The radio crackled to life again. In the ruins of Lagos, it was one of the few voices of "authority" left. The announcer's tone was rehearsed, stiff:
"…The President assures all citizens that emergency relief is on the way. Nigerians must remain calm. We are working to establish safe zones across Lagos. Bread, cassava, and even beans will be distributed shortly. Agbado will not fail us…"
A wave of groans and laughter went through the survivors gathered in the broken church.
"Agbado?" someone scoffed. "Na food wey go fight monster abi?"
"Tomorrow dem go tell us to eat ewa and smile while dragon dey chop us," another added, and people chuckled bitterly.
Ngozi shook her head, pulling Amara closer. "Na joke government dey do while people dey die."
Mela muttered under his breath: "Balablu promises… same old story." He had seen enough online before the world collapsed. His chest tightened — nothing had changed. Even in the apocalypse, leaders still promised agbado.
A young boy imitated the president's shaky walk, stumbling dramatically across the church floor. The survivors burst into tired, desperate laughter. It was a bitter kind of comedy, the kind Nigerians used to survive hopelessness.
"God punish them leaders," an old woman hissed in Yoruba. "Àwọn òṣìkà. Dey siddon for mansion with generator while we dey drink gutter water."
—
Later that day, relief finally came — or so it seemed.
Two battered trucks painted with "Federal Relief" arrived at the plaza. Soldiers in green camouflage shouted at the crowd:
"Everybody line up! Orderly! Food dey enough for all!"
But the crowd had no patience. People surged forward. Mothers pushed children. Men elbowed their way to the front. The first sack of rice was brought down, and chaos erupted.
Mela tried to stay back with Ngozi and Amara, but he saw fists fly. One man grabbed the sack and ran. Soldiers raised rifles, firing shots into the air.
"Back! Back! If una no gree, na bullet go be una food!"
Fear swept the crowd. But hunger fought fear.
Mela noticed something odd near the trucks. A man leaned against the corner, face hidden under a hood despite the heat. His posture was too calm for the chaos. His hand rested on a strange, dark charm that pulsed faintly. He wasn't waiting for food — he was watching.
Their eyes met for a second. Mela felt a chill. Something in that gaze whispered danger. Not now, not yet… but soon.
—
By evening, rumors spread. Some said the relief food never made it to Ajegunle. Others swore the soldiers sold half the supplies to black market traders.
"Even in apocalypse, corruption no dey die," a man spat in pidgin. "Na dem dey form cult now sef. Dem go use gods join politics soon."
As if summoned by the words, the ground trembled. Distant roars echoed through the streets. Another dungeon was opening — closer this time.
Ngozi grabbed Mela's arm. "We can't stay here. The soldiers, the cult people, the monsters — all of them dey use us like pawns."
Mela clenched his fists. He thought of the hooded man, the strange dark charm, the way power seemed to pulse from him. This wasn't just hunger or monsters. Someone — or something — was moving pieces behind the curtain.
He looked at the cracked radio still buzzing in the corner. The announcer's voice broke through static:
"…The President says Nigerians should remain calm. Our youths will be transformed into creators of prosperity. We will turn pain into productivity. We will… balablu… bulaba…"
The radio fizzled out.
For the first time since the apocalypse began, Mela laughed — a sharp, hopeless laugh. Then he whispered to himself:
"They don't get it. Nobody's coming to save us."
And outside, the dungeon roared again