What’s the worst that can happen to you when househunting?

Chika had seen three different houses that day. She’d let the house agent drag her around town, and now, as the sun was about to go down, she’d had enough and just wanted her bed.

But the agent said no. Something about the landlord only seeing people at night, so she should just get it over with.

This should’ve been her first sign, but she was a fool, a desperate fool who needed to leave her mother’s house before they killed each other.

They started their journey to this house that seemed to be at the end of a forest, in the middle of nowhere — that should’ve been the second sign.

The third sign should’ve been when they got to the house. 

If she knew was honest, all she wanted was to ask the agent to take her home so she could kiss her mother’s feet. Her mother was still her mother. Surely, if Chika begged enough, she’d stop disturbing her every waking moment with ridiculous requests for marriage and grandchildren. Instead, Chika stepped out of the car and kept walking until she entered the house.

It was to be a shared apartment, so all she was shown of the three-bedroom were the room she’d be in, the en-suite kitchen and living room. The agent was quick, and they were done in minutes. Now, she could leave — as soon as the agent returned with the landlord.

Chika’s eyes roamed around the long hallway they’d left her in, stealing glances at the cracked wall with tiny holes that gave the wall a multitude of faces, and dusty surfaces, until her eyes landed on it — a painting of the house she was in, only this time surrounded by creatures whose eyes she could swear stared into her soul. For the life of her, she couldn’t stop looking. So she walked towards it.

She just wanted to feel the painting under her fingers. 

Chika stood in front of it, and as she raised her hand to touch it, she heard a door swing open. She turned to look, but no one was there.

She turned back to the painting, and something had changed. The creatures still looked at her, but they weren’t in that position the last time. She raised her hand to it and touched the painting. It felt scaly, wet, and somehow, alive.

Yeah, Chika couldn’t do this anymore. She had to get the fuck out of here. She turned around, went through the hallway and to the front door. She didn’t care if her agent and the landlord were done with their chat. She was done with it.

Chika tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge.

That was when she heard a loud roar that shook the house’s foundation. She looked out the window, and for the life of her, she didn’t understand what she was seeing. But she knew one thing, she should’ve stayed in her mother’s house.

The closest alternatives to Lagos didn’t agree with me either: Abuja had too many familiar faces, the Port Harcourt soot would give my mother sleepless nights, and Ibadan was too close to home. So after deep deliberation and a very serious game of tumbo tumbo, it was decided; I would face the next stage of my life in Imo state and embark on a journey of self-discovery.

I’d fulfilled the journey bit by actually moving to this new state, but continued postponing my plans of self-discovery. Weekends had passed, and the only discoveries I’d made were; Okpa should be labeled as an attack against the human race, and Ofe Owerri is the GOAT soup.

This obviously wasn’t enough for my work bestie, who’d hightailed it to my house on Saturday afternoon and decided to play tour guide, even though she’d only lived here seven months longer than me and had zero sense of direction. 

But still, we pulled on our boots, carried our backpacks like mini Dora, the Explorers, and embarked on what we thought was an adventure of a lifetime.

The drive started well. We sang, ate rubbish, admired the beautiful expanse of land.  But after two hours on the road, we realised…

… we were lost.

There we were, in the middle of a long ass road. Google Maps was shouting “Turn right” in our ears but the only thing to our right was grass, just grass for miles and miles. So we unanimously decided to speak to an actual human being and ask for help. Screw Google Maps and that babe’s lying ass voice.  

As we waited on the side of the road for a friendly face (honestly, any face would have worked) it got darker, and fewer cars sped past, so we came to another decision – restart Google Maps, and pray the babe in it would get us to our destination if we spoke to her nicely.

We were back on the road and beyond determined to get to that lake, even if we got there at midnight. 

In hindsight, we should have just turned around or found a hotel for the night. Obviously, my parents didn’t warn me about the dangers of visiting a body of water at night, or maybe the stress of the day had sucked the common sense out of me. Either way, we found ourselves driving up to the  lake at 8 p.m. a one-hour journey had taken us four, and at this point, all I could think was,

“That lake better be the most beautiful thing I set my eyes on.”

We got out of the car and walked towards it. I’d seen prettier sights, but for some reason, we couldn’t stop walking. It felt like it was calling us. I shut my eyes and listened closely, and I could swear I heard my name. It was only a whisper, but it was there, in that stupid Google Maps babe’s voice.

