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The knocking continued.

GBAM! GBAM! GBAM!

Under the ground…

Tunde was still alive.

Inside the coffin, his fingernails tore against the wood as rainwater leaked through the soil above him.

“Father! PLEASE!”

But above the grave…

Nobody answered.

The villagers had already started running home in fear.

Because the storm had suddenly changed.

The rain was now black.

Chief Adigun staggered backward in horror.

“What have we done…” he whispered.

Then—

The earth beneath the grave moved.

Slowly.

Violently.

Mama Dara screamed.
The coffin began rising from the ground by
itself.

The masquerades stepped back for the first time.

Afraid.

One of them shouted:

“Seal the grave before midnight!”

But it was too late.

KRAAAK!

The coffin exploded open.

Tunde sat upright inside the mud.

Breathing heavily.

Alive.
Lightning flashed across his face—
And his eyes were no longer normal.

One eye had turned completely white.

The villagers watching from afar fell to their knees.

An old woman cried:

“The spirit has entered him…”

Tunde looked around slowly.

Confused.

Weak.

Then he saw his father.

“Why did you bury me?” he asked quietly.

Chief Adigun broke down instantly.

Tears mixed with rain on his face.

Before he could speak—

One masquerade threw a burning powder into the air.

WHOOSH!

A circle of fire surrounded Tunde.

The tallest masquerade pointed his staff at him.

“The boy d!ed the moment the mark appeared.”

“What stands before us now… is not human.”

Mama Dara jumped into the fire without fear.

She grabbed her son tightly.

“He is MY CHILD!”

Suddenly—

The ghostly grandmother appeared again behind Tunde.

Only this time…

Everybody saw her.

Villagers screamed and scattered.

The de@d woman slowly pointed toward the palace.

Then she spoke with a cracked terrifying voice:

“The king knows the truth.”

Thunder exploded across the sky.

And at that exact moment—

The palace gong rang by itself.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The sign of death.

Inside the palace…

The king opened a hidden room beneath his throne.

And chained inside it…
was a creature breathing heavily in darkness.

Then two glowing eyes opened.

And the creature smiled.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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Nigeria where fuel price rises faster than salaries.

The day fuel became gold in Nigeria, nobody laughed anymore.

At exactly 5:30 a.m., the queue at the filling station in Ajegunle had already stretched like a wounded snake across the road. Angry drivers slept inside their buses. Bike men argued over empty gallons. Women carrying babies stood under the hot morning sun, hoping the station would open before nightfall.

But everyone feared one thing:

“What if there’s no fuel again?”

Twenty-three-year-old Chike tightened his faded shirt and looked at the fuel gauge of his keke. Empty.

Completely empty.

And without fuel, there was no work. Without work, there was no food.

His mother had been sick for weeks, and the hospital had refused treatment until they paid the remaining bill. Chike had only ₦2,300 left in his pocket.

Then the station manager stepped outside.

“Fuel don finish!” he shouted.

The crowd exploded.

People screamed. Some cried. A man fainted beside his car.

Chike stood frozen.

That was when he noticed the black Prado jeep parked behind the station. Tinted windows. Armed escorts. Air-conditioned comfort while the poor roasted under the sun.

A fat politician stepped out laughing on a phone call.

“Buy all the remaining fuel and take it to my warehouse,” the man said casually.

Chike’s chest burned with anger.

So this was the secret.

The scarcity was not accidental. Someone was making billions from people’s suffering.

That evening, Lagos changed.

Commercial buses disappeared from roads. Workers trekked for hours. Hospitals shut down generators. Restaurants closed early.

Even churches reduced services because fuel was too expensive.

Darkness swallowed the city.

At home, Chike found his mother struggling to breathe.

“Did you get fuel?” she whispered weakly.

He looked away silently.

Then suddenly, his younger sister rushed inside, terrified.

“Brother… people are burning filling stations in Mile 2!”

Outside, smoke rose into the night sky.

The fuel crisis had become war.

And Chike was about to discover something even more d@ngerous…

The politician in the black Prado was the same man responsible for his father’s de@th ten years ago.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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Rain swallowed the entire village of Ajele that night.

