11/4/2024
Ajegunle, Lagos – Midnight
Deep in the heart of Ajegunle, one of Lagos' toughest ghettos, a man hurriedly stuffed his belongings into an old, tattered duffel bag. His tiny, overcrowded room was lit by a dim, flickering bulb, casting long shadows on the cracked walls. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead as he grabbed wads of cash, small leather pouches, and strange trinkets, shoving them into the bag with shaky hands.
Outside, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the narrow, trash-littered corridor.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Smallie! Come out!" a gruff voice roared, followed by another, deeper and angrier:
"We know you're in there, you dwarf bastard! Open this door before we break am!"
Smallie clenched his jaw. He had been in bad situations before, but this? This was different. He reached into his bag, pulling out a small clay pot filled with fine, dark powder. Whispering a rapid incantation under his breath, he threw a pinch into the air.
A shimmer rippled through the room. Within seconds, his entire body—along with his bag—vanished into thin air.
CRASH!
The door splintered inward as two men stormed in, their faces twisted in rage. One was tall and wiry, with tribal marks across his cheek. The other was a broad-shouldered brute, bald, with a jagged scar running from his temple to his chin.
The tall one scanned the room, his nose flaring. "He no dey."
The scarred man wasn't convinced. Without a word, he pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket, untied the string, and blew a fine, shimmering powder into the air. The dust swirled, then suddenly stopped—clinging to an invisible figure crouched in the corner.
Smallie.
The scarred man grinned. "You think say you sharp, abi?"
Before Smallie could react, a heavy fist smashed into his skull.
1:07am
They dragged Smallie through the narrow, foul-smelling alleys of Ajegunle, his feet barely touching the ground. His face was swollen, his shirt torn and stained with blood. He had heard the whispers, the warnings—no one crosses Afarogun Makinde and lives—but hearing and experiencing were two different things.
Makinde's house wasn't just a house. It was a fortress.
A crumbling mansion in the middle of the ghetto, surrounded by high walls covered in strange, tribal markings. No one entered unless summoned, and those who did rarely came out the same. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of burning herbs, candle wax, and something deeper—something wrong.
In the center of the main hall, Makinde sat on a throne—a monstrous, hand-carved seat made of dark wood, bones, and charms.
Afarogun Makinde.
The Death that Walks.
His skin was deep ebony, his bald head smooth like polished stone. His sharp features were marred only by the long scar running from his forehead down to his jaw. His robes were black, embroidered with golden sigils that pulsed faintly, as if alive. His fingers, long and bony, tapped idly on the armrest as he studied Smallie with a gaze colder than the grave.
The room was silent, except for the soft flickering of oil lamps. His men stood still, waiting, watching.
Makinde finally stood, his presence swallowing the air in the room.
"So… you think say you fit owe me money and just disappear?" His voice was deep, smooth, almost hypnotic.
Smallie coughed, his ribs screaming in pain. "Oga, no be like that—"
A sharp slap sent him crashing to the ground. Blood dripped from his split lip.
Makinde sighed. "I no like nonsense, Smallie. You dey do small, small work for me, I tolerate you. You dey sell my charms for streets, I look away. But now… you wan do me strong thing? You dey joke with Death."
Smallie's hands trembled as he pressed them against the cold floor. "Abeg, Makinde… I swear, I no wan run. I just—"
Makinde laughed. A slow, cruel sound.
Then, before Smallie could react, Makinde's hand shot out, gripping his head.
A sudden, unbearable pain exploded in Smallie's skull. He tried to scream, but no sound came. His veins turned black, his skin shriveling as Makinde drained him. It felt like his soul was being pulled from his flesh, piece by piece, as an icy darkness swallowed him whole.
Within seconds, his body collapsed—a dried, lifeless husk.
Makinde wiped his hand against his robe as he turned to his men. "Carry am go burn."
His voice was casual, as if he had just stepped on ant.
The moment Smallie's lifeless husk was dragged out, the heavy wooden doors creaked open again.
Three men stumbled in. Two of them were supporting a third—a man whose face was half-burnt, his skin charred and peeling. The other two didn't look much better. Their clothes were torn, dried blood crusted on their faces, their bodies battered. They barely had the strength to stand, but they dragged themselves forward, heads lowered in shame.
Makinde, who had just sat back on his throne, raised an eyebrow. "What is this nonsense?"
The tallest of the three, still holding his ribs like they might break apart, swallowed hard. "Oga… na Wonda. Na the shapeshifter. We dey pursue am because of the money wey she owe. We almost catch am, but—"
Makinde's expression darkened. "But what?"
The one with the burnt face coughed, wincing as if speaking itself was painful. "Oga… she get help. Somebody help am. Person wey… we no fit touch."
Makinde leaned forward slightly. The air in the room tightened, growing heavy. His men shifted uncomfortably. No one had ever neutralized his power before.
"You dey tell me say person fit block my juju?" His voice was calm, but that was what made it worse. The calm before the storm.
The men exchanged nervous glances.