I opened my eyes, and we were at the water’s edge. Our legs dipped in, and reality snapped. The water wrapped itself around our legs and pulled us in, never to see sunlight again.

Which is why I’m writing this to you. It’s okay to be scared by the appearance of these words on paper, but take heed and let others know,

“The people of Ogbu are coming to reclaim their lands and people, nothing is as it seems, be wary of it all.”

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She’d bent down, looked her square in the eyes, and told her, “Let them not say I didn’t warn you as a mother, stop behaving like a goat. Stop acting like I don’t feed you at home.”

Inem should have listened.

Inem walked through the market, hand in hand with her mother. They’d gone through this one time too many. She knew the routine by heart: she’d get dragged past the stalls she liked, stop at the ones her mother actually liked, spend hours at the market, ignore the unseen eyes she felt following her every move, and head home just before it got dark.

It didn’t matter if they got here at the break of dawn or just before the heat of the sun made itself known to all. Her mother never changed the routine, and she never stopped feeling like someone was watching her.

Today, however, was different. 

Inem didn’t feel like she was being watched, and her mother had let her wander off once they got to the first stall, “Remember what I told you this morning oo. Don’t go too far, and meet me at Enobong’s shop!” 

Inem didn’t wait to hear what else she had to say. She‘d been waiting for this chance forever, and she knew where this wind of freedom would take her.

She stood in front of the stall, looking at the hot, oily puff puff in different colors, shapes, and sizes. 

For the first time since she started coming to the market, Inem looked past the round balls of dough to the person selling it.

Inem had never seen anyone so beautiful in her life. She was tall and the color of the sun. Her braids were so long Inem couldn’t see they ended. She smiled at her and stretched out her oily hands, offering her a ball of red puff puff.

 “For you”, she said.

Inem took it and rushed off to find her mother. She remembered what she’d been told, she remembered the promise she’d made, and she was determined to keep it.

Inem got to Enobong’s shop with oil-stained lips and a puff-puff filled belly. She’d tried to hold off for as long as she could, but Enobong’s shop was too far, and the puff-puff was too tempting. Surely her mother would understand, right?

Inem’s mother didn’t share her sentiments. She dragged Inem home the second she saw her oil-stained lips, bathed her in holy water, and poured anointing oil down her throat.

Inem didn’t get what the fuss was, but her mother kept muttering about initiations and forbidding her from becoming a witch.

Maybe her father was right. Maybe the woman’s constant worrying had driven her to insanity.

Inem’s mother finally left her to sleep. After rubbing her down with anointing oil and rubbing crosses into every corner of her room. She shut the door gently and sat in front of it, the half-empty bottle of oil pressed against her chest.

Then Inem heard the first whisper…

… then the laughter followed.

It sounded like a group of girls had found a spot right outside her window.

So she looked out the window. She just wanted to see if anyone was actually out there, but one minute she was looking out, and the next, she was actually outside, following the voices.

That was when she saw her.

“Welcome.”

Inem ran as fast as her legs could take her, but it felt like the girl had tied a rope to her legs and wouldn’t let her go. She turned around, hoping to find her way back home, but she saw the puff-puff seller, hands stretched out withthe tray of puff-puff in her hands, and a little girl crawling out from behind her.

“Welcome to the coven.”

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If he was being honest, he thought that was all ridiculous. But the most ridiculous of them all was the one his grandmother kept talking about. She’d lean on her cane, bend to his height, all traces of her gummy smile gone with nothing but fear in her teary eyes when she whispers, “My child, your shadow is alive. Protect yourself. Don’t let him eat you alive.”

Derin never took her seriously. Especially not after he’d heard his mother recount her death, something about her violently shaking in his grandfather’s arms, crying blood and dying on him. His mother always told the story with gratitude laced in her words. But nothing about his grandmother’s violent death and subsequent resurrection inspired gratitude in Derin’s heart. It actually made him think they were a little bit loony. But God forbid he told the women the truth.

Derin had gotten off work really late at night, wishing for capitalism to crumble and a glucose guardian to have pity on him. He’d just gotten past his estate gate and was taking the short way home when he felt it, the gust of wind, except it wasn’t really a gust, more like a whisper. It felt like someone was breathing down his neck with one nostril. 

Now, Derin’s never been the type to stay and wait for danger, so he did the only reasonable thing. He shook his head and walked, fast. But there’s a saying:

It felt like the whisper of wind was following him, moving from one side of his neck to the other. He picked up his steps and walked into the nearest light cast by a lone lamppost at the end of the street. That was when he saw him. The man under the hood, his entire being hidden in black. He walked by quickly, turning to look at Derin with a wide-ass grin on his face.

