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  • Vengeance

    I didn’t even do anything wrong.

    Not that you have to do anything wrong for them to get you these days. I was just walking home from work at night. Hands in my pockets. Laptop in my backpack. That was enough for them. Then came the dreaded call.

    “Stop there!”

    And I did, while they gathered around me with guns at the ready like I was an assassin in the John Wick universe who’d just gotten a bounty placed on their head. I was fucking terrified at this point but did all I could to not show it because others had said that confidence sometimes scared them off.

    “Follow us,” one of them said, gesturing to their van.

    I made my voice as deep as I could. Here went nothing.

    “Why should I follow you? I didn’t do any –”

    That’s as far as I got before I had my jaw dislocated by the butt of a gun. The pain was so disorienting that the next few seconds were a blur. They had me in their van, searching my pockets and bag like giant raccoons going through trash. I saw one of them struggle with unlocking my phone. He handed it to me.

    “Unlock it!”

    I didn’t respond. I pretended to be passed out because of the pain of my jaw. This bastard saw this as an excuse to punch me in the fucking eye. You know, to wake me up. As normal people do.

    After unlocking the phone, it didn’t take long for them to find something incriminating. A WhatsApp chat with a number stored as “Baby”. I saw the twinkle in their eyes as it became clear what they were reading.

    “We don get you.“

    I left the dingy station the next morning with a broken nose, missing a tooth, and covered in bruises. They cleared my bank account and wallet, leaving me with N500 to get home with. The broken nose happened as I was on my way out. As I was leaving, one of them (clearly intoxicated) walked up to me and said, “Segalink no fit help you. If you go yarn anyhow, na 14 years.”

    That damn law. Fuck Jonathan.

    I must’ve glared at him the entire time he was talking because he punched me square in the nose and began yelling, “WETIN YOU WAN DO?! YOU NO FIT DO ANYTHING! MY NAME NA OLASHILE BALOGUN! YOU NO FIT DO ANYTHING!!!”

    I ran out as his colleagues held him back. I kept running and didn’t stop until I was far enough. I started to cry. All I could hear in my head was

    “ YOU NO FIT DO ANYTHING! “

    Something in me had snapped. It was weeks before I could leave my house again. My employers were understanding. They gave me time off to recover from my injuries and let me work remotely when that time ended. At this point, I knew what I wanted to do. I had started putting the plan together slowly in my head as a joke. Like a movie montage. I eventually realized that it was something I could actually pull off. All I would need to do is find his address. That was easy. Then I had to pick a day. It kinda felt like planning a party. For the first time since my attack, I felt excited about something.

    I waited patiently for the D-day.

    Being messy was the point of my entire plan. It would’ve been nice to leave the house as clean as I was when I walked in but I was no Mads Mikkelsen in that show that got cancelled too soon. So, like a kid left alone with a bucket of red paint, I proceeded to paint the town red.

    And it was fucking glorious.

    I’d brought a change of clothes with me so I took a shower in their bathroom and changed. I sat quietly in the living room for a while with everything I’d done around me. Then I slipped out in the dead of night.

    Do I have regrets? No.

    Am I scared I’ll get caught? Hell no.

    A flaw in the system let my attack happen. A flaw in the system will ensure that I get away with this.

    Click here to read other stories in the NIGERIAN HORROR STORY series.

    Astor George

    ,
  • Where Do Sacrificed Souls Go?

    I honestly wish they made a big deal out of it. I wish it was exactly how Hollywood made it look. You know, in a candle-lit room with high ceilings. A choir hidden in the shadows, chanting in Latin for ambience. Everyone standing around in red (or black), floor-length robes, hoods obscuring their faces as they look down at the sacrifice who is tied down in the middle of a pentagram drawn with blood.

    I’m not even sorry if you think this is super-specific. I refuse to apologize for wanting my sacrificial murder to have had some pageantry.

    The only similarity to the movies is that it takes place in a dimly lit room. Other than that, it happens the same way every time. People are brought in, terrified or passed out (because they’ve either been drugged or knocked out). At this point, they’ve already marked with the names of the people who supplied them. The chief priest says a quick incantation over them and in less than a minute, their throats are being violently slit. Their blood goes into a rectangular-shaped patch of soil surrounded with a bunch of symbols I don’t recognize.


    You don’t need to know how I ended up here. What you need to know is that I’ve been here for three months and two weeks. Another thing you need to know is how much it hurts to have your throat slit.

    That’s why when a soul wakes up here, they let out a blood-curling scream that lasts approximately two minutes, triggered by the physical pain they didn’t finish feeling before they passed on. Which is insane because I always believed that the death of the body was the end of physical pain. Maybe the rules are different for non-sacrificial deaths. What do I know, really?

