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Ijess Folktales, London (2025)

12/08/2025

Part 1 – THE WORST GIRLS NIGHT

It was supposed to be a quiet night. Just four of us — me, Layla, Zoe, and Harper — at Layla’s downtown loft. Matching pink satin pajama sets, wine, bad reality TV, and zero drama. That was the plan.

Layla had just moved in — the kind of industrial loft you see on Pinterest, with exposed brick, huge windows, and fairy lights draped over everything. Zoe brought gourmet cupcakes, Harper brought three bottles of expensive champagne, and I showed up with snacks and my laptop for a movie marathon.

Everything was fine until someone suggested Truth or Dare. That’s when things started… shifting.
• Harper dared Layla to read her last three text messages — they weren’t exactly work-related.
• Zoe admitted she once kissed someone’s fiancé, but refused to say whose.
• My dare? Check the wardrobe in the guest room.

I rolled my eyes, thinking it was some stupid prank. But when I opened the wardrobe… a man fell out.

Not stumbled. Fell.

He looked rough — sweaty, hair sticking up, eyes darting like an animal cornered. Before anyone could ask anything, he bolted for the stairs.

Layla froze. Harper laughed nervously. Zoe just stared. Then, from somewhere upstairs… we heard footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Coming from the attic.

PART TWO TO BE CONTINUED

11/08/2025

PART TWO– THE LOCK-IN

By the third day, I’d realized the real problem.
They wouldn’t let me leave.

Every time I told the doctor I was “better now,” she just smiled, wrote something down, and said, “Progress takes time.”

Time. I had no idea how much had passed—no phones, no clocks in the rooms, just the sun through the narrow window.

And then there was Nia.
She was the only one who believed me when I said I didn’t belong here.
But she had rules.
Rule #1: Never tell them you’re fine. They don’t like that.
Rule #2: Never go into Room 14.
Rule #3: Never trust the night nurse.

One night, I heard Nia crying in the hallway.
By morning, her bed was empty.
When I asked the staff where she was, they said, “Nia? We don’t have a Nia here.”

I checked the patient list on the wall. Her name wasn’t there. It never had been.

Now, when I try to sleep, I hear footsteps stop right outside my door. A slow knock. Three times. Always three.

And every day, my reflection in the ward’s bathroom mirror looks… wrong.
Like it’s waiting for me to stop pretending.

11/08/2025

PART ONE – THE PLAN

I’d been planning my escape for exactly forty-seven days.
Not to another city. Not to a friend’s house. Not even to a lover.

To a hospital.

I know it sounds insane—pretending to be insane—but when you’ve lived in my house, “normal” doesn’t keep you alive. My parents run our home like a dictatorship:
No locked doors.
No calls after 8 p.m.
No secrets.

Except this one.

It started small: whispering to myself when they walked into the room, “accidentally” burning dinner three nights in a row, keeping the blinds shut even in the morning. My parents noticed. They whispered to each other. Good.

The final act came on a Tuesday. I made sure my eyeliner was smudged, my voice hoarse from screaming at the wall all night. In class, I dropped my pencil, stared at it like it was a live snake, and wouldn’t pick it up. The school counselor called my parents. My parents called an ambulance.

I was wheeled into St. Augustine Psychiatric Facility like a willing prisoner. White walls. Locked doors. No parents. Freedom… or so I thought.

The first night, a girl in the next bed whispered, “Don’t sleep with your face to the door. He watches.”
I told myself she was delusional.
But when I woke up, my door was open—just a crack—and I swear I saw someone’s shadow sliding away.

PART TWO IN NEXT POST

10/08/2025

Part 3 - The Celebration

I thought the worst part of jail would be the walls.
Turns out, it’s the silence.

The cell is small—concrete bed, metal toilet, the smell of bleach and sweat that never goes away. I count the cracks on the wall every night just to keep my mind from spiraling. Two weeks in, I’ve memorized them. Some days I wish I could scrape them off just to have something new to look at.

My lawyer says they have enough evidence to bury me. I keep telling them it wasn’t mine. They keep saying the same thing: Prove it.

The hardest part? I keep seeing his face. Jay. Standing outside that glass panel at the airport, hands in his pockets, smirk curling like smoke.

I thought maybe—just maybe—he’d feel guilt. Maybe he’d try to help.

He didn’t.

⸻

Jay – Somewhere Else

While I’m counting cracks, Jay is counting cash.

