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CHAPTER 12.
RED EARTH,SOFT FOOTSTEPS.
Ebonyi — When the Land Starts Talking
The market day come with bell sound and laughter.

Not Lagos kind of laughter—this one no dey compete. It sit comfortably inside chest.

Kelechi follow Nkiru to the village square, basket balanced on head like she don do am before. Nobody teach her. Her body just… know.

Red earth rise under their feet. Women call out prices.

Smoke curl from roasting corn. A group of old men argue about land boundaries like the argument older than all of them.

As Kelechi arranged ugu leaves on table, an elderly woman stop in front of her.

She stare.
Long.
Then she smiled.

“You no be from here,” the woman say in Igbo. “But your spirit don rest small.”

Kelechi swallowed.
“I’m trying to remember myself.”
The woman nodded.

Self no dey hide forever. E dey wait for right silence.”
She buy vegetables and walk away.
Those words follow Kelechi like shadow.

Later, as she measure pepper, a tune slip out of her mouth—soft, absent-minded.

Nkiru pause mid-gesture.
“That song,” she say slowly. “it’s an old Igbo song. My grandmother used to sing it.”

Kelechi froze.
“I don’t know why I know it,” she whisper.
Nkiru touch her arm.Memory sleeps in layers.”

THE JOURNALIST _CLOSE BUT NOT CLOSE ENOUGH.

Aisha arrived in Abakaliki with dust on her shoes and resolve in her eyes.

She didn’t rush to ask questions. She bought roasted corn. She listened.

She sat in buses and allowed people complain about fuel, government, weather.

Information hides inside complaint.
One woman mentioned an accident.

Another talked about the stranger woman staying with Nkiru the vegetable seller.Aisha heart skip—but she steady herself.

She couldn’t speak the truth.
She took note.

ZINO _EASTWARD BOUND.
The bus ride east roughed Zino up.

Bad road. Sudden stops. Goat crossings. Conversations he didn’t join.

He stared out the window, watching trees replace buildings, billboards give way to shrines.

Each mile away from Lagos strip something from him—swagger, impatient.

He clutched a small bag. Inside: clothes, cash, and the Bible he stole from Mama Iyabo’s stall the night Kelechi disappear.

He didn’t know why he took them.
He just did.

At a checkpoint, police stopped the bus.
Zino’s heart skipped.

Officer glanced at him, uninterested.
“Oga, where you dey go?”

“Looking for someone,” Zino replied.
Officer waved him on.
That answer felt like a prayer.

EBONYI_A SKILL REVIEW ITSELF.

That evening, generator failed in the village clinic.
A woman in labor scream.
Panic ripple.
Nkiru shouted for help.
Kelechi stand frozen for one second—then move.
“Boil water,” she say. “Bring clean cloth.”
Everybody obeyed.

She didn’t know where the authority came from, but it was firm.She guide the woman’s breathing, wipe sweat, give instructions
The Baby’s cry pierced the night.
Relief flooded the room.
The nurse stared at Kelechi.
“Who trained you?”
Kelechi shook her head, breath shaking.
“I don’t know.”
But her hands tremble with recognition.

Near Misses
Next day, Aisha walked past the market stall.She paused.
Something about the way Kelechi hold knife, the scar on her wrist, the focus in her eyes.
Aisha stare.

Kelechi glanced up—briefly.
Their eyes meet.
Nothing click.
Aisha moved on, unsettled.

“She look like the girl,” she mutters to herself. “But memory play tricks.”
She writes it down anyway.Danger Learns Patience

That same evening, a man sat under the tree near the road, pretending to repair phone.
He observed.He note who enter compound. Who leaves. What time the lights go off.

He send one message.
She’s here. But not alone.
Reply came fast.
Wait.

ROOTS BEGAN TO PUSH.

That night, Kelechi sat alone under mango tree, Bible open on her lap.
She flip pages randomly.

Her eyes land on underlined verse.
Handwriting beside it—hers, though she doesn’t recognize it.“Stand, even when ground shake.”

Her chest aches.

Tears come—not violent, just steady.

Somewhere inside her, something knock.

Not memory yet.
But door

ROADS COVERAGE.

