Location: Undisclosed Safe House, Lagos.
Timestamp: 72 Hours Before the "Obsidian Crisis."
Subject: Tunde (Lead Archaeologist).
Interviewer: Bisi (Investigative Journalist).
(The frame opens with a slightly grainy, handheld aesthetic. Tunde is sitting on a crate, a half-finished cup of coffee in his hand. He looks exhausted, but his eyes are bright with a protective, almost fatherly fire.)
Bisi: (Off-camera) People are calling them "The Alagbara." Some are calling them monsters. But you, Tunde… you call them family. Why? Why risk your life—and the lives of your team—to host three ancient beings who could level this city in an hour?
Tunde: (Chuckles softly, shaking his head) You didn't see them at the site, Bisi. To the DIA, they were just "unidentified artefacts." Statues. But when we pulled them from the earth, there was a resonance. A pulse. My team and I… we didn't just excavate them. We saw the terrorists Ile up, then someone woke the trio up as well. You don't just walk away from something when you played an inadvertent part in bringing it back to life.
Bisi: But they aren't just "artefacts." They're weapons.
Tunde: (Leans forward) Let me tell you about "weapons." At the excavation site, my team was taken by a splinter cell of the terrorists calling themselves the Sons of the Earth. Twelve armed men. They had us lined up. I thought that was it. Then, the "statue" we'd excavated—the one called Ina—ignited.
(Tunde stares at the floor, the memory playing in his eyes.)
Tunde: It wasn't a shootout. It was a dance. He moved in a way that defied every modern combat manual I've ever read. It was fluid, ancient, and terrifyingly precise. In mere seconds, twelve men were disarmed and neutralised. Not a single bullet from their AKs hit a target. He didn't just save us because he had to; he did it because it was his nature to protect.
Bisi: And that's when you decided to bring me in? To film them?
Tunde: I saw how the world was looking at them on social media feeds. Fear is humanity's default setting when we see something we don't understand. I knew if the public only saw the destruction, they'd see threats. I brought you in so they could see the heroes. They fought Ile not for glory, but because there were innocent people in the crossfire. They are ancients, Bisi. They are gods in a world of smartphones and skyscrapers. They're lost. They need a host—not just for a roof over their heads, but for a moral compass in a century that's forgotten what honour looks like.
(Tunde looks directly into the lens, his expression firm.)
Tunde: If I don't stand for them, who will?
(The footage cuts to a heavy, mournful silence. The camera pans slowly, losing its handheld jitter, and settles into a static, high-definition close-up of Tunde's face. But something is wrong. The skin is no longer flesh; it is a cold, grey, porous texture. His eyes are wide, frozen in a final moment of defiance.)
Bisi: (Voiceover, trembling and thick with grief) This was the last time Tunde spoke on camera. He believed in the light of the Ayanfe until his final breath. Shortly after this recording, the Atanfe known as Ile struck.
(The camera lingers on the stone texture of Tunde's cheek, catching a glint of dust in the sunlight.)
Bisi: (Voiceover) Tunde didn't run. He stood his ground to protect his nephew. And for that... the Earth-Master turned him to stone.
(The screen fades to black.)