttering things like:

“Money na real blood tonic o. See what it can do in broad daylight!”

About forty minutes later, the G-Wagon guy came down from the car smiling, phone in hand. Clearly, numbers had been exchanged, hearts had been touched, destinies had aligned. 💘

Then, like a magician pulling out bundles from a hat, he returned with clean, crisp ₦1,000 notes — wrapped in ₦100,000 bundles.

He handed out to all of us in pairs. Even the driver got his special share.

Then, with all the royalty of a Yoruba angel in a Nollywood love story, he handed the girl ₦500,000 — yes, five bundles — before saying thank you again and zooming off.

The rest of the journey? Peaceful. Sweet. Everybody smiling. Even the radio started playing love songs. 😂

I just sat there thinking:

“Omo, this life no balance o. I just wanted to attend a business summit, and I witnessed what 50+ love stories wish they had.”

I think I’ll be traveling more often. But next time, I’ll scan the seats before I enter. If no fine girl dey, I no dey go again o. I can’t waste my investment. 😅

Moral of the story:
Always dress well. Sit near a fine girl. And never underestimate what one traffic jam can do to your destiny. 😁