Zino reached Abakaliki by dawn.
Dusty. Tired. Hopeful.

He stepped down from bus, inhale deeply.
“Ebonyi,” he whispers. “Show me.”Aisha, across town, sips tea and review notes.

Two seekers.

One lost woman.

One land holding all the cards.

And somewhere between red earth and old songs,

The past stretch its fingers—
Ready to be remembered,

Or to wound.

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CHAPTER 11.
WHAT THE RIVER KEEPS.

Ebonyi — The Quiet Work of Living
Mornings in Ebonyi doesn’t shout.
It clears throat.

Kelechi woke to rooster sound and wood smoke.Her body still complaining—arm stiff, head heavy—but pain has learnt her name by now.

She sat up on the thin mattress inside Nkiru’s room, listening to water splash outside as somebody washes the plates.

She step out barefoot.Red earth cool under her feet.Mango tree shade wide like hand of elder.

Nkiru by fire, stirring soup with slow patience. “slept well?” she asks.
“Yes,” Kelechi replies.The word still feels new inside her mouth.

They eat quietly.
Bitter leaf soup, soft fufu.
Food that doesn’t rush you.
After breakfast, Nkiru carries her basket.
“Come,” she say. “lets go to the river.”

The path narrow, flanked by cassava and palm.
Women greet them with nods, no questions.
Village people know when to ask and when to wait.

At the riverbank, water move steady—no drama.
Nkiru kneels, wash clothes. Kelechi follow, clumsy at first.

“River teaches memory,” Nkiru says suddenly.
“Even the when mind forget, body remember.”

Kelechi paused.
“What if the body remembers the wrong thing?” she asked.
Nkiru smiled small.
“Then river will correct it.

”As Kelechi rinsed off the cloth, something stirred inside her chest—like echo of laughter, heat of oil, smell of smoke.

Gone before she could hold it.
She stared at the water, frustrated.

“Why is my head empty?” she whispered.
Nkiru glanced at her.
“Maybe God will clear the ground before planting new things.”

LAGOS_THE SEARCH THAT BITES BACK.
Zino didn’t sleep.
He sat inside a parked Corolla near Ojota park, eyes red, jaw tight.

For days he chase shadows—bus conductors, union boys, drivers that remembered the accident but no face.

“Eastern road,” they said.
“Plenty injured.”
“Some carried to village clinics.”
Village clinics.

That angered him more than a hospital.
He called Aisha.
“I need help,” he say without greeting.
Aisha didn’t waste time.
“I was going to call you.

The Chairman’s shell companies are unraveling.
Someone tipped EFCC.”

Zino laughs bitterly.
“Good. But that doesn’t bring her back.”
Aisha paused.
“Kelechi?”
“Yes.”

Silence stretch.

“I’ll ask around,” she say finally.
“But Zino… if she disappeared, this city might be safer for her.
”Zino gripped the steering.
“Don’t say that.”
He cuts the call.

Later that night, his fraud mentor show up—like devil that smells weakness.
“You look finished,” the man said, leaning against the car.
“Come work. One clean job.
After that, search anywhere you like.”
Zino stares at him.
“If I do am, I lose myself.”
The man grinned.
“You don lose am already.”
Temptation sat heavily.

Zino thought of land money.
thought of buses.
thought of Ebonyi road signs he didn’t know.
He closed his eyes.
“No,” he says.
For the first time, refusal felt like hunger—and relief together.

THE JOURNALIST _PAPER CUT.
Aisha work through the night.
Documents spread across her small flat.
Names connect like family tree from hell.
Chairman’s fingerprints everywhere—land grabs, intimidation, offshore money.

She write carefully.
No adjectives.
Just facts.

She stop, reread one witness statement:
“A young woman was injured in the protest aftermath.
Family claims she vanished after boarding an interstate bus.

”Called a contact in Enugu.
“Any road accidents last week on the expressway?” she asked.
Pause.
“Yes,” the voice reply. “Bad one.

Survivors moved to surrounding communities.”
Aisha’s pen hover.“Which communities?”
“Ebonyi axis.”