Derin had never run so fast in his life.

He ran all the way home and locked his doors and windows. He brought out the rosary tucked underneath his pillow, saying a quick prayer. But he couldn’t get the man’s grin out of his head; how much it looked like his grandmother’s. He remembered the story of his grandmother’s death and resurrection, her shaky voice warning him of what lies in the shadows. 

Now that Derin thought about it, he couldn’t get the man’s lack of a shadow out of his head, or the feeling that he wasn’t really alone in his bedroom. But tomorrow’s a new day, and he still had to go to work to answer, “Yes sir” as he’s been paid to, so he turned on the lamp on the right side of his bed, laid facing it and went to sleep.

One by one, they stepped out of the shadows, a sickening grin similar to the hooded man’s on their faces. And that was when the severing started. The hooded man stepped out of the darkness and stood behind Derin, staring at his shadow. 

First, it was the fingers, and then the shadow moved his hand while Derin lay still in bed. Then the legs gave way. The left half of Derin’s shadow moved away from his body and lay flat on his bed for a second. Then it rushed back into him and the vibrations started. Derin tossed and turned all over the bed, shaking rigorously. Finally, he laid flat, his back on the bed, and the bleeding started. Derin lay there, bleeding out from his eyes and nose, as the shadow men returned to the darkness.

Derin had gotten off work really late. He’d just skipped past his estate gate and was taking the short way home when he heard it, the howl in the wind. It made him excited and giddy. 

He walked past the lone lamppost at the end of the street, and that was when he saw him. The man under the hood, his entire being hidden in black. He walked by slowly, taking his time, like he was counting every single step, and then, he turned to look at Derin with a wide-ass grin stuck on his face. Only this time, Derin responded with a matching grin, turned around and walked into the night, his shadow nonexistent.

I didn’t even do anything wrong.

Not that you have to do anything wrong for them to get you these days. I was just walking home from work at night. Hands in my pockets. Laptop in my backpack. That was enough for them. Then came the dreaded call.

“Stop there!”

And I did, while they gathered around me with guns at the ready like I was an assassin in the John Wick universe who’d just gotten a bounty placed on their head. I was fucking terrified at this point but did all I could to not show it because others had said that confidence sometimes scared them off.

“Follow us,” one of them said, gesturing to their van.

I made my voice as deep as I could. Here went nothing.

“Why should I follow you? I didn’t do any –”

That’s as far as I got before I had my jaw dislocated by the butt of a gun. The pain was so disorienting that the next few seconds were a blur. They had me in their van, searching my pockets and bag like giant raccoons going through trash. I saw one of them struggle with unlocking my phone. He handed it to me.

“Unlock it!”

I didn’t respond. I pretended to be passed out because of the pain of my jaw. This bastard saw this as an excuse to punch me in the fucking eye. You know, to wake me up. As normal people do.

After unlocking the phone, it didn’t take long for them to find something incriminating. A WhatsApp chat with a number stored as “Baby”. I saw the twinkle in their eyes as it became clear what they were reading.

“We don get you.“

I left the dingy station the next morning with a broken nose, missing a tooth, and covered in bruises. They cleared my bank account and wallet, leaving me with N500 to get home with. The broken nose happened as I was on my way out. As I was leaving, one of them (clearly intoxicated) walked up to me and said, “Segalink no fit help you. If you go yarn anyhow, na 14 years.”

That damn law. Fuck Jonathan.

I must’ve glared at him the entire time he was talking because he punched me square in the nose and began yelling, “WETIN YOU WAN DO?! YOU NO FIT DO ANYTHING! MY NAME NA OLASHILE BALOGUN! YOU NO FIT DO ANYTHING!!!”

I ran out as his colleagues held him back. I kept running and didn’t stop until I was far enough. I started to cry. All I could hear in my head was

“ YOU NO FIT DO ANYTHING! “

Something in me had snapped. It was weeks before I could leave my house again. My employers were understanding. They gave me time off to recover from my injuries and let me work remotely when that time ended. At this point, I knew what I wanted to do. I had started putting the plan together slowly in my head as a joke. Like a movie montage. I eventually realized that it was something I could actually pull off. All I would need to do is find his address. That was easy. Then I had to pick a day. It kinda felt like planning a party. For the first time since my attack, I felt excited about something.