    We call this place purgatory. It’s where the recently sacrificed souls go. Where all the souls gather to comfort new ones and make their transition as easy as possible. From an aesthetics POV, it’s a stone cave with just one opening – the one through which we see the killings.

    We’ve also put two and two together to figure out how money rituals work. In layman’s terms, sacrificed souls are used as batteries to power money ritual deals. This brings us to another depressing thing.

    The reason this place was never called hell is that everyone knows that hell is final. This place isn’t. At least our stay here isn’t. The life forces of souls are used up by their assigned ritual deals. When a soul has been completely drained, it goes somewhere else. A place that, judging by the reactions we get from the drained souls during their last moments, is much worse than here.

    When a ritual deal’s soul is drained, the one who made the deal has the choice to either extend their deal with another soul or face whatever punishment is thrown their way. Based on a woman I watched here and gone in less than a week, I learned that not every soul’s life force is used at the same speed.

    We have no idea what’s waiting for us on the other side and we have no idea how long we have until we have to go there.

    Lol. I wish a trailer had just fallen on me jeje.

    Click here to read other stories in the NIGERIAN HORROR STORY series.

    Astor George

    ,
  • Till Death Do Us Part

    We didn’t know much about marriage. We didn’t know anything about it, really. All we knew was that when a girl was considered “ripe”, any man who desired her as his wife would approach her family and express his interest. And after a few ceremonies, she would be shipped off from the village to be his bride, never to be seen again.

    Was it strange? Yes. But to teenage me, that was just the way things were for girls. Which is why I wasn’t surprised when the same thing happened to me.

    He’d come home for the same reason the other men did, looking to get married after attaining a reasonable level of success in the big city (Lagos). He showed up at my house with gifts to talk to my mother and said he’d seen me around during his time back. He referred to me as “a beautiful wildflower he wanted to pluck before anyone else.”

    A few weeks later (with every important ceremony done), I was leaving everything I’d ever known and was on my to Lagos as someone’s wife. I didn’t know what to expect, but I replayed the advice my mother had given me before I left.

    “Your husband is the head and you’re the neck. He is your master now. Be submissive, just like the bible says.”

    Something along those lines sha. It’s been such a long time. Anyway, those parting words from my mother were the reason I dismissed all the warning signs. It’s funny because he never even tried to hide them.

    Ignorance is a terrible thing.

    Even though he wanted me to be a housewife, he insisted that I get a degree for some reason. He would drop me off every morning and come pick me up on his way back from work. One day, I lost track of time chatting with classmates which meant that he had to wait longer for me outside the school. As soon as I emerged, he rushed towards me and set my cheeks on fire.

    That was the first time he hit me.

    And it wasn’t the last.

    He pulled me out of school, telling my mother that I had repaid his kindness by engaging in group sex sessions with my classmates. He began policing my movements after this. He accompanied me wherever I went and if I so much as looked in the direction of another human male, I was in for a beating, followed by weeks of being called every vile name you can think of. I couldn’t sleep. He wouldn’t let me. He’d wake me up in the middle of the night to ask how many men I’d slept with since I married him. The electrician. The carpenter. No one was exempt.

    Things didn’t change with the birth of our son. While pregnant, he asked if the baby growing inside me was his.

    That was what broke me. I almost died during childbirth because my blood pressure was dangerously high. When my mother came to stay with us after I gave birth, I told her about everything that’d been happening. She confronted him and he threw her out. Told her she wasn’t welcome in his house anymore.

    She died of a stroke not long after. He didn’t let me attend the funeral.

    I wish I’d known at the time that cutting me off from the only family I had was the last step in ensuring that I had nowhere to run. I had no family, no friends, and no money. He’d even cut his own family members off for what I now suspect was the same reason.

    I was helpless.

    Until he became ill.

    It started with headaches, tiredness, and peeing a lot. He hates going to hospitals and figured it was something benign so he decided to self-medicate. That’s been going on for four months now. He’s lost a ton of weight and recently started complaining of abdominal pains. When I suggested that he go get checked out at a hospital, he threw the 1-litre bottle of coca-cola he was drinking at my head and told me to shut my whore mouth.

    It became apparent (at least to me) when his right foot started to…decay that whatever was going on with him was not something that could be treated with paracetamol. I use the word “decay” because after I began cleaning it with warm water every morning (at his behest), it began to smell. I’ve thought of getting help, but these past four months have been the most peaceful of my married life, and I don’t want to ruin that. Plus, this arrangement fits perfectly into my plan so I can’t complain.