Women locked their doors early. Dogs refused to bark. Even the elders avoided eye contact.

Something evil was happening.

Inside a mud house lit by a dying lantern, Mama Dara cried uncontrollably while holding her teenage son, Tunde.

“Please don’t let them take my child!” she screamed.

But Chief Adigun could not look at her.

His hands trembled.

“The council has spoken,” he whispered.

Tunde looked confused.

“Father… what did I do?”

Before the chief could answer—

BAM!

The door burst open.

Seven masquerades entered silently.

Their white robes were soaked in rainwater.

Each carried a burning torch.

The tallest one pointed at Tunde.

“The marked child must come with us.”

Mama Dara held him tighter.

“No! He is only sixteen!”

The masquerade bent slowly…
and revealed a strange symbol carved into his chest.

The exact same symbol suddenly began burning on Tunde’s shoulder.

Tunde screamed in pain.

Everybody in the room froze.

One elder whispered fearfully:

“It has chosen him…”

Outside, lightning flashed.

And for one second—

Tunde saw something impossible.

A woman standing in the rain.

Watching him.

Smiling.

The same woman they buried twenty years
ago.

His dead grandmother.

Then suddenly—

All the lanterns in the house went off.

Darkness.

Heavy breathing.

Silence.

Then a terrifying voice echoed from outside:

“If the boy survives till sunrise… the kingdom will burn.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

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The road to lagos. Episode 2

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When a child cries in the forest at midnight, either a mother is dy!ng… or the de@d are looking for company.

Musa remembered those words too late.

The engine refused to start.

Musa turned the key again.

Nothing.

Only silence.

Cold silence.

Rain dripped steadily from the roof of the bus while the sound of the crying baby floated through the forest like a wounded spirit.

Musa’s hands trembled on the steering wheel.

Slowly…

Very slowly…

He looked into the rear mirror again.

The woman was still seated at the back.

But beside her now sat a small child.

A little girl.

Her head lowered.

Her clothes soaked with mud.

Musa’s throat tightened instantly.

He never heard the door open.

Never heard footsteps.

The child simply appeared.

His breathing became shallow.

“Madam…” he whispered, “whose child is that?”

The woman did not answer.

Instead, she gently stroked the girl’s wet hair.

The crying from outside stopped immediately.

Now the only sound remaining was the rain.

Musa’s heart pounded heavily.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

He gathered courage and turned halfway toward them.

“Did… did the child enter the bus?”

The woman finally spoke.

“She was lonely.”

Musa swallowed hard.

The little girl slowly lifted her face.

And Musa nearly screamed.

Her eyes were completely white.

No pupil. No darkness. Only pale white emptiness.

He quickly faced the road again, sweating heavily despite the cold weather.

The old conductor’s warning echoed in his ears:

“If the night begins to breathe… do not stop the bus.”

Suddenly—

The bus shook violently.

Then the engine roared back to life on its own.

Musa gasped.

He did not wait.

He pressed the accelerator immediately.

The bus sped forward through the lonely forest road.

Branches scraped the sides like fingernails.

Wind howled strangely between the trees.

And behind him…

He heard soft singing.

A lullaby.

The woman was singing quietly to the child.

But the song sounded old.

Ancient.

Like something forgotten by the living.

Musa tried not to listen.

But every word entered his ears like smoke.

“Sleep little child…

The river has carried the living away…

Sleep little child…

The night remembers their names…”

His hands shook harder.

Then suddenly—

His phone rang.

Musa nearly jumped.

The screen showed: AMINA CALLING

His wife.

He answered quickly.

“Amina!”

But all he heard was crying.

Not ordinary crying.

Painful crying.

Then Amina finally spoke between sobs.

“Musa… our daughter is missing.”

The world around him froze.

“What?!”

“She disappeared after sunset… people have searched everywhere…”

Musa’s chest tightened violently.

“No… no… check the neighbors again!”

Then Amina whispered something that turned his blood cold.

“She was last seen standing beside the road… talking to a strange barefoot woman.”