I waited patiently for the D-day.

Being messy was the point of my entire plan. It would’ve been nice to leave the house as clean as I was when I walked in but I was no Mads Mikkelsen in that show that got cancelled too soon. So, like a kid left alone with a bucket of red paint, I proceeded to paint the town red.

And it was fucking glorious.

I’d brought a change of clothes with me so I took a shower in their bathroom and changed. I sat quietly in the living room for a while with everything I’d done around me. Then I slipped out in the dead of night.

Do I have regrets? No.

Am I scared I’ll get caught? Hell no.

A flaw in the system let my attack happen. A flaw in the system will ensure that I get away with this.

Click here to read other stories in the NIGERIAN HORROR STORY series.

I’m not even sorry if you think this is super-specific. I refuse to apologize for wanting my sacrificial murder to have had some pageantry.

The only similarity to the movies is that it takes place in a dimly lit room. Other than that, it happens the same way every time. People are brought in, terrified or passed out (because they’ve either been drugged or knocked out). At this point, they’ve already marked with the names of the people who supplied them. The chief priest says a quick incantation over them and in less than a minute, their throats are being violently slit. Their blood goes into a rectangular-shaped patch of soil surrounded with a bunch of symbols I don’t recognize.

You don’t need to know how I ended up here. What you need to know is that I’ve been here for three months and two weeks. Another thing you need to know is how much it hurts to have your throat slit.

That’s why when a soul wakes up here, they let out a blood-curling scream that lasts approximately two minutes, triggered by the physical pain they didn’t finish feeling before they passed on. Which is insane because I always believed that the death of the body was the end of physical pain. Maybe the rules are different for non-sacrificial deaths. What do I know, really?

We call this place purgatory. It’s where the recently sacrificed souls go. Where all the souls gather to comfort new ones and make their transition as easy as possible. From an aesthetics POV, it’s a stone cave with just one opening – the one through which we see the killings.

We’ve also put two and two together to figure out how money rituals work. In layman’s terms, sacrificed souls are used as batteries to power money ritual deals. This brings us to another depressing thing.

The reason this place was never called hell is that everyone knows that hell is final. This place isn’t. At least our stay here isn’t. The life forces of souls are used up by their assigned ritual deals. When a soul has been completely drained, it goes somewhere else. A place that, judging by the reactions we get from the drained souls during their last moments, is much worse than here.

When a ritual deal’s soul is drained, the one who made the deal has the choice to either extend their deal with another soul or face whatever punishment is thrown their way. Based on a woman I watched here and gone in less than a week, I learned that not every soul’s life force is used at the same speed.

We have no idea what’s waiting for us on the other side and we have no idea how long we have until we have to go there.

Lol. I wish a trailer had just fallen on me jeje.

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Was it strange? Yes. But to teenage me, that was just the way things were for girls. Which is why I wasn’t surprised when the same thing happened to me.

He’d come home for the same reason the other men did, looking to get married after attaining a reasonable level of success in the big city (Lagos). He showed up at my house with gifts to talk to my mother and said he’d seen me around during his time back. He referred to me as “a beautiful wildflower he wanted to pluck before anyone else.”

A few weeks later (with every important ceremony done), I was leaving everything I’d ever known and was on my to Lagos as someone’s wife. I didn’t know what to expect, but I replayed the advice my mother had given me before I left.

“Your husband is the head and you’re the neck. He is your master now. Be submissive, just like the bible says.”

Something along those lines sha. It’s been such a long time. Anyway, those parting words from my mother were the reason I dismissed all the warning signs. It’s funny because he never even tried to hide them.

Ignorance is a terrible thing.

Even though he wanted me to be a housewife, he insisted that I get a degree for some reason. He would drop me off every morning and come pick me up on his way back from work. One day, I lost track of time chatting with classmates which meant that he had to wait longer for me outside the school. As soon as I emerged, he rushed towards me and set my cheeks on fire.

That was the first time he hit me.

And it wasn’t the last.

He pulled me out of school, telling my mother that I had repaid his kindness by engaging in group sex sessions with my classmates. He began policing my movements after this. He accompanied me wherever I went and if I so much as looked in the direction of another human male, I was in for a beating, followed by weeks of being called every vile name you can think of. I couldn’t sleep. He wouldn’t let me. He’d wake me up in the middle of the night to ask how many men I’d slept with since I married him. The electrician. The carpenter. No one was exempt.