    You see, I’m not exactly sure what’s wrong with my husband but it’s pretty clear that he’s dying. And honestly, I couldn’t be happier.

    Is it terrible that I have to go through so many cans of air freshener to keep his foot from stinking up the house? Yes. But it’s a small price to pay for peace of mind.

    I stood at the alter on our wedding day and made a promise to God to be with my dear husband till death do us part. How could I break a promise I made to God?

    Who am I to stand in the way of death?

    Click here to read other stories in the NIGERIAN HORROR STORY series.

    Astor George

    , ,
  • Eid-el Kabir

    “Sometimes, I think God is punishing me for something I did, which makes no sense because I’m a freaking ram. I don’t see what horrible thing I could’ve done to be cursed with self-awareness.”

    “Well, maybe that one time I hit a handler in the crotch with my horns. He was being a douche (i.e. physically aggressive for no reason) so he kinda deserved it.”

    I’ve tried warning the others about what’s coming but either they don’t understand me or they’ve chosen not to listen. In the past few days, our brothers have been carted off one by one. And even though, we can all see them being tied up and forced into the boots of cars, my dumb ass brethren STILL believe the “chosen ones” are being taken somewhere better to become pets. I feel like I’m stuck in that Ewan McGregor and Scarlett Johansson movie from 2005 named The Island. Or that one scene from Animal Farm where Boxer the horse is clearly being taken away in a Knacker’s van to be killed (because he’s injured and now considered a liability by the pigs) but they lie to everyone that he’s going to the hospital.

    I shouldn’t even know what movies are.

    I know what really happens when one of us leaves. They’re taken to a house and fattened up in preparation for the Muslim holiday, Eid-el Kabir, during which they are eventually sacrificially murdered and eaten. (Something about honouring Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son.) The only reason I haven’t been bought yet is because of my less than desirable look. You see, the humans want fat rams and I’ve been on a hunger strike, which means that I currently look like those models who, in an attempt to stay skinny, only eat cotton balls dipped in juice.

    WHY do I know this?

    Apart from being fucking horrifying, the sacrificial process is super gross. The humans hire a butcher (i.e animal hitman) who shows up with his assortment of knives. By this point, the ram knows what’s up and is freaking out like crazy so the butcher ties its legs to avoid being accidentally kicked in the nuts. The butcher then slits the ram’s throat, leading to blood being spewed everywhere while its body jerks about. When all the blood has been drained, the butcher blows air into the ram’s corpse through a hole cut in one of the legs. This makes it easy for him to shave the ram’s wool off.

    The ram’s corpse is then disembowelled and cut into pieces to make cooking easier.

    I honestly don’t know how I know this.

    WHERE?!

    I don’t know what this says about me but all this cooking talk is making me super hungry. It’s been days since I ate anything and I’m so tired, I can barely move. So what’s the point? What’s the point of anything when none of my kind can understand me.

    I just realized that the only choices I have are:

    • Death from sacrificial murder.
    • Death from starvation.

    Excuse me while I go get some food.

    Click here to read other stories in the NIGERIAN HORROR STORY series.

    Astor George

    ,
  • What It’s Like To Have Your Penis Stolen

    “The biggest change in my life since this happened? Hmmm. It’s hard to pick one thing. It’s a lot, you know? Well, if I had a gun to my head and absolutely had to pick, I would say sex.”

    “Sex and peeing.”

    Not like I wanted this to happen, but I always thought that if it did, it would be in a rowdy place, like under the bridge in Ikeja or under the bridge in Oshodi. Somewhere badass at least, just so I wouldn’t have to watch people snicker when I tell them about it.

    In hindsight, I should’ve known the second it happened. I think I did, actually. I felt a tingle in my nether regions. But at the time, I thought it was just me finally discovering my love for being choked.

    I realise the backstory is needed here.

    It was a Friday afternoon. The ice cream parlour was packed and there was a long ass queue, which made sense because the sun was out in all its fiery glory. As with any queue containing Nigerians, there was a scramble not unlike that one scene from that Brad Pitt zombie movie no one remembers. At some point, I noticed that the girl in front of me would sigh whenever I mistakenly bumped into her. I understood her pain (it was an uncomfortable situation to be in) but I became irritated after a while because who the hell shit in your oatmeal, am I right? I tapped her shoulder and (in what I think was a calm voice) asked her to relax. I was going to explain that I was only bumping into her because of all the pushing when this happened:

    After people around got her hands off my throat, she stormed out of the shop angrily. People asked what I did and I said nothing. Was the experience weird? Yes. But I really couldn’t be bothered at the time because her leaving meant that I got to get my ice cream on time.

