Maureen StoryTale

HER LIPS – Part 2: The Fire

The kiss should have ended at the bar. It should have been a moment—a stolen thrill between strangers. But Isabella’s lips lingered, soft and unhurried, like she wanted him to remember the taste long after she was gone.

Daniel didn’t remember leaving the lounge. All he remembered was her hand in his, her perfume trailing between them, and the way her eyes dared him to follow wherever she led.

Her apartment was dimly lit, warm, and scented with jasmine. She moved gracefully, slipping off her heels with the ease of a woman who knew she was being watched. Daniel stood by the door, his chest heavy, his pulse unsteady.

“Why are you standing there?” Isabella asked, her voice low, teasing. “Afraid?”

Daniel chuckled. “Of you? Maybe.”

She walked up to him, her silk gown brushing against his shirt as she tilted her head. “Good. Fear makes desire sharper.”

Her lips met his again. This time slower. Deeper. Her hands traced his jawline, pulling him closer until he couldn’t breathe without tasting her. Daniel let his fingers trail over her waist, marveling at how her body curved perfectly into his touch.

The kiss grew heavier, not rushed, but lingering—like a promise. Her lips parted, inviting his tongue into a dance that made his chest burn. Each kiss was unspoken poetry, a secret only their mouths could tell.

She broke away first, her lips grazing his ear. “Don’t rush. I want to feel every second of this.”

Daniel’s body ached, his restraint tested, but he obeyed. His hands traveled her back slowly, his mouth returning to hers with reverence, as though her lips were a prayer he had long forgotten how to say.

When she moaned softly into his mouth, he nearly lost control.

The night was fire, but not the kind that burned fast—it was the kind that smoldered, spreading heat through every corner of his body. By the time dawn touched the curtains, Daniel was no longer a free man.

He belonged to her lips.

To be continued in part 3 🔜 Maureen StoryTale fans

HER LIPS – Part 1: The Beginning

Daniel wasn’t looking for love the night he met Isabella. He had walked into the lounge only to escape his thoughts, craving nothing more than a glass of whiskey and silence.

But then she walked in.

Her presence was louder than the music, her elegance sharper than the glow of the chandeliers. Dressed in a black silk gown that clung to her body like a secret, Isabella moved with the kind of confidence that made every man in the room want to be noticed.

Daniel tried not to stare, but he failed.

She caught his eyes. Smiled. And in that smile, Daniel felt something stir in him—something reckless.

Minutes later, she was sitting beside him. Her perfume was intoxicating, her laughter soft yet dangerous. They talked. He didn’t even remember what about—only that every word brought her closer.

When she finally leaned forward, her lips brushed the rim of his glass as she tasted his drink.

“Strong,” she whispered, her eyes locking into his. “Just like you.”

Daniel’s chest tightened. Her lips glistened, parted ever so slightly. He knew he shouldn’t. He barely knew her. But when Isabella’s hand touched his thigh, the world around them ceased to exist.

That night, he kissed her. Slowly at first, like a man testing the waters of a forbidden sea. Then hungrily, like he had waited all his life for this one moment.

Her lips tasted like fire, like sin, like something he knew would ruin him—but he didn’t care.

Daniel was hooked.

Part 2 drops soon 🔜 Maureen StoryTale fans

Title: “The Child of the Twin Eggs” – Part Three: The First Egg Breaks

Night fell heavy on Obuoma, but no one slept.

The winds had refused to rest since the egg cracked. Trees bent as if bowing to something unseen. The river hissed and roared though there was no rain. Even the drums of the night dancers fell silent.

Inside Nnedi’s hut, Mmiliaku sat cross-legged on the clay floor. Her white hair flowed like strands of moonlight. Her eyes—those haunting white orbs—were fixed on the egg in her tiny right hand.

It glowed now.

Not dimly, but bright, so bright it lit the whole room without fire.

Obinna paced, fear eating at his bones.

“Nnedi,” he whispered, “we must call the elders. We must call Mama Ukamaka. Something is coming.”

But before Nnedi could answer, Mmiliaku spoke softly:

“Papa… Mama… do not fear. The first egg carries life. But life is not always gentle.”