Aisha’s heart quicken.
EBONYI— NAMES AND SMALL MIRACLE.
Days turn to routine.
Kelechi helps Nkiru sell vegetables.
She learn names—okra, ugu, onugbu.
Children begin to call her Aunty.
She smiled at that.
It felt earned.

One evening, a boy fell from a bicycle near the compound, knee bleeding.
He cried hard.

Kelechi run to him without thinking.
“Easy, easy,” she said, kneeling.
She tear cloth, tie his knee with practiced hands.

Nkiru watched from the doorway, eyes narrowing—recognition flickering.
“You have done this before,” Nkiru says later.

Kelechi frowns.
“How do you know?”
“Your hands didn’t ask your head for permission.”

That night, Kelechi dreamt of hot oil, round balls frying, laughter cutting through noise.
She woke up breathless.

One word hung in her mouth when she woke up.
Akara.
She sat up, shaking.
“What is akara?” she asked the darkness.
CROSSCURRENTS.
In Lagos, Zino finally gets a lead—one survivor mentioned “a woman rescued by market people near Abakaliki.”

Hope hit him like a slap.
He packed a bag.
In Ebonyi, Aisha board a bus east, notebook tucked under arm.

And under the mango tree, Kelechi stared at the sky, whispering a word she don’t understand but somehow miss.

Far apart, their paths bend—slowly, stubbornly—toward the same red earth.
Because memory may hide,
Truth may delay,
But roads in Nigeria always cross again.

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CHAPTER 10.
WHERE THE ROAD FORGET YOU.

Kelechi didn’t tell anybody goodbye properly.

Na Lagos way.

If you say goodbye too loud, The city would hold you back.

She woke up before dawn, packed a small bag—two wrappers, one jean, one faded blouse, her mother’s old Bible.

Mama Iyabo was still asleep, mouth open a little, breath steady.

Kelechi watched her for a long time.
“I’ll come back,” she whispers.

She didn’t know that it was a promise she wouldn’t be able to keep.

The bus park at Ojota was already noisy.

Conductors present shouting villages:
“Abakaliki! Afikpo! Ohaukwu!”
“Last bus! Enter with your change!”

Kelechi hesitated a little when she heard Abakaliki.

Ebonyi wasn’t her home but was the road Close enough.

She climbed inside the bus.
Bus old but strong.

The kind that has survived bad roads and worse drivers.

People settle—traders, students, one woman with basket of dried fish, one man clutching Ghana-must-go like secret.

As the bus pull out, Lagos disappeared slowly.

Noise fade. Concrete gave way to trees.

Kelechi rest her head against window.

THE ACCIDENT DIDN'T ANNOUNCE ITSELF.

For the first time in weeks, her chest felt light
It never does.

Somewhere after Enugu axis, rain started to fall.

Not heavy—just enough to make the road shine like a mirror.

The Driver’s speed didn’t reduce.

One trailer overtook wrongly. Horn blare.
Shouts.Then—
Impact.
Metal scream.
Glass explode.
World turn.

When Kelechi open her eyes, silence greeted her.

Not Lagos silence.
Deep silence.

Her head ache like a drum that beats a wrong rhythm.

She tried to move—pain shoots through her arm.

She groans.
Above her, the sky grey.

Someone shout in Igbo.
“Chineke! She is breathing!”

Faces hover.
Strange faces.
Worried faces.

“Madam, can you hear me?” a man ask.
She tried to talk.

Nothing came.

Her tongue felt heavy.
Her mind blank.

Blank like chalkboard after rain.

She woke up again—this time to the smell of herbs and antiseptic.

Small clinic.
White wall.
Generator hum.
Ceiling fan turn Slow.

A woman sit beside her—middle-aged, strong face, wrapper tied firm.

“Thank God,” the woman say softly.
“You are awake”

Kelechi stared at her.
The woman smiled gently.

“My name is Nkiru.

We found you on the road after an accident. the Bus scattered .”

Kelechi tried to speak.

Her voice finally come—weak, broken.
“Where… where am I?”

Nkiru froze a little.
“Ebonyi State,” she say carefully.
“Near Abakaliki.”

Kelechi nod slowly.

“What is your name?” Nkiru ask.

Kelechi opened her mouth.

Nothing.
No sound.
No memory.
Fear rose fast—raw.