    The ice cream (vanilla and strawberry with bits of Oreos and waffles scattered in) was DELICIOUS btw.

    It wasn’t until I got home and was doing my usual “Daniel Craig on the beach in Casino Royale” impression in front of the mirror in my underwear that I noticed something different.

    There was no bulge, which was weird because there was supposed to be a bulge. Not to brag, but my bulge was huge. A thing of legend. If I had a dollar for every compliment I’d gotten…

    I’m sorry. I’m digressing.

    Not seeing a bulge sent shivers down my spine so severe that I had to freeze for a bit to let the feeling pass. With shaky hands, I slowly pulled down my boxers and saw… nothing.

    My penis was gone.

    The entire area was so smooth it could’ve passed for a Ken doll’s crotch.

    Legend has it that Mariah Carey is still threatened by the high-pitched scream I let out that day.

    You can probably tell already, but my mind’s first defence against traumatic events is countering it with humour. This is why the first thing that came to my mind after screaming is this comic strip I saw a few years ago about what people who steal penises do with them.

    A sound I can only describe as a chuckle mixed with a sob escaped my lips. This led to a full-on nervous breakdown, brought on by the thought that after drinking so much water earlier in the day (ice cream included), I’d have to pee at some point and with my penis gone, I had no idea how that was going to happen.

    I paced around my dimly-lit room naked, wondering if the magic used to do this was also strong/considerate enough to rework my anatomy so I could still pee some way. (Out of my ass, maybe?) And then I had my worst thought:

    “What if the magic didn’t care? What if my insides remain the same and my bladder just keeps filling with pee and explodes because there’s no outlet?!”

    I must’ve fallen asleep at some point because a strong wave of nausea woke me up. I sprinted to the bathroom and assumed the position over the toilet, wondering if I’d somehow gotten food poisoning on top of everything, when a warm, salty liquid began filling my mouth.

    It was pee.

    This was when the full effect of what had happened finally hit me. When all the pee was out, I sat on the floor next to the toilet, retching and crying. When did this happen?? I Was this my life now? Would I have to do a “Linda Blair in The Exorcist” impression every time I had to pee??

    What was I going to do? I couldn’t tell anyone. I’d trend online and become known as the guy who pees out of his mouth. No way. So I kept my mouth shut. Until now. And that’s only because you’ve promised to keep my identity a secret.

    It’s been six months. Peeing is still torture, but it’s either that or internet infamy, so I’m good. I still have sex btw. I’m not going to explain how, though, because Nigeria isn’t ready for that yet.

    If you’re wondering how I found out that the girl from the ice cream parlour was the culprit (even though it should’ve been obvious given the series of events), she told me. She somehow got my email address and sent me a long ass message explaining why she did what she did. Apparently, during the scramble at the ice cream shop, she believed that all the times I bumped into her were my attempts to rub my penis on her butt. So, she punished me by taking it.

    I haven’t given up hope, though. I mean, I may have found a way to live with my current predicament, but I still want my penis back. I haven’t been able to find her so I’ve been sending messages to the email address she messaged me with.

    Fingers crossed hoping she replies one day.

    Click here to read other stories in the NIGERIAN HORROR STORY series.

    Astor George

    , , ,
  • The Secret Lives Of Butchers

    “This is an interview for a column on the blog I write for where I interview seniors about their careers. So I’m going to ask you a couple of questions and you can just answer however you want. Is that okay, Mr Yellow?”

    Neither of the kids had the foggiest idea why their Father had bought a pig.

    It’s not that they weren’t allowed to eat pork, it just wasn’t a thing they had ever eaten at home. So Zara and sister, Shola, were shocked when their father got back from the market followed by Mr Yellow struggling to get a giant ass pig in formation.

    Mr Yellow was the family butcher. Whenever the family needed anything killed, Mr Yellow was their go-to guy. Zara and Shola had known him their entire lives. No one knew his real name, which could be construed as weird seeing as he was practically family at that point.

    No one could concentrate in the house that day because the pig would not stop squealing at the top of its lungs. As the family stood around, watching Mr Yellow get his tools ready, Shola commented on how it seemed like the pig’s screaming was triggered by its knowledge of its eventual fate. Everyone laughed until Mr Yellow chimed it with this:

    “Na so human being dey scream when dem dey kill am.”

    That killed the laughter. Shocked, Zara turned to look at the rest of her family. Shola mouthed the word “Okay then” and ran upstairs. Their mother was visibly uncomfortable. Their Father, however, didn’t even flinch. Even though she was 10 years old at the time, the implication of what Mr Yellow said was obvious. The family never spoke of it again.