And then it happened.

The egg cracked fully with a sound like thunder under water, and from it poured a blinding white mist. It spiraled, twisted, and then—it took shape.

A creature of light emerged, glowing like a star but forming the body of a giant bird—a bird unlike any they had seen, with feathers shimmering like silver rain and eyes burning like molten gold.

The hut shook. The roof trembled. The bird spread its wings, and the wind that blew knocked down calabashes, mats, and even Obinna to the ground.

Then, with a voice that sounded like many voices speaking as one, the bird spoke:

“I am UDAKU, the first of the twins. I bring the Gift of Plenty. Where famine walked, I will sow abundance. Where barrenness lingered, I will plant life. But know this…”

Its golden eyes turned to Mmiliaku, who stared back without blinking.

“…Your journey has begun, Child of the White Hair. One egg remains. And when it breaks… the world will know if it was blessed or cursed.”

With that, the bird rose—straight through the roof without breaking it—vanishing into the dark sky like a streak of lightning.

The winds ceased.

The village fell into silence.

But before anyone could breathe, strange things began to happen.

⸻

By morning, news spread faster than fire. Obuoma, which had been starving from a poor harvest, suddenly saw yam tendrils sprouting overnight. Palm trees bore heavy fruits. Rivers that had dried for months now overflowed.

Women who had been barren for years began to feel life kick in their wombs. Hunters returned with games they had never seen before. Joy filled the land.

They called it a miracle.

They called Mmiliaku the daughter of the gods.

Some fell at her feet.

But the elders… the elders did not rejoice. For they knew what the bird’s words meant.

If the first egg brought life… what would the second bring?

⸻

That night, as Nnedi tucked Mmiliaku into her raffia mat, the little girl held her remaining egg close to her chest, whispering words no one could hear.

But the wind heard.

And it carried her whisper through the trees:

“Are you ready, my other one?”

The second egg pulsed faintly, as if answering.

⸻

To be continued in Part Four…

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Maureen StoryTale

Title: “The Child of the Twin Eggs” – Part Two:

The village of Obuoma no longer slept as it used to.

Ever since the birth of Mmiliaku, the child with the white hair, white eyes, and the sacred white eggs in her hands, the wind had started to speak louder at night. Rivers whispered longer, and birds flew in strange patterns across the sky.

Six seasons had passed.

Mmiliaku was now a child of six years, yet she spoke very little. She walked with the quiet grace of an old spirit, her steps soft like wind on water. But it was the eggs that kept the villagers awake in their hearts. She still held them—never once dropping them, never once letting go.

Even while she slept, her tiny fingers curled around the eggs as if her very life depended on it.

Her mother, Nnedi, combed her snowy-white hair each morning, weeping silently. Not from fear—but from the weight of mystery. Her daughter was growing, yet no one could explain who—or what—she truly was.

One morning, as Obinna took Mmiliaku to the stream, something strange happened.

She paused at the riverbank, staring deep into the water. Then she bent and whispered something no one could hear.

The wind blew sharply.

And suddenly, the water rose—not in waves, but in shapes. It formed faces—smiling, weeping, frowning—all floating above the surface before fading back into the river.

Obinna staggered back, fear filling his chest.

“Mmiliaku…” he whispered, “what did you say?”

She turned to him slowly and said, for the first time in her life, a full sentence:

“They said the time is near, Papa. One of the eggs must choose.”

That night, Nnedi and Obinna could not sleep. What did their daughter mean? What choice? What would the eggs become?

By the seventh year, everyone in Obuoma knew something was coming.

Crops began to grow twice as fast in Nnedi’s garden. Women struggling to conceive started having dreams of a little girl with white eyes placing an egg in their palms. Three women got pregnant that month.

The elderly goat that had refused to give birth for five years gave birth to twins.

But not all signs were sweet.

One morning, Chief Okenna’s son entered Mmiliaku’s path on his way to the shrine. He mocked her hair, calling her “ghost child.” Mmiliaku said nothing. She looked at him—just once—with those white eyes.

Three days later, the boy was found trembling behind his father’s hut, unable to speak. Only drawing circles in the sand over and over.