“I… I don’t know,” she whispers.

Nkiru inhaled sharply.
Doctor confirmed it later.

“No head fracture,” he said.

“But shock strong.
Memory loss is possible.
Maybe temporary.”
Maybe.

A word that carried too much weight.

Days pass by l.

Kelechi sat under a mango tree outside Nkiru’s compound, watching goats pass .

Village life is slow—women fetch water, children run barefoot, men argue about politics with low voices.

Everything strange.
Everything quiet.

Sometimes she dream of noise—sirens, shouting, smoke—but faces didn’t show.

Names didn’t come.
Zino didn’t come.
Only feeling.
Loss without object.

Back in Lagos, Zino waited.

One day.
Two days.

No reply.
Her phone was unreachable.
Unease settle.

By the third day, fear turned to certainty.

Something was wrong.

He traced bus company.
Heard about the accident.
Heard something about survivors taken “somewhere east.”

No names.
Just silence.

For the first time since he was a boy, Zino kneeled.

Not to hustle.
Not to beg man.
To pray.

In Ebonyi, Kelechi sat with Nkiru that evening.

“You can stay,” Nkiru tells her gently.

“Until you remember.
Until you are strong.”
Kelechi nodded.

She had no where else to go.

As night fell, she touched the Bible she woke with—her only familiar thing.

Inside the cover, only one name was written faintly:
KELECHI NWOYE.

She stared at it.
It felt like somebody else’s name.

Outside, crickets sang.

Somewhere far away, Lagos noise continues without her.

And for now,
Her past lock itself away—
Waiting for the right pain
To unlock it.

CHAPTER 11 WILL BE DROPPED TOMORROW.
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CHAPTER 9
TRUTH HAS A PRICE.

The News broke quietly.
Not front page. Not headline.

Just one small column on the corner of a national daily, squeezed between politics and football:

“Questions Raised Over Lagos Waterfront Evictions — Foreign Developers Named.”

Most people missed it.

But people that mattered didn’t miss it.

The Journalist her name : Aisha Bello.

Sharp eyes. Flat shoes.

Notebook that has seen problems and hardships.

She stands across the road from the market one afternoon, watching like someone counting invisible numbers.

She didn’t take pictures. She didn’t ask questions.

She listened.

“Na here police fire tear gas.”
“Na one boy intervene.”
“Big man run go Dubai.”

Information that leaked when people were tired of fear.

Later that evening, she approached Kelechi.

“I’m a journalist,” she says calmly
“I’m not here to exploit you.”

Kelechi sized her up.

“You go write truth?” she ask.

Aisha nods.

“Even if e cost me job.”

That answer earned her a seat.

Kelechi talked—not everything, but enough.

About land, about threats, about names whispered not spoken.

When she finished, Aisha close her notebook slowly.

“This story big,” she said.
“And big stories dey dangerous.”

Kelechi smile a little.

“So is silence.”

THE CALL.

That same night, Zino’s phone rang.

Private number.

He nearly ignore it.
Nearly.

“Zino,” the voice said—familiar, smooth.
“Long time.”His chest tighten.

Fraud mentor.

“You still dey alive?” Zino asked dryly.

The man chuckled.
“I dey thrive.

And I get something for you.”
Zino already knew.

“One job,” the man continued.
“Clean. Foreign crypto.

No victim for your conscience.

Enough money to buy that land outright.”

Zino close his eyes.

The temptation sweet like cold malt on hot day.

“Think am,” the man added.
“Morality no dey stop eviction.”
The Call ended.

Zino sat in darkness long after.

THE VILLAGE CALL.

Next morning, Kelechi receive her own call.

Unknown number.
She picked.

“Kelechi?” an older woman voice call.

“Na your auntie.
From village.
Her stomach dropped.

“We hear say police chase una.

Why you dey fight Lagos? Come back home.”

Kelechi closed her eyes.

Village.

Red earth.
Palm trees.
Ancestral silence.

Auntie continued:
“This city go finish you.
Your mother spirit no dey rest.”

Kelechi swallowed.
“I get work here,” she says softly.

“Work no be roots,” auntie reply.
“Roots na wetin hold tree when storm come.”