    Zara never forgot.

    “I can’t thank you enough, Zara. He doesn’t get a lot of visitors and is always down but seeing you again and talking to you has lifted his spirits. Thank you!”

    “You’re welcome, ma,” Zara answered with a smile.

    Mr Yellow had to retire early because dementia set in, and his wife (everyone called her Mrs Yellow) was always by his side. This annoyed Zara because this meant that she couldn’t ask Mr Yellow the one thing she really wanted to know. She was getting ready to leave when Mrs Yellow asked if she was in a hurry.

    “No, I’m not. Do you need help with something?”

    “Yes. The doctors say it’s not safe to leave Yellow by himself. But I really need to buy foodstuff. Do you mind staying with him for a few minutes while I go to the market?“

    Zara saw an opportunity.

    “No, I don’t mind,” She answered quickly. “Take as much time as you want. No worries.“

    “You’re an angel. I promise I’ll be quick.” And with that, Mrs Yellow rushed out. Zara walked over to Mr Yellow, who was lying in bed, looking at the ceiling with a smile on his face. She sat beside him. This surprised him and made him sit up.

    “Zara. I thought you left already. Aren’t we done with the interview?”

    “We are, sir. But Mrs Yellow had to run an errand so she asked me to stay with you. She’ll be back soon.“

    “Oh. OK,” Mr Yellow said as he relaxed.

    Zara knew she didn’t have much time. She also knew she couldn’t rush things for fear of freaking him out. She took his hand in hers and spoke softly.

    “Mr Yellow?“

    “Zara? Zara. I thought you left already. Aren’t we done with the interview?” He asked with an innocent smile on his face.

    “Yes, sir. We are. I just have one more thing to ask. That one time you helped us kill a pig at our house and my little sister, Shola, joked about the pig’s screams. There was something you said after that…”

    “That what? What did I say, Zara?“

    “…that implied that you’ve worked with humans…the same way that you’ve worked with animals.”

    “Oh,” he said, as he sat up again. The smile disappeared from his face. “I had to. All the others were doing it. That’s where the real money comes from, and I needed the money.” He began to hyperventilate.

    Zara pressed on as gently as she could.

    “Can you explain what you me…”

    She didn’t even need to. Clearly, Mr Yellow had stuff he wanted to get off his chest.

    “Missing people.” He was frantic now. Tears had begun streaming down his face. “Rituals need well cut out parts and people who do what I do are pretty much the only ones qualified and willing to do it for them.”

    Zara let go of his hand in shock. Mr Yellow went on.

    “Politicians! Pastors! So many babies over the years. Oh God. Then there was Clifford.“

    “Clifford. Clifford Orji? The guy that ate people??“

    “Yes. He brought me so much work. Him and the others like him. There were so many. The others were never caught. Still out there. Such good business. And your father…”

    Mr Yellow suddenly went quiet and lay back down. Zara felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She heard the front door open. She was torn between knowing more and keeping her perfect life. Mrs Yellow’s footsteps got louder as she walked up to the room. Zara made her decision.

    “Thank you so much, Zara,” Mrs Yellow said as she walked in. “The market was a mad House. I hope I didn’t take too long.“

    “No. Mr Yellow and I were just…chatting. About old times. I’ll be out of your hair now.“

    Zara stood up and proceeded to leave. She stopped by the door and turned around.

    “Mr Yellow, is there any question I didn’t ask during the interview that you wish I had?”

    After being in deep thought for a few seconds, Mr Yellow looked up with a smile on his face and answered.

    “I really wish you’d asked me about the suya industry. I have stories for days!”

    Click here to read other stories in the NIGERIAN HORROR STORY series.

    Astor George

    , ,
  • The Legend Of Madam Koi Koi

    “I know her rage is justified. We did a terrible thing and we deserve to be punished for it. For what it’s worth, it was never our intention for things to turn out as they did.

    We just wanted to teach her a lesson.”


    (STORY CULLED FROM AN ENTRY IN A JOURNAL BELONGING TO A MR. FOLAJIMI BALOGUN)

    It happened in April 1993.

    Everyone knew she stayed late on Fridays. That, we decided, was the perfect time to execute our hastily put together plan. We hid close to the staff room so we wouldn’t miss her exit. We’d fashioned masks out of our shirts. We were ready.

    “She deserves this,” I said to my friend and eventual accomplice, Joe, that morning. “She’s a fucking terrible person.”

    And in our defence, she kinda was.