They called for Mama Ukamaka, the blind healer. When she sat before Mmiliaku and touched her hand, her blind eyes filled with tears.

“This child is no curse,” she said. “She is a bridge. Between what was, and what must come. But beware… the breaking of the first egg will shake this village to its roots.”

The elders gathered. Discussions began.

Some believed the eggs must be taken from her and broken in the shrine to “free” her and the village. Others warned that tampering with the eggs would unleash something they could never contain.

But Mmiliaku, ever calm, ever quiet, began to change.

One evening, just as the sky turned orange and birds returned to their nests, a soft crack echoed in the room.

Nnedi jumped to her feet.

Obinna dropped his calabash.

Mmiliaku sat in the center of the room, cross-legged, her hands before her.

One of the eggs—the one in her right hand—now had a hairline crack, glowing faintly white like fire beneath glass.

But Mmiliaku didn’t panic. She simply said, her voice low and steady:

“It has begun.”

Then… the winds howled through the village.

Old trees shook as if bowing. The sky darkened, though it was not yet night. A soft humming filled the air, like the lullaby of a thousand voices.

All of Obuoma looked toward the sky, hearts pounding.

What was in the egg?

What would be released?

And what would happen when the second one cracked?

To be continued in Part Three…

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Maureen StoryTale

Title: “The Child of the Twin Eggs” – Part One: The Birth

In the quiet village of Obuoma, nestled deep in the green valleys where rivers whispered secrets and trees listened, lived a humble couple—Nnedi and Obinna. They were known far and wide not for riches or status, but for their kindness and undying love for each other. Yet, there was one thing their hearts longed for that the gods seemed to withhold—a child.

For eighteen years, they prayed. At the sacred stream of Umu mmiri, they bathed with herbs. At dawn, they left offerings under the ancient Iroko tree, and by night, they cried into each other’s arms, asking the heavens why their arms remained empty.

Villagers whispered. Some said Nnedi was cursed. Others believed Obinna had offended the spirits. Yet, through it all, they held each other, hoping.

Until one cold Harmattan morning, when the wind danced strangely, and the sun refused to rise on time, Nnedi cried out from her sleep. Her stomach, which had always been flat, was now firm and rising. Panic swept through her body, and Obinna rushed her to the village healer.

The healer, old and blind Mama Ukamaka, placed her wrinkled hand on Nnedi’s belly and gasped.

“This is not a child,” she said. “This is a gift, a mystery, a destiny calling…”

Nine moons passed in strange silence. Animals avoided their home. The birds that used to perch on their thatched roof disappeared. And every night, Nnedi dreamt of a woman in white robes, whispering, “Prepare… She is not just yours… She is ours.”

On the night of her birth, the moon turned red.

Thunder roared across the heavens without rain. The ground trembled as if something ancient was waking. And then—she came.

Nnedi screamed one last time, and a cry echoed that silenced the forest.

The child emerged—not crying, but calm, with skin as pale as the moon, hair as white as cotton, and eyeballs that were pure white, without pupils. But what left the midwives gasping and falling to their knees… were the two white eggs clenched tightly in each of her tiny fists.

One in the right hand. One in the left.

Unbroken. Untouched. Sacred.

The room went still.

Obinna, who had waited outside, heard no cry, no laughter, no movement. He burst in, only to fall to his knees.

His daughter stared at him—through him—with eyes that saw what no human eyes should see.

The oldest midwife, Mama Oluchukwu, trembled as she whispered, “I have never seen this before. The gods have come down… The child holds life in one hand and fate in the other.”

They named her Mmiliaku—meaning “Water of Wealth”—for her birth came like rain after a long drought.

But as the news spread through Obuoma, not everyone rejoiced.

Some villagers called her a blessing.

Others… a curse.

Old Chief Okenna, the village elder, warned, “No child comes with such signs unless they have come to change the world… or destroy it.”

And so, whispers filled the air. Some bowed before her. Others avoided her path. But Mmiliaku, with her white eyes and silent strength, simply held her eggs, day and night.

And never once did she let them go.

One question lingered on every tongue, unspoken but burning:

What will happen when the eggs break?