Call ends.

Kelechi sit there long after.

CROSSROAD

That evening, Zino and Kelechi sat together, suya smoke curling between them.

Neither talked for long time.

Finally, Zino spoke.
“I get offer.”

She didn’t ask details.
“Illegal?”“Yes.”

She nodded slowly.
“And e fit solve everything?”
“Yes.”

Silence again.

Then she ask quietly:
“And after?”
Zino looks at her.

“After, I go still be who I be.”

She reached for his hand.

“I no need savior,” she say.
“I need partner wey dey stay.”

Her phone buzzed.
Village auntie again.

Zino phone buzz too.
Fraud mentor, again.

Across town, Aisha type late into the night, cross-checking documents, connecting dots between Chairman, shell companies, and foreign developers.

She pause, stare at screen.

“This thing fit scatter plenty lives,” she whisper.
She hit Save.

That night, Lagos rain fell.

Heavy.

Like city dey wash decision from people hands.

No one path clean.
No one path safe.

And by morning,
somebody must choose.

Chapter 10 dropping tomorrow.
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Chapter 8
Ashes Still Hot

Lagos doesn’t heal fast.

It just covers the wound with noise, paint, and movement—as if everybody pretends hard enough, pain, and shame would disappear.

By the third day after the chaos under Third Mainland, the market reopened, but it didn’t return to normal.

Nothing ever really does.

Some stalls stood like wounded soldiers—burnt edges, bent zinc, tables patched with rope and prayer.

Traders arrange goods carefully, like someone touching an old scar.

Kelechi was awake before dawn, as usual.

Habis doesn’t die.

Fear just adds to it.

She bath with cold water, tied her wrapper, and paused a little before mirror.

The girl staring back wasn’t the same one from weeks ago.

Her eyes carried knowledge now.

The kind that Lagos gives you without asking.

Mama Iyabo stood outside already, setting fire under pot.

“Kelechi,” she said softly, “no rush life today.”

Kelechi smiled a little.

“Life no dey rush me.

I dey rush life.”

Mama Iyabo chuckled, then sigh.

“You don grow fast.”

That stung more than a slap.

At the market, greetings were quieter.

“Sorry o.”

“God save us.”

“Na grace.”

Everybody was talking around the matter, not through it.

Names weren’t mentioned.

Chairman didn’t exist anymore.

Zino’s name hung like ghost—half rumor, half gratitude.

Some people nodded at Kelechi with respect now.

Others were scared of her.

“Na that girl wey police nearly kill.”

“Na her matter cause am.”

“She brave sha.”

Bravery was a lonely thing.

Zino was elsewhere.

Surulere morning carried a smell of petrol and fried bread.

He slept on a mat beside an engine block, dreamless sleep that was still tired.

When he woke up, sweat was all over him like someone who ran a marathon.

He sat up slowly.

Freedom still felt unfamiliar.

No calls.

No orders.

No envelopes of cash.

No boys waiting for signal.

Just silence.

And silence was loud.

He stepped outside.

Mechanic yard was alive—hammer sound, radio blasting fuji, men arguing about football like their lives depends on it.

Normal life.

He envied it.

His phone buzzed.

He flinched.

Not police.

Not Chairman.

Kelechi.

You dey alive?.

He replied immediately.

Barely. You?.

Still standing.

He smiled.

That afternoon, she visited him.

She walked into the yard with confidence but still cautious, greeting the mechanics politely.

“Good afternoon sirs.”

One of them look her, then Zino.

“So this na the babe wey scatter Lagos?”

Kelechi raised eyebrow.

“Lagos no scatter.

E bend small.”

Laughter followed her.

Zino watched her like he saw something new—someone who wasn’t afraid of the city again, even after everything.

They sat inside the small room.

She takes in the space slowly.

No judgment.

Just observation.

“You no miss the money?” she asked eventually.

Zino scratched his head.

“I miss the ease.

But not the emptiness.”

She nodded.

“Money wey no sleep well dey heavy.”

Silence settled.

Then she asked the question that matter.

“What if dem come again?”

He looked straight at her.

“Then I go stand with una. Me

Even if e cost me.”

She search his face for lie.