    Miss Caroline was, hands down, the meanest teacher at our school. She was like a real life Disney villainess. She owned a Sport Billy-style torture sack that contained such a wide variety of stuff (canes, kobokos etc) that no one would’ve batted an eye if she’d whipped out nipple clamps at any point.

    Well, maybe our parents, but not the students. You see, Miss Caroline was very attractive. And when you’re in an all-boys secondary school, raging hormones force you to ogle whoever you get the chance to. In this case, Miss Caroline.

    Not me though. I hated that woman with as much passion as my 16-year old heart could muster.

    But I’m digressing.

    As she left her office that evening, her red high-heeled shoes clacking away on the concrete floor, Joe and I tackled her to the ground, dragged her back into the empty staff room, gagged her, and turned off the lights.

    The plan was to rough her up a bit. Scare her a little. Let her know that we (the students) weren’t going to take her shit any more. But as the saying I’m making up right now goes; revenge is one hell of a drug.

    The thing they never tell you about accidentally beating another human to death is how much acting you have to do after. We had to act shocked when the news spread after her body was found. We had to act disgusted during the assembly on Monday morning when the principal described, in graphic detail, the state in which Miss Caroline’s body was found.

    “She was barely recognizable. She had been beaten to a pulp, teeth smashed in, and the heel of one of her shoes was firmly lodged in her right eye.”

    Revenge is one hell of a drug.

    We had to act sad during her funeral, which took place in our school’s chapel, as we watched members of her family break down in tears. It was an open-casket funeral and the morticians did the best they could but she still looked like she’d been hit in the face repeatedly with a mallet.

    Damn.

    The entire time, I wondered if the police had gotten any leads. I mean, we panicked when we realized she’d died and taken her purse with us to make it look like a mugging gone wrong but no one inflicts the kind of damage we did for a purse. A couple of days passed without any major events relating to the incident so I believed we were in the clear.

    Then Joe started to crack.

    To say that Joe was wracked with guilt is an understatement. He was constantly freaking out, convinced that he was being haunted by a “shadow demon that tapped the floor as it moved. I remember making a joke about the demon wearing 6-inch heels. Joe was not amused.

    When I couldn’t handle it anymore, I decided that I was going to deny Joe if he mistakenly blabbed to anyone. This wasn’t necessary though because Joe left the school a few days later in a straitjacket after biting off a sizeable chunk of another student’s ear. I never saw or heard from him again. I graduated not long after that.

    That’s when I started seeing it.

    And somehow, I knew it was her.

    Every time I closed my eyes, there she was, invading my dreams. She was exactly like Joe described; an ethereal shadow entity that made a clacking sound when it moved. This went on until I began to dread falling asleep. Exhausted from my lack of sleep, I remember thinking I was hallucinating when I saw her for the first time in my dorm room in Uni.

    In real life.

    I stared at her for what felt like a full minute and pinched myself to make sure I was still awake. As I did this, I saw a face form and give the most spine-chilling smile I’ve ever seen. Anticipating my next move, she moved to block the door.

    Then she came at me with the quickness.

    I woke up a couple of hours later and she was gone. My room was a mess and my body felt like it had been hit by a truck. Everything hurt. Unable to move because of the pain, I lay still on the floor, fucking terrified that she would come back and finish me off.

    I eventually dropped out of Uni and went back home. My parents were confused but I couldn’t explain to them without revealing that I’d straight up accidentally murdered someone a while back and was now living in my own supernatural sequel to “I Know What You Did Last Summer.”

    I pretty much became a hermit. Figured it was an easier way to deal with things. With every encounter (every single one of them violent), I begged for her forgiveness.

    This went on for ten years.

    I don’t know if she’s finally forgiven me or made the decision to do something productive with her (after) life but I haven’t seen her in months. I feel like I’ve done my penance. I can leave the house in peace now. I even spoke to my parents about going back to Uni and they’re stoked. Sure, I’ll be one of the oldest there. But, better late than never, eh?

    Today is the 12th of June 2003, and for the first time in a long time, I’m happy because the future looks good. I’ll finally be able to move on with my life. I couldn’t be happier tbh.

    Click here to read other stories in the NIGERIAN HORROR STORY series.

    Astor George

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  • Biodun was being calm on the outside but he was lowkey furious. When Obinna called him on the phone, sounding frantic and saying he needed help, he was sure Obinna had gotten himself into trouble again. Obinna had a reputation for being the worst kind of onigbese. The kind that would borrow money, try to skip town, get caught, and need to be saved from a beat down.