Musa slowly looked into the rear mirror again.

The woman was smiling faintly now.

The little girl beside her began humming the
same lullaby.

Musa’s fingers became weak on the steering wheel.

Then suddenly—

The child spoke for the first time.

In a tiny cracked voice.

“Daddy…”

Musa’s heart stopped.

That voice…

It sounded exactly like his missing daughter.

Musa slammed the brakes in terror.

The bus skidded violently across the muddy road.

Then the headlights flashed forward—

And revealed dozens of silent people standing in the middle of the forest.

None of them had faces.

To be continued...

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In many African villages, elders say:

“Never carry a stranger after midnight… because not every traveller is returning home.”

But poverty does not fear proverbs.

That was why Musa accepted the journey that changed his life forever.

The rain began just after sunset.

Not heavy rain. The kind that falls slowly like whispers from angry ancestors.

The old transport park at the edge of the village was almost empty. Only two rusty buses remained under the flickering yellow light.

Musa sat inside his broken-down mini-bus, counting the little money he had made that day.

Not enough.

Never enough.

His wife was sick at home. His daughter had not eaten since morning. And the bus owner had already threatened to replace him if he failed to complete another night trip before dawn.

Musa rubbed his tired eyes and sighed deeply.

The old conductor beside him spat into the muddy ground.

“You still dey wait for passengers?” the old man asked.

Musa forced a weak smile.

“If I go home like this, hunger will sleep beside my children tonight.”

The old conductor shook his head slowly.

“There are roads that money should never force a man to enter.”

Musa laughed nervously.

“In this country, poor people no longer choose roads.”

Thunder growled across the sky.

One by one, the remaining drivers left the park.

Soon, Musa’s bus became the only vehicle under the dying light.

Then suddenly…

A woman appeared.

Nobody saw where she came from.

One moment the road was empty. The next moment she was standing beside the bus.

Wrapped in a dark cloth. Barefoot. Holding nothing.

Rainwater dripped from her fingers.
Musa frowned.

“Madam… where are you going?”

The woman did not answer immediately.

Instead, she slowly raised her head.

Her eyes looked tired… like someone who had cried for many years.

Finally, she spoke softly.

“Ekun Village.”

Musa froze.

Even the old conductor beside him became silent.

Ekun Village.

No driver liked passing that road after dark.

Too many accidents. Too many disappearances. Too many stories.

The conductor immediately stepped back.

“Musa… don’t go there tonight.”

The woman entered the bus without waiting for permission.

No footsteps.

No sound.

She simply appeared inside.

Musa felt coldness crawl across his skin.

“Madam,” he said carefully, “that road is d@ngerous at night.”

The woman stared ahead.

“D@nger is already following me.”

The old conductor grabbed Musa’s arm tightly.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Listen to me carefully… if this woman speaks your name before you tell her… turn back immediately.”

Musa laughed uneasily.

“You old people fear everything.”

But the conductor did not laugh.

Instead, he removed a small leather charm from his neck and forced it into Musa’s palm.

“If the night begins to breathe… do not stop the bus.”

Those words stayed inside Musa’s chest like trapped fire.

Still…

He started the engine.

The bus coughed violently before crawling into the darkness.

The transport park disappeared behind them.

Soon, only the lonely road remained.

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

The woman sat silently in the back seat.

Too silently.

After nearly thirty minutes, Musa finally spoke.

“Madam… what is your name?”

No answer.

He checked the mirror.

The woman was staring directly at him now.

Her eyes looked strange in the darkness.

Then—

She smiled slowly.

And whispered:

“Musa… why did you stop visiting your mother’s grave?”

The steering wheel nearly slipped from his hands.

His blood turned cold instantly.

He had never told her his name.

And nobody outside his family knew about the grave.

The bus engine suddenly died.

Everything became silent.

Then from somewhere deep inside the forest…

A baby began to cry.

The baby’s cry echoed again through the dark forest.

Closer this time.

Then Musa noticed something terrifying.

The woman in the back seat…
Was no longer alone.

Part 2 coming soon...

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The road to Lagos. Episode 1

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