Found none.

Evening brought community meeting again.

This time, fear was sitting at the center—resolve does.

Elders speak of ancestry, of how land was passing like a story, not property.

One woman cried as she talked about her mother’s grave behind the stall.

“This place hold our bones.”

A youth leader suggested legal action.

Another suggests protest again.

Kelechi stood up, voice steady.

“We no be criminals.

We go document everything.

If dem push us, we push back with sense.

”Murmur of approval follow.

Zino watched from a far corner, cap low.

For the first time, he was proud of something that didn’t involve survival.

But Lagos doesn’t sleep.

Across the street, a black Corolla still parked.

Same man.

Different day.

He finally pick phone.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

“He still dey around.

And the girl… she dey important.

”Pause.

“Yes. We go wait.”

Call end.

Engine starts.

The car disappears.

That night, Zino sat on roof, watching city lights flicker like restless spirits.

He thought about the past—fraud alerts, fake identities, stolen land, faces he never looked at twice.

All of them were lining up now.

Kelechi words echoed: Land dey remember footsteps.

He whispered into the night,
“Make my own no curse me.”

Below, Lagos breathes.

In this city,

ashes no mean end.

Sometimes,

na warning.

Chapter 9 will be dropped tomorrow.
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Chapter 7
Everybody Bleeds.

Lagos doesn’t wait for explanation.

By Wednesday morning, police checkpoints multiplied like mosquitoes after rain.

Sirens didn’t stop.

Rumours flying around.

“Dem say gang war dey.”

“Na land matter turn blood.”

“Oga Chairman dey involved.”

“Police go collect their own.”

Truth hidden inside all of them.

The Crackdown
Around 5 a.m., the police stormed Mushin.

No warrant. No warning.

Boots kick doors.

Batons talk. Boys scatter.

Toothpick barely escaped through gutter.

Slim jump fence and tore his shirt.

Dogo wasn’t lucky—police took him.

“On the ground! ON THE GROUND!”
They pinned him down.

“Who you dey work for?” officer barks.

Dogo spit blood.

“I dey work for hunger.”The officer slapped him.

The News had spread fast: Zino’s boys dey arrested.

It was a message.

The Kidnapping

Same morning, Kelechi was at the stall with Mama Iyabo.

Everything was normal.

Too normal.

Then a white Sienna slowed down.

The Door slid open.

Before Kelechi could shout, two handsgrabbed her.

“Mama!”

Mama Iyabo screamed as Kelechi disappeared into the van.

Dust rose. Engine roar.

Gone.

Zino Breaks

Zino got the call while he was talking to a lawyer because of Dogo’s matter.

Unknown number.

He picked up the phone.

Kelechi voice comes through—shaking, butalive.

“Zino… dem carry me.”

Something inside of him snapped
“Where are you?!”

A man’s voice replace hers.

Calm. Mocking.

“You too stubborn. Now listen.”

The Call cuts.

Zino stares at the phone.

Then he moved.

No panic. No noise.

Pure Lagos survival.

The Truth Comes Out.

He had gotten to Mama Iyabo’s place first.

Old woman crying, sitting on floor.

“My daughter no do anything,” she wailed.

“Na land we just want sell akara.”

Zino kneels.

“Mama… na me bring this wahala.”

She looks at him—really looked.

“You be thief,” she says quietly.

“But you no be devil.”

Her words weighed heavier than any insult.

He nodded.“I dey do fraud.

I dey collect land for wrong people.

I don stain my hand.”

Mama Iyabo wiped tears.

“Then wash am. Before blood full am.”

The Exchange.

A Text enters Zino’s phone.

Unknown: Come alone.

Third Mainland under the old depot. One hour.

no argument
He went.

Under the bridge, shadows thick. Smell of oil and water.

Kelechi sit tied, bruised but upright. Eyes still fire.

Chairman enforcer stood behind her, gun loose in hand.

“You choose poor people over loyalty,” the man say.

“That na insult.”

Zino steps forward.

“Leave her. I be your problem.”

The man smiled.

“True. But example dey necessary.”

Gun raised.

Before trigger pull—
Police sirens.

Chaos.

Chairman sold his own man to protect himself.