     

    This is the kind of friendship Biodun would’ve logged out of years ago but they’d known each other a long time. They were like brothers at this point, and he believed Obinna could be saved.

     

    By the end of the night, he’d realize just how wrong he was.

    He was drifting off to sleep when Obinna burst in, clutching a small duffle bag. His clothes were tattered, and he was covered in tiny, deep cuts and dried blood. Biodun was terrified.

     

    “What happened to you??”

     

    Obinna didn’t answer. He locked the door and dashed around the living room, shutting the windows and drawing the blinds. After ensuring all doors and windows were locked, he turned around.

     

    “I’m in trouble, Biodun.”

     

    “Yeah. I guessed that when you burst in looking like you tried to fight a big cat,” Biodun replied. Throwing panicked looks around the room, Obinna rushed over and sat him down in the nearest chair.

     

    “I need to tell you something and you have to let me finish because it’s important you let me finish.”

     

    “Did you borrow money from someone and try to skip town again? If that’s it, you might as well spare me this backstory. Let’s just go pay them and apologize so they don’t break your knees.”

     

    “This isn’t like other times, I swear. Just let me explain. Please”

    “Remember that fine girl I told you about? The one doing her NYSC in that military barracks in Ogun state that’s in the middle of nowhere?”

     

    “Yeah. I can’t remember her name though. Did she do this?”

     

    “I don’t remember her name either and it’s not important to this story so let’s not dwell on it. And no, she’s not responsible. But it did happen when I visited her. Do you know that that barracks only has pit latrines??”

     

    “What?”

     

    “No water closets anywhere. So bizarre. Anyways, my first night there, I was pressed and decided to go unload in the bush –”

     

    “Ew, gross.”

     

    “Shhhh! I went to unload in the bush because I’d honestly rather die than squat over a latrine.”

     

    “So you’re willing to squat in the middle of the bush but not over a latrine?”

     

    “SHHHHHH! You’re digressing. Anyways, when I was all done and getting ready to leave the bush, I heard a baby crying. It was very faint at first and for a second I thought I was hearing things, but it got really loud all of a sudden.”

     

    “Don’t tell me you followed the sound.”

     

    Obinna didn’t answer immediately. He grimaced and lowered his head.

     

    “I followed the sound.”

     

    Biodun was like:

     

    Obinna immediately began defending his actions.

     

    “I was going to ignore it because I’ve seen every horror movie ever, but then I thought that it could be an abandoned baby situation and if the baby ended up dying because of my irrational fear, I’d never forgive myself. But it wasn’t a baby, fam. It was — and I’m going to need you to keep an open mind here — it was a bush baby.”

     

    There was a long pause during which Biodun briefly considered throwing Obinna out. He settled for a deep sigh instead.

     

    “I would ask if it’s crack you’re on but I’m pretty sure you can’t afford it.”

     

    “I know what this sounds like but I SWEAR TO GOD this isn’t a joke. Everything you’ve heard about them is true.”

     

    “Like how they’re a fictional race of  magical forest creatures made up to scare boarding school children into going to bed on time?”

     

    Obinna ignored him and kept talking.

     

    “They’re short and stocky and look like a cross between Sméagol and the leprechaun in that 90s horror movie starring Jennifer Aniston’s nipples. They’re ugly as sin and cry like human babies to draw people in. They have magic and a lantern and…and a mat!”

     

    With that, Obinna reached into the duffle bag he’d been clutching since he came in and pulled out a shiny mat made out of pure gold. Biodun got up and backed away like:

    Still holding the mat up, Obinna walked towards Biodun, who kept backing away with the look of a person whose reality had just been shattered.

     

    “I take it you believe me now.”

     

    “Isn’t that a thing they’re supposed to guard jealously? Why do you have it?”

     

    “The one I found gave it to me. More like offered it. It made me a deal that if I could keep it on me for 7 days, it would automatically become mine. Seemed easy enough. And I figured that I could sell it and finally make something of my life, you know?”

     

    Biodun didn’t respond. He was trying to shake off the sense of impending doom he was feeling. Obinna went on.

     

    “What it didn’t tell me was how difficult holding on to this was going to be. Since I got it, it has been relentless in its efforts to get it back. Relentlessly violent.”

     

    He spread out his arms to show more cuts.

     

    “That’s how I got these. I realized I’d messed with some real shit when it showed up the next night and murdered the girl I went to see. It was brutal, man, and strangely quiet at the same time. It tore her limb from limb. I knew no one in the barracks would believe my story so I ran. And I’ve been running. But I’m so close to the finish line and after that, I’m home free!”