The burnt one finally spoke, his voice hoarse. "Yes, Oga. Whoever he be… he strong. He beat us like say we be children. And the charms wey you give us? No even work."
Silence.
Then, suddenly—Makinde burst into laughter.
A deep, eerie laugh that echoed through the room like a death bell. His men tensed, knowing that laughter from Makinde was never a good sign.
He stood up slowly, stepping down from his throne. The flickering candles around him seemed to dim. The air itself became thick, almost suffocating.
"So una dey tell me say…" He turned to them, his eyes dark, unreadable. "…say person dey for this Lagos… wey fit cancel me?"
Nobody dared to answer.
Makinde exhaled sharply, then turned to one of the guards at the door.
"Go." His voice was low, deadly. "Find out who the bastard be. And bring him to me."
His gaze flicked back to the three battered men.
"As for una… una go show me where this Wonda dey hide. And pray say she still dey alive."
Because if Makinde couldn't kill the man who helped her…
He would make sure she suffered instead.
Makinde sat in his throne-like seat, lost in thought. Someone had defied him.
Not just any fool from the streets—someone powerful enough to neutralize his magic and take down his men without breaking a sweat. That was impossible. Unheard of.
This wasn't just about revenge anymore. This was about power. Respect. Fear.
No one challenged Afarogun Makinde and lived to tell the tale.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he snapped his fingers.
A moment later, an old man shuffled into the dimly lit room. His chief babaláwo.
The man was hunched with age, his skin dark and wrinkled like old leather. Strings of cowries and bones dangled from his neck, clicking softly as he moved. His white robe was stained with ancient symbols, and his milky eyes suggested he saw beyond the physical realm.
"Kábíyèsí," the old man murmured, bowing his head in deep respect. "What do you ask of me?"
Makinde's gaze was cold. "One of my men was touched by a power I do not know. I want to know who did it… and where they are now."
The babaláwo hummed, stepping closer to the injured guards. He reached out, his fingers brushing the burnt man's chest. Immediately, the man groaned in pain as dark energy slithered from the babaláwo's fingertips, sinking into his skin.
A deep chanting filled the room.
Makinde watched as his babaláwo worked, tracing invisible patterns in the air, muttering incantations that crawled under the skin of those who heard them. The old man suddenly jerked, his head snapping up as if something unseen had grabbed his soul.
His breath quickened. Then, in a slow, shaky voice, he whispered:
"He is not far… but his power is… unfamiliar."
Makinde's eyes gleamed. "You can track him?"
"Yes," the old man rasped. "But he is dangerous, Kábíyèsí. You must send someone… worthy."
A slow, dark smile spread across Makinde's lips. He already knew who.
Omoba moved like a shadow through the streets of Lagos, his presence commanding attention even in the roughest parts of the city. Tall, muscular, and dangerously handsome, he was a teenager bred for violence and precision. Though he bore no physical resemblance to his father, there was no mistaking who he was—his aura alone carried Makinde's legacy.
Armed with charms for protection and strengthened by incantations whispered over his skin, Omoba had one mission: find the person who dared defy Makinde's magic and erase him from existence.
As he moved through the ghetto, the streets whispered in fear. They all knew—when Omoba was sent, someone was about to disappear forever.
⸻
In a dimly lit, quiet section of Lagos, far removed from the chaos of the ghetto, Christopher watched as the girl before him hesitated.
"What's your name?" he asked, his voice even but curious.
The teenager gave a small, almost sad smile. "My name is Gift," she said, pausing. "But around here, they call me Wonda."
"Wonda?" Christopher raised an eyebrow.
She nodded. "It's because of what I can do. I'm a shapeshifter."
Christopher folded his arms, studying her. "And why are Makinde's men chasing you?"
A heavy silence fell before Wonda spoke again. "I'm not from Nigeria. I was born in South Africa, but when I was six, my parents brought me here on holiday to visit my aunt. We had a car accident. I was the only survivor."
She took a shaky breath before continuing. "With nowhere to go, I wondered the streets until I met Matthew—he's my brother now. He's a vampire, cast out of his family because his father is a priest, and he could never be associated with something unholy."
Christopher listened intently as she went on.
"Matthew and I survived the only way we knew how. We started working for Makinde. His men—Eran, Boy, and Gelbo—became like family to us. But then we realized Makinde was getting too dangerous, too controlling. We wanted out." She let out a dry laugh. "Makinde doesn't let people go."
The words had barely left her mouth when the night shattered.
Gunshots rang out.
Christopher tensed, his instincts kicking in. "Run, Gift."
"I can't," she said quickly. "Makinde put a restraint charm on me. I can't shapeshift."
Christopher barely hesitated. He moved forward, placed his hand over her chest, and siphoned the magic binding her. The moment it left her body, her form blurred.
In a flash, she was gone—an eagle soaring into the night sky.
Christopher turned, feeling the weight of something heavy settle in the air. A presence.
His stomach dropped.
Standing there, watching him with cold, unreadable eyes, was a Omoba
A gun was clutched tightly in his grip.
He raised it.