Chapter 2: A Glimpse of Fate

Suddenly, my eyes open wide as I look the photo for right side of article—my breath just hang.

The picture na police take am for crime scene. Tiled floor full blood, everywhere red, even sofa don soak turn brown.

My stomach turn. The stain remind me how Mama Nkechi slaughter chicken for Christmas and the blood stain refuse wash commot from her tiles. But this one na human blood—too much, too familiar.

Even though image no too clear, the painting wey dey hang for my wall no fit lie:

Na my house be this.

I try remember if I tell anybody about the painting—one small oil work I buy from Abuja art market last year. No neighbour sabi am. The realisation slap me. If na my wall, then the story dey talk about me.

Fake...abi?

I force smile, look the clock—nine minutes to the time wey dem say the thing go happen.

Sweat dey drip like rain for August, my wrapper don soak. I tap my chest small, whisper, "Blood of Jesus." My teeth dey knock together, but I still whisper, "Holy Ghost fire!" I try reason say na prank, maybe person dey use me catch cruise for WhatsApp, but my spirit still dey shake.

Na that time I hear footsteps for outside my door.

The steps heavy, no be like small pikin wey dey play for corridor. E sound like adult, and for that late hour, my mind no fit rest.

With sharp sound, key enter my lock.

I freeze, like goat wey see lion for bush. No light, no sound, only that metallic click.