Chapter 1:
I never imagined my life could turn into a plot twisted enough to rival the most shocking soap opera. Yet here I was, 25 years old, a quiet man living in the heart of Lagos, trying to build a career in architecture and mind my business. My father's name still opened doors for me — Chief Bamidele Oladapo, a man whose presence alone could silence a room. He was wealthy, feared, respected... and utterly unpredictable.
But this story isn't about him.
It's about her.
Her name was Veronica.
And once, she was my father's wife.
I remember the day I first met her. I was 19, still in university, when she walked into our mansion in Lekki with the poise of a queen and the seduction of a viper. She was at least fifteen years younger than my father, stunningly beautiful — dangerously so. Her skin gleamed like wet bronze, her eyes always masked behind large designer sunglasses. She never looked me in the eye, not really. But she always smiled too long when we greeted. Something about her made my skin crawl.
When their marriage collapsed three years later, no one was surprised. Rumors floated — infidelity, theft, secrets. My father said she tried to poison him. She claimed he locked her in a room for two days without food. Who was telling the truth? Who knows? She disappeared after the divorce, and everyone thought the chapter was closed.
Until last week.
It started with a letter — a handwritten envelope left at the reception of my workplace.
No return address.
Just my name on the front: Kelechi Bamidele Oladapo.
Inside was one sentence:
"You've grown into a man now. I hope you're ready for what's coming."
No signature.
I tried to brush it off. A prank? A stalker? I told no one, not even my best friend, Dayo. But I kept the letter. Something about the handwriting was familiar… haunting.
Then came the second letter — this time delivered to my apartment door. And this one, I'll never forget.
It said:
"I loved your father, but I desire you. You will be mine. One way or another."
Suddenly, the handwriting wasn't just familiar — it was unmistakable.
Veronica.
I hadn't seen her in almost three years. Why now? What did she want from me? Why this madness?
I began noticing shadows near my gate. My car tires were slashed two nights ago. A dead bird was left on my balcony. Still, I said nothing. I couldn't prove it was her. I couldn't even prove she was in Lagos.
But the final straw was the phone call.
It came at 3:17 a.m.
The voice on the other end whispered, "You were always watching me. I saw it in your eyes. Don't pretend, Kelechi. You want this too."
My chest tightened. My mouth went dry.
This woman — this ghost from the past — had crossed a line I didn't even know existed.
But the worst part?
I didn't know how far she was willing to go.
And by the time I found out… it would already be too late.
Would you like to move on to Episode 2 now, or should we brainstorm some plot twists or characters first?
Absolutely. Here's the continuation.
I didn't sleep the rest of the night after that call. How could I? The voice was unmistakable. Soft, sultry, and slightly amused — the way a predator might sound after cornering its prey. I sat at the edge of my bed, trying to reason with what I had just heard. Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe it was someone pretending to be her. Maybe...
But no. Deep down, I knew.
Veronica was back.
And she had plans.
By morning, I'd convinced myself to go to the police. I needed to report the harassment, the letters, the slashed tires, the calls. I needed to do something before this obsession turned into something far more dangerous.
But when I got to the station, the officer behind the desk barely looked up from his doughnut.
"Any physical assault yet?" he asked casually.
"No," I replied, frustrated. "But—"
"Then no case."
He scribbled something on a form and waved me off.
I left the station angrier than when I arrived.
That evening, I called my father. We hadn't spoken in weeks, but I needed answers. If anyone knew how far Veronica was capable of going, it was him.
He picked on the third ring.
"Ah. Kelechi," he said, his voice still as commanding as ever. "To what do I owe this unexpected honor?"
"It's about Veronica," I said slowly.
There was silence.
Then a quiet exhale.
"What about her?"
"She's back. She's been... contacting me."
Another pause. Then he said something I wasn't prepared for:
"Don't let her in."
"What?"
"I'm serious," he growled. "Don't open your door to her. Don't talk to her. Don't even look her in the eyes if she finds you. That woman is not well."
I tried to push for more, but he hung up abruptly.
That night, I locked every door and window. I even set up a makeshift alarm using kitchen pans tied to strings. Paranoia, maybe — but something told me this was just the beginning.
And I was right.
At 2:49 a.m., I heard a soft knock on my door.
Three gentle taps.
Not hurried. Not violent.
Calculated.
I didn't move. I didn't breathe.
Then a voice — her voice — floated through the wood.
"You can lock the doors, Kelechi. But you can't lock out fate."
I stood frozen, sweat crawling down my back.
Then something clinked softly on the floor.
I waited until dawn before opening the door.
There, on my welcome mat, was a single gold ring.
With my initials engraved inside.
Chapter 2:
I didn't sleep well that night. I tossed and turned on my bed like someone under a heavy curse. Something wasn't right — and deep down, I knew what it was.
It was her.
Veronica.
My father's ex-wife.
I don't know how to explain it, but ever since the day of my father's funeral — the day she showed up dressed in all white, looking like some rich widow from a Yoruba movie — nothing had been the same.
She smiled too much.
She touched me too much.
She stared at me like she was looking at something she owned.
And now, she had started calling me late at night, whispering strange things. Things that made the hair on my arms stand.
"You're my king," she said the first time.
I thought it was a mistake.
Maybe she dialed the wrong number. Maybe she was drunk. Or maybe — just maybe — the devil himself had taken a Lagos BRT bus to my doorstep.
But the second time? The third? The gifts she started sending?