To be continued in Part Two…

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Maureen StoryTale

Title: The Girl Who Wanted to Wear the Veil
Final Episode (Episode 3): When the Veil Falls

Chika was glowing. But it wasn’t the glow of peace. It was the glow of enchantment—of a soul chained without knowing.

As the wedding plans rolled on quickly, everything seemed too perfect to her. She was smiling all the time, giggling like a love-struck teenager, talking about her future with Emeka. But everyone around her could tell… something wasn’t right.

Her siblings whispered behind closed doors. Her father couldn’t sleep. Her mother wept at night.
“This is not my daughter,” her mother said in tears. “This is not the Chika I raised. Something has taken her away.”

Even Emeka himself felt uneasy.
“Mama,” he said one night to Madam Nkem, “I don’t know why she said yes to me, but something about the whole thing doesn’t feel… natural.”
Madam Nkem waved her hand. “Nonsense! Do you know how many women pray for a girl like Chika? You better marry her before her senses return!”

But Emeka’s guilt was growing like a w**d.

One day, Chika’s younger brother, Nonso, found the handkerchief hidden in Madam Nkem’s room while playing with Emeka’s little cousin. Something about it smelled strange—like burnt leaves and iron. When he showed it to their family priest, the man’s eyes widened.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, voice shaking.

It didn’t take long for the truth to begin to unravel.

That same night, Emeka came clean.
“She never loved me,” he told his mother. “You forced her. Whatever you did, undo it.”

But Madam Nkem was already starting to regret her actions. Chika had begun to behave strangely—staring into empty space, forgetting things, waking up screaming from dreams she couldn’t explain.

The final blow came one evening, just three days to the wedding.

Chika stood in front of the mirror wearing her wedding gown for a fitting. Everyone was complimenting her beauty, but Chika couldn’t hear them. Her eyes locked with her own reflection—and for the first time in weeks, a tear rolled down her cheek.

Then another.

And then suddenly—she screamed.

She tore the veil from her head.
“This is not me!” she cried. “This is not what I want! What am I doing here?! WHO AM I?”

She fainted.

⸻

She was rushed to the hospital. While unconscious, she kept whispering, “The veil… I want my veil back… I want my peace…”

The priest, the herbalist, the family—everyone gathered in prayer.

It was clear now: she had been under a spell.

And the only way to break it… was to confess.

Madam Nkem, shaking and ashamed, knelt before the priest. “It was me,” she wept. “I forced the hand of God. I wiped her face with a cursed cloth to make her leave her path… I only wanted her for my son. I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

The priest was quiet. Then he said, “The veil is not a garment—it’s a calling. And when you touch a calling, you touch heaven’s fire.”

They gathered for a special deliverance. At the break of dawn, with oil and prayer, the curse was lifted.

Chika opened her eyes slowly. She looked around. Her mother rushed to her.
“Are you okay?”
Chika looked at her mother, confused.
“Where am I?”

And then the tears came.
So much pain. So much confusion.
And then… peace.

“I want to go back,” she said softly. “Back to my convent.”

⸻

One month later, the wedding that never was became a testimony shared at church.

Madam Nkem publicly apologized. Emeka joined a mission in the north to serve and reflect. And Chika? She stood once again at the altar, not as a bride… but as a reverend sister.

Dressed in white.
With her veil.
With her peace.

And with a deeper understanding of what it truly means to follow one’s calling—no matter what.

THE END

⸻

Did this story touch your heart?
What would you have done if you were Chika?
Was Madam Nkem evil… or just a mother blinded by desire?

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Title: The Girl Who Wanted to Wear the Veil
Episode 2: A Wipe, A Curse, A Change

When Chika stepped into the convent, everyone said she was born for it. Her calm presence, her gentle nature, her unwavering devotion—it was as though heaven had molded her for one purpose: to wear the veil.

But destiny, as they say, often takes the road no one sees coming.

It all began on the third day of the Holy Spirit Prayer Convention. The crowd was larger that day. Women, men, children, priests, sisters—everyone had come from far and wide to seek God’s face. Among them was a tall, elegant woman named Madam Nkem.

