Evening stretched its golden arms across the rooftops of Obalumo, painting long shadows over zinc sheets and broken concrete fences. The warm breeze carried a strange mix of fried akara and petrol, while the sputtering of motorcycles echoed along dusty streets.
Parked outside the university gate, an old Toyota Corolla sat humming. Inside, four boys laughed like the world owed them nothing.
"El, your face don't ever hide anything," Uche teased, nudging the slim driver. "Na so you miss town reach?"
El—short for Elijah. Strangers called him that. Back home, Mama and the elders still preferred Sotonye, the name given at his dedication. God is worthy to be praised.
But this wasn't a time for church names. These were university days—days to escape. Nights to forget. And El had perfected the art of forgetting.
"Abeg, make we move jare," El grinned, firing the engine. "Tonight, we scatter the town."
Laughter filled the car as they sped toward Club Mirage, a notorious hideout tucked behind mechanic workshops in Dugbe. No signboard. No rules. Just pounding bass, dim lights, and hours that melted into secrets.
.....
Meanwhile, back in Obalumo, Mama Sotonye stood at the wooden gate, her wrapper tied tight around her waist. A pot of yam porridge simmered inside, while smoke rose lazily from the backyard firewood kitchen. Every few minutes, she stepped out, scanning the darkness.
"Lord, watch over my son. He said he'd be home today."
Her prayer slipped out in Kalabari, her fingers wrapped around an anointed handkerchief. But deep in her chest, a heaviness refused to lift.
.....
3:07 AM. Club Mirage.
The speakers pounded. The air reeked of perfume, sweat, and alcohol. Strobe lights chased across writhing bodies. Laughter mingled with slurred quarrels.
El slumped in a red-leather booth, drink in hand, eyes half-closed. He wasn't drunk—just detached, floating somewhere between body and soul. A girl's laughter echoed beside him, but it barely reached.
Then, the world shifted.
The music dragged. The air grew thick, smoky.
And in the far corner, he saw it.
A figure. Tall. Hooded. Faceless. Darker than the shadows.
It raised a hand toward him.
And in his head, not his ears, El heard the words:
"You do not belong here, Sotonye. This is not your altar."
He gasped. Blinked. Suddenly, the music snapped back. The crowd was alive again. Uche poured another drink.
"Guy, you wan faint?"
El shook his head. "Did you see—? Never mind."
But his hands wouldn't stop trembling.
---
6:19 AM.
Dew clung to the Corolla's cracked windscreen as El drove alone through the waking city. Hawkers arranged sachet water and Gala on roadside tables. A mosque bell rang in the distance. Somewhere, someone bathed in the open.
His phone buzzed again and again—Mama's calls. He ignored them. Guilt pressed heavier than the dawn.
Then, just as he approached Obalumo Bridge—
BAM!
A keke Napep swerved into his lane. El jerked the wheel. Tires screamed. The car flipped—once, twice—then crunched to a stop.
Silence.
When he opened his eyes, he was upside down, blood dripping into his mouth. He unclipped the seatbelt, crawled out into the dust. Bystanders rushed forward, horror in their eyes.
"Jesu! Na human being survive this?!" someone shouted.
But El wasn't listening.
Across the road, the figure stood again. Still. Watching.
This time, its whisper carried into the air, rattling his bones:
"You have been preserved for a work beyond flesh. This is your beginning, Sotonye. I will use you."
El collapsed to his knees. Dust filled his lungs.
Behind him, sirens wailed.