I couldn't deny it anymore.
She was serious.
She wanted me.
Her former stepson.
Me.
Who does that?
That morning, I stepped out of my flat in Surulere, hoping a walk would help clear my mind. The streets were alive as usual. Mama Bisi was already selling akara under the mango tree, and the loudspeaker from the nearby church was shouting something about "breaking every yoke."
I needed my own yoke broken.
Because something — or someone — was tying me up spiritually.
Veronica.
She didn't look a day older than thirty-five, though she had divorced my father almost fifteen years ago. Her skin still glowed, her hips still curved like a sculpture from Benin, and her eyes? Those eyes could cut through steel.
But beneath all that beauty was a strange kind of evil. The kind that smiled while pouring poison in your drink.
I was walking toward the junction when my phone rang. Unknown number.
I answered.
"Hello?"
Silence.
Then I heard her voice.
"I made ogbono soup," Veronica said. "Your favorite."
My throat dried.
I never told her that ogbono was my favorite. Not even when I was a teenager living under her roof.
"How did you know that?" I asked quietly.
She laughed. It wasn't a normal laugh. It echoed, like it had a second voice behind it.
"I know many things about you, darling. More than you know about yourself."
I hung up immediately.
I needed answers. So I decided to visit Mama Ronke — an old friend of my late mother. She lived at Mushin, just around Isolo Road. Everyone called her a prayer warrior, but those who knew her well knew she saw things. Deep things.
When I got to her house, she was already waiting by the doorway like she had seen me coming.
"Veronica has returned," she said before I even opened my mouth.
I nearly collapsed.
"How—?"
"She visited me last night. In the spirit. Wearing red and smiling."
My chest tightened.
"I didn't invite her o," Mama Ronke continued. "But she came anyway. Told me to stay out of your matter. That it's 'already done.'"
I sat down.
Mama Ronke poured me a cup of cold zobo and placed her hand on my shoulder.
"You have to be careful, Tunde," she said softly. "She's not like other women. Veronica doesn't want you for love. She wants you for power."
I blinked. "Power?"
She nodded. "Some women go to shrines to get money. Others, to keep their men. But Veronica? She went beyond. She joined something dark. Something that feeds on blood ties. Your father broke their bond when he divorced her… but she's found a new way in."
"Me," I said.
Mama Ronke nodded again.
"You are her new doorway."
That night, I couldn't sleep again.
I kept hearing things.
Whispers.
Chants.
I closed my eyes, and I saw her face. Her red lips. Her smooth, untouched skin. Her arms stretched toward me like a mother calling her child. But her eyes — they weren't normal.
They glowed.
Like burning coal.
The next day, I stayed indoors. I switched off my phone, closed all the windows, and tried to focus on my breathing. I told myself it was all a dream. That maybe I was losing my mind.
Until around 3 PM.
Someone knocked on my door.
Soft. Gentle. Just once.
I waited. Maybe it was the neighbors.
Then I heard her voice.
"Tunde. Open. I brought pepper soup."
My heart froze.
She was here.
At my house.
I peeked through the curtain.
Veronica stood at the door wearing a wrapper tied tightly around her chest, exposing shoulders that still looked twenty years younger than her real age. She held a flask in one hand and a small leather bag in the other.
I didn't open the door.
I couldn't.
She stood there for another minute, then dropped the flask and walked away. I waited thirty minutes before opening the door and collecting it.
I didn't open the flask.
I didn't touch the food.
I threw it away.
But that wasn't the end.
That night, my dreams were not mine anymore.
I found myself standing in the middle of a large compound. All white. The sky was dark. Thunder rumbled overhead, but the ground didn't shake.
Veronica stood there, wearing a crown.
She smiled at me.
Then, one by one, other women appeared behind her. All in white. All barefoot. All chanting my name.
"Tunde… Tunde… Tunde…"
I woke up screaming.
Sweat soaked my bedsheet.
And on my bedside table?
The same flask I threw away… was sitting there.
Dry. Empty.
I ran to the church the next morning.
Straight to Pastor Dayo of the Winners Assembly around Ojuelegba. He laid hands on me, poured anointing oil on my head, and started shouting prayers.
For three hours, I stayed there, kneeling.
Praying.
Crying.
Begging.
He said I should go home and fast for seven days. No meat. No women. No calls from unknown numbers.
I obeyed.
I tried.
But on the third night of the fast, she appeared again.
This time, in my living room.
In real life.
Not in a dream.
Not on the phone.
Not in spirit.
In flesh.
Wearing a black gown.
Sitting on my chair.
Sipping from the same flask I had thrown away.
"Why are you fighting me?" she asked softly.
I couldn't speak.
"Tunde, I loved your father. But he was weak. You? You're different. Strong. Bold. Perfect."
She stood up and walked towards me. Her perfume hit me first. It smelled like old roses mixed with rain and something else — something rotten.
"You are mine now," she whispered.
I tried to speak, but my lips were glued.
She kissed my forehead and walked out.
And as she closed the door, she said one thing:
"Whether by love or by blood… you will be mine."
Now I sit here, shaking as I write this down. I don't know who to tell. Who to run to. I've blocked her number. Burned the flask. Changed my locks.
But she keeps coming.
In my dreams.
In my house.
In my blood.
And deep down… a voice is beginning to whisper back.
It sounds like me.
But it's not.
And it keeps asking one question:
"What if you want her too?"
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To be continued...