Chapter 1: Madness in the Ward

At a depth of ten thousand meters beneath the sea, the kind of thing that can make even the hardest scientists freeze happened—a mountain of flesh, massive and trembling, rose up from the deep like something straight out of our grandmothers’ nightmares.

If you stood with them in that moment, you would taste sharp salt in the air and feel the ocean’s cold biting through your bones, making your teeth chatter like NEPA wires during harmattan. Even the seawater seemed to whisper strange stories, and the floodlights threw monstrous shadows across something that had no business existing in this world.

The lead professor lost his mind, repeating the same words over and over:

The mountain is alive. Humanity has failed.

His voice carried down the hospital corridors like a bad omen after midnight rain. Some people said he sounded as if the ancestors had hijacked his tongue, every word cracking with secrets heavy enough to sink a canoe. Even the nurses paused in the hallways, crossing themselves and muttering, “God abeg, protect us from village people.”

The mountain is Olumide. Olumide is the mountain.

In this world, humanity does not exist at all.

The next day, he vanished from his locked ward—no trace, not even a broken window.

Only a battered diary remained, holding the truth about our world.

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1

I work as a doctor in a psychiatric hospital. About a week ago, they brought in a patient so strange the matron herself whispered, “This one get as e be.” His eyes darted around like a bush rat trapped by hunters, and his words ran in riddles that made even our toughest security men nervous.

His name is Dr. Olumide Ajayi, a professor of archaeological anthropology and the leader of a deep-sea exploration team.

But ever since he returned from that journey, his mind hasn’t been right.

He kept muttering the same things:

Olumide moving the mountain is a lie. Humanity has completely failed.

No, there is nothing like humanity in this world. Everything is fake.

I gave him medicine, but nothing changed.

With no other option, I decided to visit his ward and talk to him myself.

But Professor Olumide barely answered any of my questions.

He just stared out the window, his face blank, like a man who had seen the real face behind a masquerade’s mask. At one point, he hummed a low, tuneless song—something that reminded me of my grandfather’s tales about spirits lost deep in the forest.

I got up, frustrated. The whole conversation felt like a waste.

But just as I was about to leave, Professor Olumide suddenly spoke.

"Have you heard the story of Olumide moving the mountain?"

I turned back quickly, suddenly interested.

"Of course, I know it. It’s an old folktale, passed down for generations."

That question unlocked something inside him. His eyes sharpened, focusing like a hunter who had finally spotted his prey. For a second, I wanted to laugh it off, but his grip tightened, and fear crawled up my spine.

Suddenly, Professor Olumide grabbed my hand tightly, as if he wanted to crush it.

His grip was so strong my knuckles cracked. Sweat slid down my back. I wanted to pull away, but something in his gaze kept me rooted to the spot.

He looked me dead in the eye and shouted something that scattered my thoughts:

"Olumide did not move the mountain. Olumide ate the mountain.

The mountain is Olumide. Olumide is the mountain."

His breath was hot, words tumbling out like he was speaking in tongues. My heart pounded like a talking drum at a village festival. The other patients in the corridor began to murmur, some crossing themselves, others glancing around with wide eyes.

After that, he started scratching at his own skin like a madman, as if he wanted to tear all the flesh from his body. Some nurses whispered he had been touched by ogbanje spirits, the way he scratched as if ants were dancing under his skin.

He dug his nails in until tiny beads of blood appeared. Two nurses rushed in—one clutching her rosary, the other calling on Jesus, Mary, and all the saints she could remember. With the help of some orderlies, we finally managed to tie him to the bed.

But to our shock, the next morning, Professor Olumide had vanished into thin air.

His room was locked from the outside—no way to escape from inside.

We searched everywhere, but found nothing.

Even the Yoruba matron shook her head, muttering, "This one na juju o." Only by his bedside did I spot an old, yellowed diary.

Curious, I opened it—and immediately, a cold chill ran down my spine.

The pages smelled of old palm oil and camphor, edges curled like plantain chips left in the sun. Inside, it recorded every event from their deep-sea expedition.

What I read made my blood freeze.

Maybe, the whole idea of humanity is a scam.

There is no such thing as humanity in this world.