She wasn’t there for prayer.
She wasn’t there for worship.
She came for Chika.

The first time Madam Nkem laid eyes on Chika during the second day of the convention, something strange happened in her heart. It wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t respect. It was something deeper… something darker.

She wanted Chika—for her son.

“She’s the one,” she whispered to her friend with a burning certainty.
“Which one?” her friend asked.
“That reverend sister,” she replied, eyes locked on Chika.
“Are you okay? She’s a reverend sister!”
“That doesn’t matter. Something about her makes me warm inside. I want her as my daughter-in-law. And I will have her.”

Her friends laughed it off. “Nkem, you’re dreaming. You don’t just pluck a reverend sister like fruit from a tree.”

But Madam Nkem was not a woman you laughed at. Especially when she set her mind to something.

The next morning, she traveled to a distant village, deep in the belly of the land where secrets lived and shadows whispered. She sought out a man they called Papa Ezemuo, a dreaded herbalist known for his strange concoctions and impossible results.

“I want that girl to stop being a reverend sister. I want her to fall in love with my son.”

Papa Ezemuo said nothing for a long time. Then, he stood, entered his inner room, and returned with a white handkerchief. He began to boil herbs and whispered into the wind as he stirred. When he was done, he dipped the handkerchief into the pot, wrung it carefully, and handed it to Madam Nkem.

“Wipe her face with this when she’s sweating,” he said.
“Just once. That’s all.”

And Madam Nkem smiled.

Three days later, the prayer convention resumed. On this particular evening, the air was charged with praise. Chika, full of spirit, was dancing joyfully under the setting sun with her fellow sisters. Her forehead gleamed with sweat as they sang and clapped.

Madam Nkem saw her chance.

She stood up slowly from her seat, smiling like an angel on assignment. She approached Chika, handkerchief in hand.
“My dear, come here,” she said sweetly. “You’re sweating. Let me help you.”

Chika smiled, unaware of the trap. “Thank you, ma,” she said, bowing her head.

And then the handkerchief touched her skin.

What happened next still leaves many in awe.

At first, nothing. Then… Chika froze. She blinked several times. Her heart began to race. Something shifted inside her. A strange heat flushed her chest. Her eyes darted around, suddenly unsure of where she was.

She stopped dancing.

“What am I doing here?” she asked aloud.

The other sisters turned.
“Sister Chika, are you alright?”
“I don’t know… I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”

She walked away—just like that. She returned to the convent that night, didn’t sleep, didn’t pray. By dawn, she had packed her bags.

“I’m leaving.”

Mother Superior tried to stop her.
The sisters tried to beg her.
She said nothing. She just left.

When she arrived home, her parents stared at her like she was a ghost.

“What happened?!” her mother cried.
“I want to get married,” Chika replied, eyes distant, voice hollow. “I don’t want to be a reverend sister anymore.”

They were stunned. Chika? The girl who never missed morning devotion? The girl who fasted more than the priests?

Her father and mother rushed to the convent the next day, searching for answers.
“Did someone offend her?”
“Did something happen?”
“No,” Mother Superior said quietly. “She just changed.”

But that wasn’t even the biggest shock.

Three days later, Chika returned—this time holding hands with a man no one had seen before.

“This is Emeka,” she said. “I want to marry him.”

Her family stared at her, too stunned to speak.

The story is far from over.

Will Chika ever remember the path she once walked?
And what happens when love that is forced… begins to unravel?

You don’t want to miss Episode 3.
There is more to this story than love and betrayal.
A storm is coming. And not everyone will survive it.

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Episode 3 will leave you breathless.
Don’t miss it.

Title: The Girl Who Wanted to Wear the Veil
Episode 1: A Dream in White

From the moment Chika could walk, she found herself drawn to the church like a moth to light. While other little girls dreamed of becoming doctors or teachers, Chika’s heart danced at the sight of the reverend sisters. Their flowing white habits, their calm footsteps, their gentle voices—everything about them seemed to glow with purpose. She admired the way they moved with grace, how their smiles seemed to carry peace, and even the scent of their lavender soap left an impression on her young mind.