Things didn’t change with the birth of our son. While pregnant, he asked if the baby growing inside me was his.

That was what broke me. I almost died during childbirth because my blood pressure was dangerously high. When my mother came to stay with us after I gave birth, I told her about everything that’d been happening. She confronted him and he threw her out. Told her she wasn’t welcome in his house anymore.

She died of a stroke not long after. He didn’t let me attend the funeral.

I wish I’d known at the time that cutting me off from the only family I had was the last step in ensuring that I had nowhere to run. I had no family, no friends, and no money. He’d even cut his own family members off for what I now suspect was the same reason.

I was helpless.

Until he became ill.

It started with headaches, tiredness, and peeing a lot. He hates going to hospitals and figured it was something benign so he decided to self-medicate. That’s been going on for four months now. He’s lost a ton of weight and recently started complaining of abdominal pains. When I suggested that he go get checked out at a hospital, he threw the 1-litre bottle of coca-cola he was drinking at my head and told me to shut my whore mouth.

It became apparent (at least to me) when his right foot started to…decay that whatever was going on with him was not something that could be treated with paracetamol. I use the word “decay” because after I began cleaning it with warm water every morning (at his behest), it began to smell. I’ve thought of getting help, but these past four months have been the most peaceful of my married life, and I don’t want to ruin that. Plus, this arrangement fits perfectly into my plan so I can’t complain.

You see, I’m not exactly sure what’s wrong with my husband but it’s pretty clear that he’s dying. And honestly, I couldn’t be happier.

Is it terrible that I have to go through so many cans of air freshener to keep his foot from stinking up the house? Yes. But it’s a small price to pay for peace of mind.

I stood at the alter on our wedding day and made a promise to God to be with my dear husband till death do us part. How could I break a promise I made to God?

Who am I to stand in the way of death?

Click here to read other stories in the NIGERIAN HORROR STORY series.

“Well, maybe that one time I hit a handler in the crotch with my horns. He was being a douche (i.e. physically aggressive for no reason) so he kinda deserved it.”

I’ve tried warning the others about what’s coming but either they don’t understand me or they’ve chosen not to listen. In the past few days, our brothers have been carted off one by one. And even though, we can all see them being tied up and forced into the boots of cars, my dumb ass brethren STILL believe the “chosen ones” are being taken somewhere better to become pets. I feel like I’m stuck in that Ewan McGregor and Scarlett Johansson movie from 2005 named The Island. Or that one scene from Animal Farm where Boxer the horse is clearly being taken away in a Knacker’s van to be killed (because he’s injured and now considered a liability by the pigs) but they lie to everyone that he’s going to the hospital.

I shouldn’t even know what movies are.

I know what really happens when one of us leaves. They’re taken to a house and fattened up in preparation for the Muslim holiday, Eid-el Kabir, during which they are eventually sacrificially murdered and eaten. (Something about honouring Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son.) The only reason I haven’t been bought yet is because of my less than desirable look. You see, the humans want fat rams and I’ve been on a hunger strike, which means that I currently look like those models who, in an attempt to stay skinny, only eat cotton balls dipped in juice.

Apart from being fucking horrifying, the sacrificial process is super gross. The humans hire a butcher (i.e animal hitman) who shows up with his assortment of knives. By this point, the ram knows what’s up and is freaking out like crazy so the butcher ties its legs to avoid being accidentally kicked in the nuts. The butcher then slits the ram’s throat, leading to blood being spewed everywhere while its body jerks about. When all the blood has been drained, the butcher blows air into the ram’s corpse through a hole cut in one of the legs. This makes it easy for him to shave the ram’s wool off.

The ram’s corpse is then disembowelled and cut into pieces to make cooking easier.

I honestly don’t know how I know this.

I don’t know what this says about me but all this cooking talk is making me super hungry. It’s been days since I ate anything and I’m so tired, I can barely move. So what’s the point? What’s the point of anything when none of my kind can understand me.

I just realized that the only choices I have are:

• Death from sacrificial murder.
• Death from starvation.

Excuse me while I go get some food.

Click here to read other stories in the NIGERIAN HORROR STORY series.

“Sex and peeing.”

Not like I wanted this to happen, but I always thought that if it did, it would be in a rowdy place, like under the bridge in Ikeja or under the bridge in Oshodi. Somewhere badass at least, just so I wouldn’t have to watch people snicker when I tell them about it.

