I didn't sleep that night. Even when I closed my eyes, the darkness had weight — thick, alive. I kept seeing flashes of fire, masks, drums beating somewhere far away. And always that voice, deep and patient, calling me like an echo from a dream.
"Àṣepọ̀…"
When I finally woke, the sun was up and my head felt heavy, like I'd been chewing thunder in my sleep. My room — a single cubicle in a shared face-me-I-face-you at Akoka — smelled of paint and sweat. My walls were covered in old graffiti sketches: gods with broken crowns, faces half in light, half in shadow. But something was wrong. The sketch I'd been working on last week — a mural of a masked woman with fire eyes — had changed. Her eyes were open now. "Ah— no, no, no," I muttered, sitting up. "Tari, you dey mad? You draw this thing yourself yesterday, abi?" I blinked twice. The eyes stayed open. A faint red shimmer ran through them like electric pulse. That's when my wrist started to burn. I looked down — the mark from last night was still there, clean and perfect, like someone tattooed it under my skin. Three circles and a line, glowing faintly. I rubbed it hard, even poured water. Nothing. "Bros, na chemical reaction," I told myself, trying to sound sane. "No juju for this matter. Just chemical." But deep down, I didn't believe it. I threw on a hoodie, grabbed my backpack, and stepped into the street. Lagos was already roaring — horns, curses, gospel music from a nearby compound, and that usual smell of dust and diesel. I needed food, or maybe peace of mind. I wasn't sure which one first. So I headed for Mama Shola's stall, near the bus stop. The woman sold herbs, charms, cigarettes, and sometimes advice — the kind of advice that sounded useless till it saved your life. She looked up as I approached, her scarf half-slipped, one eye milky white with age. "Tari Colours," she said, voice like gravel. "You no dey rest?" I smiled faintly. "Mama, na Lagos we dey. If I rest, hunger no go rest." She chuckled, then her eyes dropped to my wrist. Instantly, her face changed. She froze, stared hard, and muttered something under her breath. "Who give you that mark?" I blinked. "Which mark?" She hissed. "No dey play with me, boy. You carry Àṣẹ for hand like say na bangle." Her words hit me like slap. "Àṣẹ? Mama abeg, na just paint stain now." She spat to the side. "Paint no dey hum at night. You touch wet wall, abi?" My heart skipped. "How you—" She cut me off, lowering her voice. "The wall under the bridge. Obalende." I swallowed air. "You dey there last night?" "I no need to dey there to see wetin the city don wake. Some things buried no dey like to sleep too long. When the seal open, spirits go begin find host. You, my boy, don light torch for their darkness." I felt my throat dry. "So wetin I go do now?" She reached into her box and handed me a small calabash filled with dark ash. "Burn this when night reach. No matter wetin you see or hear, no answer anybody wey call your name from shadow. If you answer, e don finish." I took it silently. She looked at me again, eyes soft this time. "Àṣepọ̀ always start with fire. But how e go end — na your mouth go decide."
By afternoon, I tried to distract myself by meeting Chuka at his Yaba studio. The guy was chaos in human form — dreadlocks, loud laugh, always high on sugar or vibes. His small clothing line, "Riot Lagos," was scattered across his room like colour explosion. "Guy, see your face!" he yelled when he saw me. "You resemble person wey wrestle with marine spirit last night!". I forced a laugh. "Something like that." He handed me a can of malt. "Talk abeg. You find babe or you fight ghost?" I hesitated. "Chuks, you ever see something wey no suppose exist?" He raised a brow. "You mean NEPA light for two days straight?" "Serious, guy. Like… old power. Ancient." He smirked. "Ah! You don dey smoke new paint again." I sighed. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was going crazy. But as I sat there, I saw one of his shirts — a new design. Printed on the front was a strange circular logo with lines running through it. I froze. It was my mark. "Where you get this design?" I asked sharply. "Ah, this one? Random pattern wey one babe for Island send me online. She say e go trend. Why?" I didn't answer. But inside me, fear bloomed. That meant someone else already knew about the sigil.
Cut to: Ọmọlẹ́ — Victoria Island Penthouse
Ọmọlẹ́ Ajala stood by his glass window, watching the Atlantic shimmer. His reflection looked human enough — suit crisp, hair slick — but his eyes glowed faintly red whenever lightning flashed. The voice inside him spoke again, deep and impatient. "The seal is broken. I can feel the pulse." Ọmọlẹ́ nodded slowly. "Yes. The city hums differently." He turned to his AI assistant — a sleek black orb hovering beside his desk. "Show me the prophecy." The orb flickered, projecting text on the wall:
"When the child of colour touches the sleeping wall, the sky will burn again. Àṣepọ̀ will rise."
He smiled. "So it begins." The orb glitched, symbols appearing in Yoruba, then collapsing into static. "Find him," the voice hissed. "Bring me the hand that bears the mark." Ọmọlẹ́'s pupils flared like embers. "As you command."
Back to Tari — Evening, Akoka
By nightfall, I was done pretending everything was fine. My wrist burned every few minutes, like a heartbeat I couldn't silence. I decided to do what Mama Shola said — burn the ash. I poured it into a tin plate, struck a match, and watched smoke rise. It smelled like old rain and dust. Then the whispering started again. Soft, from corners of the room. My name, dragged out slow.
"Taaariii…"
I froze. Remembered Mama Shola's warning: Don't answer. The voice came again, closer. "Àṣepọ̀…" The flames flickered blue. The shadows moved like they were breathing. I clenched my fists, biting my lip. "No be real. No be real." Then my phone buzzed suddenly — message from Chuka:
Bro, check TV. Some rich tech guy dey talk about ancient symbols. Say e go change the future of Lagos. His company name na Obsidian Tech.
My heart jumped. I switched on the small TV. There he was — Ọmọlẹ́ Ajala — speaking at a tech conference, smiling like a god in a suit. And behind him, on the big LED screen, was the sigil. My sigil.
Cut to: Ebi — University of Lagos Botanical Garden
Ebi Olufẹ́mi knelt before a small shrine hidden behind the greenhouse. Her dream from the night before still haunted her — a boy under a bridge, painting fire into walls.
She whispered softly, "Olodumare, show me the one with Àṣẹ in his hand." The wind moved, carrying the smell of paint. Her beaded wrist rattled. Then she saw him — not in person, but in her vision: a tired boy, hoodie up, watching TV in a small room, fear in his eyes. She gasped. "It's him." She rose, packed her divination chain, and whispered: "The Àṣepọ̀ has awakened. I must find him before they do."
Back to Tari —
I switched off the TV. My palms were sweating.Someone knocked on my door — one, two, three slow knocks. I swallowed. "Who be that?" Silence. Then, faintly, a woman's voice from outside: "You can't hide from what's in your blood, Tari." My wrist burned like fire. When I opened the door, nobody was there — just a single cowrie on the ground, glowing faintly in the dark.