At school during career day, when her classmates stood up and said, “I want to be a banker!” or “I want to be a lawyer!” Chika would proudly raise her hand and say, “I want to be a reverend sister.”
And the classroom would erupt with laughter.

“That’s not even a job!” they’d mock.
“Who dreams of that?”
But Chika never flinched. She simply smiled and repeated, “I want to wear the veil. I want to serve God.”

Her parents—especially her father—often waved it off.
“She’s just a child,” he would say with a chuckle. “When she grows up, she’ll change her mind.”

But Chika didn’t.
Not when she turned thirteen.
Not when she turned seventeen.
Not even after finishing secondary school.

She never missed Mass, never missed catechism, and always volunteered at church events. She even practiced walking like the sisters, slow and dignified. It was no phase—it was her destiny.

One quiet evening, fresh out of secondary school, she walked into the living room where her parents were seated.
“I’m ready,” she said.
“Ready for what?” her mother asked.

“To enter the convent.”

And just like that, her childhood dream became a journey.

Her parents exchanged a glance—half proud, half concerned—but gave their blessing. A few weeks later, Chika stepped into the gates of St. Agatha’s Convent School, a place she had always imagined in her dreams.

The first few months were everything she had prayed for—prayers at dawn, studying scriptures, the sisterhood, the silence of devotion. She glowed with peace, and every letter home was filled with joy. She was finally where she belonged.

But then… something changed.

Something unexpected.

Something that would shake the very foundation of her vow.

A voice. A look. A presence.
A man.

Yes, a man.

But wait—this is only the beginning.

What happened in that convent that changed her life forever?

How did the girl who swore never to marry… end up standing at the altar in a wedding dress instead of a veil?

You don’t want to miss Episode 2.
What made her leave the convent?
Who is the mysterious man that stole her heart from God?
And did she really give up everything she once held sacred?

FOLLOW for the next episode—👉Maureen StoryTale

Episode 2 drops soon

TITLE: RITUALS OF RICHES (final Episode
Episode 3: The Last Million

Adebayo was drowning — not in poverty this time, but in gold-plated misery.
Each day, the curse reminded him: ₦80 million or death.

He had bought everything money could buy.
Cars. Mansions. Private islands.
He even opened an artificial zoo in the middle of Ikoyi — just to spend money.
But the curse didn’t care about what he spent it on. It only wanted him to spend… or die.

And death was getting closer.

The shadow that whispered to him began visiting in the daytime.
It stood by his mirror.
Sat by his bedside.
Sometimes, he’d be at a party, and no one else could see it — but there it was, staring at him with empty eyes.

“You missed ₦3.7 million yesterday,”
the voice said one night,
“Your soul will pay.”

The next morning, Adebayo woke up vomiting blood.

He called pastors.
He flew to India.
He even tried to burn the money.
But the money never burns. It always multiplies.

One night, he managed to find Femi, the same friend who introduced him to the ritual.

“Femi, why didn’t you tell me the truth?” Adebayo begged. “Why did you bring me into this evil?”
Femi looked at him, broken.
“You think I didn’t try to warn you? You were too hungry for wealth. Now you understand why we disappear.”

Then Femi whispered something that changed everything:

“There’s a final way out… but it comes with a greater price.”

Adebayo leaned forward.

“Anything. I’ll do anything.”

“You must sacrifice what you value most. Something pure. Something innocent. Something the gods never gave you for profit.”

“What does that mean?” Adebayo asked.

“You’ll understand… when the dream comes.”

That night, Adebayo had a dream.
He saw his mother — Mama Adebayo — smiling at him, holding his childhood photo.
Then the shadow appeared and whispered:

“Your freedom lies in the blood of the one who gave you life.”

He screamed awake.
Sweating. Crying.

Was he meant to sacrifice his own mother?
Was that the “greater price”?

For days, he avoided her.
But the pressure grew.

Each missed million took a piece of his soul.
He grew thinner.
Paler.
Weaker.

Until one evening, Mama Adebayo showed up at his mansion, holding a plate of pounded yam.

“Ọmọ mi, I’ve not seen you in weeks. What’s going on?”
She smiled, her eyes warm.
“All this money… but you look like someone dying inside.”