In hindsight, I should’ve known the second it happened. I think I did, actually. I felt a tingle in my nether regions. But at the time, I thought it was just me finally discovering my love for being choked.

I realise the backstory is needed here.

It was a Friday afternoon. The ice cream parlour was packed and there was a long ass queue, which made sense because the sun was out in all its fiery glory. As with any queue containing Nigerians, there was a scramble not unlike that one scene from that Brad Pitt zombie movie no one remembers. At some point, I noticed that the girl in front of me would sigh whenever I mistakenly bumped into her. I understood her pain (it was an uncomfortable situation to be in) but I became irritated after a while because who the hell shit in your oatmeal, am I right? I tapped her shoulder and (in what I think was a calm voice) asked her to relax. I was going to explain that I was only bumping into her because of all the pushing when this happened:

After people around got her hands off my throat, she stormed out of the shop angrily. People asked what I did and I said nothing. Was the experience weird? Yes. But I really couldn’t be bothered at the time because her leaving meant that I got to get my ice cream on time.

The ice cream (vanilla and strawberry with bits of Oreos and waffles scattered in) was DELICIOUS btw.

It wasn’t until I got home and was doing my usual “Daniel Craig on the beach in Casino Royale” impression in front of the mirror in my underwear that I noticed something different.

There was no bulge, which was weird because there was supposed to be a bulge. Not to brag, but my bulge was huge. A thing of legend. If I had a dollar for every compliment I’d gotten…

I’m sorry. I’m digressing.

Not seeing a bulge sent shivers down my spine so severe that I had to freeze for a bit to let the feeling pass. With shaky hands, I slowly pulled down my boxers and saw… nothing.

My penis was gone.

The entire area was so smooth it could’ve passed for a Ken doll’s crotch.

Legend has it that Mariah Carey is still threatened by the high-pitched scream I let out that day.

You can probably tell already, but my mind’s first defence against traumatic events is countering it with humour. This is why the first thing that came to my mind after screaming is this comic strip I saw a few years ago about what people who steal penises do with them.

A sound I can only describe as a chuckle mixed with a sob escaped my lips. This led to a full-on nervous breakdown, brought on by the thought that after drinking so much water earlier in the day (ice cream included), I’d have to pee at some point and with my penis gone, I had no idea how that was going to happen.

I paced around my dimly-lit room naked, wondering if the magic used to do this was also strong/considerate enough to rework my anatomy so I could still pee some way. (Out of my ass, maybe?) And then I had my worst thought:

“What if the magic didn’t care? What if my insides remain the same and my bladder just keeps filling with pee and explodes because there’s no outlet?!”

I must’ve fallen asleep at some point because a strong wave of nausea woke me up. I sprinted to the bathroom and assumed the position over the toilet, wondering if I’d somehow gotten food poisoning on top of everything, when a warm, salty liquid began filling my mouth.

It was pee.

This was when the full effect of what had happened finally hit me. When all the pee was out, I sat on the floor next to the toilet, retching and crying. When did this happen?? I Was this my life now? Would I have to do a “Linda Blair in The Exorcist” impression every time I had to pee??

What was I going to do? I couldn’t tell anyone. I’d trend online and become known as the guy who pees out of his mouth. No way. So I kept my mouth shut. Until now. And that’s only because you’ve promised to keep my identity a secret.

It’s been six months. Peeing is still torture, but it’s either that or internet infamy, so I’m good. I still have sex btw. I’m not going to explain how, though, because Nigeria isn’t ready for that yet.

If you’re wondering how I found out that the girl from the ice cream parlour was the culprit (even though it should’ve been obvious given the series of events), she told me. She somehow got my email address and sent me a long ass message explaining why she did what she did. Apparently, during the scramble at the ice cream shop, she believed that all the times I bumped into her were my attempts to rub my penis on her butt. So, she punished me by taking it.

I haven’t given up hope, though. I mean, I may have found a way to live with my current predicament, but I still want my penis back. I haven’t been able to find her so I’ve been sending messages to the email address she messaged me with.

Fingers crossed hoping she replies one day.

Click here to read other stories in the NIGERIAN HORROR STORY series.

Neither of the kids had the foggiest idea why their Father had bought a pig.

It’s not that they weren’t allowed to eat pork, it just wasn’t a thing they had ever eaten at home. So Zara and sister, Shola, were shocked when their father got back from the market followed by Mr Yellow struggling to get a giant ass pig in formation.