Everyone ran
Gunshots—wild, not aimed.

Zino grabbed Kelechi and ran.

They dive into gutter, mud soaking clothes, breath tearing lungs.

Police flooded the place.

Someone shouted orders. Someone fell.

When silence returns, Chairman enforcer lay on the ground—handcuffed.

Alive.

Aftermath.

Chairman disappeared from Lagos twodays later.

Private jet. Dubai.

Police paraded some boys. News cycle moves on.

Market still stands—injured, but breathing.

Zino sat with Kelechi on the stall bench one evening.

Sun low. Street tired.

“You fit still walk,” he says softly.
“I no clean.”

She looked at him.

“Neither is Lagos.”

She takes his hand.

“But we dey try.”Mama Iyabo watch them from inside, shaking head.

“This city,” she mutter, “e go wound you, but if you survive—e go teach you.”

And for the first time since everything start,
Lagos no feel like enemy.

Just a hard teacher.

Chapter 8 dropping tomorrow.
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I remain your lovely Story-Hub.

Chapter 6.
Blood Money No Get Friend.

Night fell heavy.

Not the peaceful kind—this one came with a warning.

Zino didn’t go home.

Street rule: when oga don vex, your house no be safe again.

He was at one unfinished building in Mushin, sitting on cement block, his phone quiet for once.

Silence way louder than noise.

Then instinct hit.

He ducked.
Pah!
Bullet kiss concrete where his head was supposed to be .

Dust scattered everywhere.

“Move!” somebody shouted.

Zino rolls, heart pounding.

Two masked men rush in, guns up.

No talking.

Straight business.

Assassination no dey come with explanation.

Zino grabbed a plank, flung it, dived through the side opening.

Another shot missed him by grace.

He landed hard on the. sand, pain shoot through his leg but adrenaline made him move.

He ran.

Behind him, engine roar.

Bike.

Okada assassins.

“This life,” he muttered, breath tearing his chest, “na borrowed.”

He cut into the alley, knock dustbin, vaulted the fence like person who actually had fear of God.

Bullet spark off iron gate.

Somebody shout curse in Yoruba.
"Ìwọ burú!"

Zino disappeared into the darkness.

Meanwhile, Kelechi was asleep.

Mama Iyabo coughs from other side of the room.

Generator hum somewhere.

The Night was normal.

Then her phone vibrates.

Zino: If anything happen to me, tell Mama Iyabo I tried.

Her body went cold.

She called back immediately.

No answer.

Again.

Nothing.

Fear rose like a flood.

She whispers,“God abeg.”

Back in the streets, Zino finally reached safety—one old warehouse near Apapa.

This one was a neutral ground.

Area boys respect the place.

Too much blood has stained the walls a lot of times.

Inside, his boys present.

Toothpick. Slim. Dogo.

They saw him immediately and jumped up.

“Guy! Dem try waste you?”

Zino nods.

“Chairman don send message.Slim cursed.

“Old man no dey forgive o.”

Toothpick eyes hardened.

“So wetin be move?”
Zino looks around.

These boys grew with him.

Hunger, police wahala, street code.
If he fall, they will fall as well.

“Retaliation” Dogo says immediately. “We no fit allow this.”

Zino raised hand.

“No innocent blood.”

Toothpick laughed dryly.

“Innocent don die since.”

Zino stands.

“Chairman want silence.

We go give am noise—but smart.”

They lean in.

A Plan forms.

Next morning, Lagos wake to rumor.

One of Chairman’s warehouse caught fire overnight.

No casualty.

Just message.

One of his trusted enforcers arrested—anonymous tip.

His bank account frozen for Just a little while.

Enough to irritate a lion.

Chairman sits quietly in his living room, beads cold against skin.

“Zino,” he says softly.

“You don choose war.

Kelechi finally saw Zino that evening.

He stood at her stall, limping slightly

Alive.

Her knees almost fail her.

She rush to him.

“Are you mad?! You wan die?”

He looked at her like person that has seen death’s brink.

“Dem try kill me.

Her breath cut.

“Because of us?” she whispers.

He didn’t lie.

“Yes.”She stepped back, shaking.

