Chapter 1: The Slap and the Storage Room

Competing with my stepsister for a room, after my stepmother slap land for my face, na so my ear ring, like generator wey no gree off. I freeze, hand dey shake small, but I package my face. If na wahala dey inside, make I carry am myself. Suddenly, bullet comments begin float for air, dey waka like spirit messages:

[No be that haunted room dem dey fight for? By midnight, na there parade of one hundred ghosts dey pass. Anybody wey sleep there, na wahala for am.]

[Make she go back upstairs! This family just move come from another town, the agent don scam them, dem think say dem get better deal, but dem no know say gbege dey come.]

[No be so. If you hide for the storage room, you go dey safe. One soul-capturing talisman wey native doctor leave dey there—ghosts no dey near am.]

[That soul-capturing talisman fit control one hundred ghosts. Ghosts no go even try am.]

As I dey look these comments, I just shock. My body cold instantly, like Harmattan breeze just brush my neck. For my mind, I dey wonder if na wahala don finally locate my head, or if hunger don dey make me hallucinate. For this Naija, trouble no dey ever too far from person wey no get anybody.

Control one hundred ghosts? My heart do gbim-gbim for chest as I dey imagine spirits just dey obey my word, like say I be some village dibia. If say na film, e for sweet. But this one na real life—my own life.

So if I use ghosts take do anything… My eyes sharp. I turn face my stepmother and smile: “Abeg, make my sister take the bedroom. I go stay for the storage room.”

I try package the smile well, like person wey no send, but my heart dey beat like talking drum. Make dem carry their wahala room. Me, I go face my own.