Mr Yellow was the family butcher. Whenever the family needed anything killed, Mr Yellow was their go-to guy. Zara and Shola had known him their entire lives. No one knew his real name, which could be construed as weird seeing as he was practically family at that point.

No one could concentrate in the house that day because the pig would not stop squealing at the top of its lungs. As the family stood around, watching Mr Yellow get his tools ready, Shola commented on how it seemed like the pig’s screaming was triggered by its knowledge of its eventual fate. Everyone laughed until Mr Yellow chimed it with this:

“Na so human being dey scream when dem dey kill am.”

That killed the laughter. Shocked, Zara turned to look at the rest of her family. Shola mouthed the word “Okay then” and ran upstairs. Their mother was visibly uncomfortable. Their Father, however, didn’t even flinch. Even though she was 10 years old at the time, the implication of what Mr Yellow said was obvious. The family never spoke of it again.

Zara never forgot.

“I can’t thank you enough, Zara. He doesn’t get a lot of visitors and is always down but seeing you again and talking to you has lifted his spirits. Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, ma,” Zara answered with a smile.

Mr Yellow had to retire early because dementia set in, and his wife (everyone called her Mrs Yellow) was always by his side. This annoyed Zara because this meant that she couldn’t ask Mr Yellow the one thing she really wanted to know. She was getting ready to leave when Mrs Yellow asked if she was in a hurry.

“No, I’m not. Do you need help with something?”

“Yes. The doctors say it’s not safe to leave Yellow by himself. But I really need to buy foodstuff. Do you mind staying with him for a few minutes while I go to the market?“

Zara saw an opportunity.

“No, I don’t mind,” She answered quickly. “Take as much time as you want. No worries.“

“You’re an angel. I promise I’ll be quick.” And with that, Mrs Yellow rushed out. Zara walked over to Mr Yellow, who was lying in bed, looking at the ceiling with a smile on his face. She sat beside him. This surprised him and made him sit up.

“Zara. I thought you left already. Aren’t we done with the interview?”

“We are, sir. But Mrs Yellow had to run an errand so she asked me to stay with you. She’ll be back soon.“

“Oh. OK,” Mr Yellow said as he relaxed.

Zara knew she didn’t have much time. She also knew she couldn’t rush things for fear of freaking him out. She took his hand in hers and spoke softly.

“Mr Yellow?“

“Zara? Zara. I thought you left already. Aren’t we done with the interview?” He asked with an innocent smile on his face.

“Yes, sir. We are. I just have one more thing to ask. That one time you helped us kill a pig at our house and my little sister, Shola, joked about the pig’s screams. There was something you said after that…”

“That what? What did I say, Zara?“

“…that implied that you’ve worked with humans…the same way that you’ve worked with animals.”

“Oh,” he said, as he sat up again. The smile disappeared from his face. “I had to. All the others were doing it. That’s where the real money comes from, and I needed the money.” He began to hyperventilate.

Zara pressed on as gently as she could.

“Can you explain what you me…”

She didn’t even need to. Clearly, Mr Yellow had stuff he wanted to get off his chest.

“Missing people.” He was frantic now. Tears had begun streaming down his face. “Rituals need well cut out parts and people who do what I do are pretty much the only ones qualified and willing to do it for them.”

Zara let go of his hand in shock. Mr Yellow went on.

“Politicians! Pastors! So many babies over the years. Oh God. Then there was Clifford.“

“Clifford. Clifford Orji? The guy that ate people??“

“Yes. He brought me so much work. Him and the others like him. There were so many. The others were never caught. Still out there. Such good business. And your father…”

Mr Yellow suddenly went quiet and lay back down. Zara felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She heard the front door open. She was torn between knowing more and keeping her perfect life. Mrs Yellow’s footsteps got louder as she walked up to the room. Zara made her decision.

“Thank you so much, Zara,” Mrs Yellow said as she walked in. “The market was a mad House. I hope I didn’t take too long.“

“No. Mr Yellow and I were just…chatting. About old times. I’ll be out of your hair now.“

Zara stood up and proceeded to leave. She stopped by the door and turned around.

“Mr Yellow, is there any question I didn’t ask during the interview that you wish I had?”

After being in deep thought for a few seconds, Mr Yellow looked up with a smile on his face and answered.

“I really wish you’d asked me about the suya industry. I have stories for days!”

Click here to read other stories in the NIGERIAN HORROR STORY series.