“This thing don pass love. Na blood matter now.”

Zino nodded slowly.

“I know. And you fit walk away now.

She look around—the stall, the street, Mama Iyabo arranging bowls like nothing happened.

Then she faced him.

“If I walk, dem go still come.

Land no go disappear.”

She takes his hand.

“So we face am correct.

”For the first time, Zino smiled with no swagger.

Just respect.

But from across the road, eyes were watching.

Gang eyes.

Police eyes

Chairman eyes.

In Lagos, when war start,
Everybody don pick side—even silence.

Chapter 7 dropping tomorrow.
I remain your lovely Story-Hub.
Please engage, like, comment and follow my page for more interesting stories.

Chapter 5.
When Drums Meet Sirens.

The protest starts with a whistle.

One long, sharp sound cut through the morning like a knife.

Before sun fully shone, women were already lined up on the road—wrappers tied tight, headscarves firm, babies strapped to backs.

Men carry cardboard and old plywood with marker writing:

OUR LAND, OUR LIFE.

NO EVICTION.

WE ARE NOT ILLEGAL.

Someone brought a talking drum.

“Gangan talk pass English”.

The beat carried anger, prayer, and warning.

Kelechi stood at the front with Mama Iyabo, heart beating fast.

She wasn’t a protest person, but hunger don turn everybody activist.

She shouts with the others:

“We no go gree!”

The words bounced the off buildings.

Market boys joined in .

Mechanics left the spanner.

Even street beggars clapped along.

Lagos unity dey rare—but when e show, e loud.Then police siren answers.

Wiiiii woooo.

Three Hilux vans park across the road.

Riot police jump down.

Shields, batons, tear gas hanging like threat.

An officer with big stomach and darker sunglasses step forward.

“Disperse now!

This is an unlawful gathering!”

The crowd shouts back.

“Na our land!”

Mama Iyabo whispers,Kelechi, hold my hand.

No scatter.”

Kelechi gripped it tight.

Police move closer.

Tension thick.

From a nearby rooftop, Zino watched everything.

His phone buzzing nonstop.

Chairman: Why is the market still active?

Chairman: I told you weekend.

Zino didn’t reply.

He saw Kelechi—front line.

Fear held him.

“Madness,” he mutter.

“Why she dey there?”

Below, one young boy threw a sachet water.

It had hit the police shield.

Wrong move.

“Tear gas!”

Canister flew everywhere.

Smoke explode.

Chaos.

People run.

Women scream.

Babies cry.

Somebody fall.

Kelechi choke, eyes burning.

She tries to pull Mama Iyabo but crowd pushes.

“Kelechi!” Mama Iyabo shouts.

Then baton swung.

Zino didn’t think.

He runs down the stairs, push through alley, jump into the madness.

“Kelechi!” he shout.

She hear am faintly through noise and smoke.

Suddenly, police grab Zino shirt.

Zino turn, rage flash.

“She no do anything! Leave am!”

Officer squint.

“You dey mad? Move!”

Zino flash a name—Chairman’s name.

Everything pause.

Officer face change.

“Sir… you for say so na.”

Zino hiss.

“Control your men before this thing spoil."

Police retreat small.

Tear gas stop.

Zino grab Kelechi hand and pull am away.

They hide behind a shuttered shop.

Both coughing, shaking.

She stare at him.

“So this na your world?”

He breathe hard.

“Yes.”

She slaps him.

Clean.

Sharp.

“You know say you dey protect the same people wey wan destroy us?”

Her eyes wet but fierce.

Zino doesn’t defend himself.

“I know.”

Sirens fade.

Protest scatter.

Street quiet but broken.

That night, news spread.

Videos circulate.

Hashtags trend small before bigger news bury am.

Chairman call again.

“Zino,” he say coldly,“Choose wisely.

Lagos no forgive traitors.”

Zino look at his bruised knuckles.

“I don choose.”

And somewhere in the dark, somebody load a gun.

Because in Lagos—when poor people shout too loud,
somebody always wants silence.

Gangan: Talking drum

Gree: agree

I remain your lovely Story-Hub.
Please engage, like, comment and follow my page for more interesting stories.
Chapter 6 will be dropped tomorrow.