     

    Something about Obinna’s last sentence made Biodun’s brain jam. The feeling of dread that had started when he’d been forced to believe Obinna’s story had risen to insane levels. He began putting words together, slowly.

     

    “You said you’re almost at the finish line. When did all this start?”

     

    “7 days ago.”

     

    “Doesn’t that mean you’ve won?”

     

    “Well, not yet,” Obinna answered, gesturing at the wall clock. “It’s 11:45 pm. I have 15 more minutes before midnight. That’s when the game ends.”

     

    Biodun began to hyperventilate.

     

    “Dude, what’s wrong?”

     

    “YOU BROUGHT IT HERE!”

     

    All the lights in the house went out. The front door violently blew open.

     

    The silhouette of a short, stocky figure stood in the doorway.

    Click here to read other stories in the NIGERIAN HORROR STORY series.

    Astor George

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  • I’m Pretty Sure My Last Uber Driver Was A Ghost

     

    Two weeks ago, I had a business meeting to attend. I decided to go straight from home to the venue because I figured there was no point going to the office first. And because I didn’t want to meet clients with the stench of Lagos transport clinging to me, I decided to take an Uber.

     

    The app linked me to a driver named Moses who was, weirdly enough, only a minute away.

    You see, I live in a place Uber drivers hate to go. It’s far away from everywhere, has bad roads, and they never get rides when leaving so it’s like wasting fuel for them. But I took it as good luck and hopped into the car the moment he arrived.

     

    He seemed friendly. The wide ass smile he greeted me with let me know that I was in for a ride full of conversation. He asked how my night was, and I had half a mind to tell him, in graphic detail, about how relentless my sleep paralysis demon had become but being sarcastic to someone so nice would be a terrible thing to do.

     

    He had just started the ride when he asked the first question.

     

    “Were you born on this street?”

    While wondering what the hell kind of conversation starter that was, I answered “no” and  explained that I moved there with my family in 1996. He got excited by my response and revealed that he used to live on my street and attended Gideon International Children’s school.

     

    The most popular primary and secondary school in my area.

     

    The same one I attended.

    Excited, I was like, “No way! I graduated from primary school in 2002. When did you graduate?“

     

    With a smile, he answered, “Finished from secondary school in 1989.”

     

    I looked at him.

     

    This nigga didn’t look a day over 30.

    And so began my slow mental descent into the abyss of conspiracy theories.

     

    “If he finished secondary school in 1989, he must’ve been 16, at least. It’s been 30 years since then. He should be pushing 50. What the hell is this? Is he messing with me? Should I ask for his skincare routine?“

     

    Because I’m me, it didn’t take long for my mind to make the leap.

     

    “What if he’s a ghost? That’ll explain his never ageing thing. What if he lived and died on this street? What if he was murdered here and gave up his chance at a peaceful afterlife so he could haunt his murderers and their descendants? That explains why he just happened to be on my street. If so, why is he riding an Uber? Is this something he has to do? Has capitalism ravaged the afterlife too?”

    I kept tapping my foot nervously, waiting for the journey to end. I checked the app to see how much time was left. 7 minutes. More questions raced through my mind.

     

    “How can Uber be so careless as to let the living dead sign up to drive for them? Do they not carry out background checks? Such incompetence. If I make it to the end of this journey alive, I’m so taking this up with them on Twit–”

     

    “We’re here.”

     

    Relieved AF, I thanked him and proceeded to open the door when he locked it using the central lock. In that well air-conditioned car, I was like:

    He turned to me and said, “I’m supposed to ask if you’re happy.”

     

    At this point, I hoped he would just kill me and get it over with because the fear I’d felt the entire ride had left me exhausted.

     

    “Yes, I am. That’s a very weird way to ask if I enjoyed my trip sha.”

     

    “No, I meant are you happy with your life in general.”

     

    My curiosity was piqued.

     

    “Why would you ask me that?”

     

    “That’s a thing I’m supposed to find out.”

     

    “For who?”

     

    “Someone I’m friends with who cares a lot about your happiness.”

     

    The car suddenly got very cold. I glanced at the AC knob and it was off. I’d seen enough episodes of Supernatural to know what that meant. So right then I was like, “Listen, Moses, this entire ride has been on some Twilight Zone shit and frankly, I’m tired of being polite. Please, unlock this door before I start shouting ‘kidnapper.’”

     

    He apologized and unlocked the door. As I got out and walked away, he yelled, “I’ll tell your father you said ‘hello.’”, and drove off.

     

    My father has been dead for 7 months.

    Click here to read other stories in the NIGERIAN HORROR STORY series.

    Astor George

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