Tears welled in Adebayo’s eyes.
He stared at her for a long time.

And then something in him broke.

“Mama… please pray for me. I’ve made a mistake… a terrible one.”

That night, instead of killing her — like the shadow demanded — Adebayo knelt at her feet.
He confessed everything.

Mama Adebayo didn’t scream.
She didn’t slap him.
She simply looked at him with watery eyes and said:

“Then let us pray. Let us fight this darkness together.”

For the first time, Adebayo refused to spend.

That day, he spent ₦0.00.

And he waited.

Midnight came.

The winds howled.
The clocks stopped ticking.
The shadow arrived — tall, dark, with blood dripping from its fingers.

“You broke the vow,” it growled.

Adebayo closed his eyes, ready to die.

But then… something happened.

A powerful light burst through the window — bright, warm, and pure.
It surrounded Mama Adebayo.
And the shadow screamed.

“You dare bring the light of truth into this covenant?!”

Then it vanished.

The curse was broken.

Not because of rituals.
Not because of pastors.
But because Adebayo chose to protect what was innocent, instead of sacrificing it.

That night, all the money vanished.
The cars, the houses, the fame — gone.

He returned to the village, poor again… but finally free.

And for the first time in years, he slept peacefully.

⸻

THE END.

⸻

LESSON:

Not all wealth is a blessing. Quick money may come with silent chains.
And sometimes, what saves us is not power… but sacrifice, truth, and the people who truly love us.

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TITLE: RITUAL OF RICHES
Episode 2: Spend or Die

The next morning, Adebayo woke up feeling like a king.
Fresh designer clothes hugged his skin. An armored black G-Wagon waited outside his gate, glinting under the early morning sun. Two hefty bodyguards stood beside it, nodding at him like he was royalty.

Was this real life? he wondered, pinching himself.
Money wasn’t his problem anymore — spending it was.

80 million naira.
Every single day.
Or death would find him.

At first, it was fun.
He stormed into luxury boutiques in Lagos, buying every shoe, every wristwatch, every diamond ring in sight. He booked presidential suites he didn’t even sleep in.
He dashed millions to strangers on the street, feeling like a god.

“Adebayo ti de!”
“Bayo of Lagos!”
“Bayo, Baba 80 Million!”

People hailed him everywhere he went. His Instagram exploded. Celebrities begged to be his friends.
He was living faster than he had ever dreamed.

But after a week…
Things began to shift.

No matter how much he spent, it was never enough.
The money multiplied overnight like a cursed river that refused to dry.
Properties? He bought them.
Private jets? He chartered them.
He even started throwing money shows — events where he rained cash from balconies just to meet the daily target.
But the curse didn’t care for his efforts. It only demanded more.

The first warning came silently.

One night, as he lay in his gold-plated bed, a cold hand brushed his chest.
A shadow with hollow eyes whispered into his ears:

“You have 17 million unspent. Prepare for pain.”

He screamed and jumped out of bed, but no one was there.
His guards didn’t hear the voice.
His friends called him crazy.

The next morning, his right hand went numb.
His fingers twisted backward — bones cracking like dried sticks.
Doctors couldn’t explain it.
Prayer houses told him to confess his sins.
Baba Alagbede?
Nowhere to be found.

Panic set in.

He realized he was trapped in a game he could never win.
This wasn’t wealth.
It was slavery with diamonds.

Adebayo began to grow desperate.

He started buying things he didn’t need.
Ten yachts at once.
Six private schools he would never attend.
He married three wives in one month, just to spend more.
He flew to Dubai, Paris, London in a single day, dropping bags of money wherever he went.

But the more he spent, the more the money laughed at him, growing bigger, wider, endless like a hungry beast.

His old friends, Femi and the others, started avoiding him.
They knew.
They had been there too.
And they knew what would happen next.

The fear of death crept into Adebayo’s soul, slowly poisoning every moment of his so-called paradise.
Every day now felt like a countdown to doom.

The wealth that once made him a king was now his prison.
And the scariest part?
He hadn’t even seen the full horror yet.

⸻

TO BE CONTINUED IN EPISODE 3…

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