I picture him at The Mirage—his favorite club. It’s Friday night, neon lights flashing across the dance floor, bass rattling the walls. He’s in a booth, champagne bottles on the table, women draped over him like jewelry.

In my mind, I can see him laughing. That deep, careless laugh that once made me feel safe. Now it makes me sick.

“Where’s your girl?” someone might ask him.

“Which one?” he’d say, grinning.

The DJ shouts his name over the mic. A bottle parade comes out, sparklers fizzing, more champagne than the table can hold. He tips like a king—my freedom paying for every drop.

And when he’s drunk enough, maybe he’ll toast to me. The fool who carried his sin. The girl rotting in a cold cell while he dances under gold lights.

⸻

Back to me

The women in here don’t ask what I did—they can smell it on me. Innocence is rare in a place like this. They say I’ve got “the look” of someone who trusted the wrong man.

They’re right.

Some nights, I lie awake imagining the music in that club, the clink of glasses, the way he leans in to whisper in another woman’s ear while my name disappears from his memory.

Other nights, I think about what I’ll do if I ever see him again.

And in that dark, stale cell, I make myself a promise:
If I get out, I’ll make sure Jay never celebrates again.

10/08/2025

Part 2 – The Room

The room was cold. White walls. Metal table. No windows.

They sat me down and placed my handbag in front of me.
“Is this yours?” one officer asked.

“Yes,” I said, my voice shaking.

“Everything inside belongs to you?”

I hesitated. Say yes, and you own whatever they find. Say no, and you admit you’re carrying someone else’s property.

“Yes,” I whispered.

They unzipped the side pocket and pulled out the plastic bundle Jay had given me. My stomach turned. Inside the wrapping were small crystal-like rocks. Even I knew what they were.

“Do you know what this is?”

I shook my head, tears blurring my vision.

“It’s methamphetamine,” the officer said. “Class A. Enough to send you to prison for a very long time.”

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. All I could think was Jay.

“Who gave this to you?”

I opened my mouth—but through the glass panel in the door, I saw him. Jay. Standing there with his hands in his pockets, smirking. Not a flicker of fear.

In that moment, I knew two things:
1. He had planned this.
2. I was on my own.

The officer leaned forward. “If you cooperate, maybe we can help you. But you need to tell us the truth—right now.”

My palms were sweating. My pulse felt like a drumbeat in my ears. If I told them, I’d be naming him. If I stayed quiet, I’d go down for him.

The door clicked open. Another officer entered, holding a folder.
“Her boyfriend’s already boarded the plane,” he said. “Alone.”

That’s when the panic hit me full force. My mouth went dry. I’d never felt so small, so trapped.

The officer’s voice cut through my thoughts. “You’ve got one chance to tell us everything.”

I looked at the bundle, then at the door where Jay had stood a moment ago. And I realised—my holiday had just turned into a nightmare I might never wake up from.

10/08/2025

Part 1 – The Flight

You ever notice how airports smell different when you’re nervous?
That mix of coffee, perfume, and something metallic in the air—it was choking me before we even reached the gate.

“Relax,” Jay whispered, sliding his arm around my shoulder. “We’re just going on holiday.”

Holiday. That’s what he called it. I’d been dating Jay for six months, long enough to know he could be charming to the point of danger. But I didn’t think this was what he meant by danger.

We were flying from Lagos to London. My first trip out of the country. I had butterflies in my stomach—some from excitement, some from the way Jay kept checking his phone like he was waiting for bad news.

At the check-in desk, the attendant smiled, took our passports, and waved us through. I thought everything was fine—until I caught the way Jay’s jaw tightened when two uniformed officers walked past.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, too quickly.

We went through security. I put my small handbag and carry-on on the belt, he put his backpack and a small duffel. The bags disappeared into the X-ray machine. Mine came out first. Then Jay’s.

One of the officers was watching us. I don’t mean a casual glance—his eyes were locked on Jay.

“Babe, here,” Jay said suddenly, pulling me close. “Hold this for me.”

Before I could ask what this was, he shoved a plastic-wrapped bundle into the side pocket of my handbag.

“What is that?” I whispered.

“Don’t worry. Just some gifts for my cousin. It’s fine.”

My heart thudded so hard I could hear it. Something in his voice wasn’t right. But the officer was walking toward us now, and Jay’s face was calm, even bored.

“Miss, could you come with me, please?” the officer said.

I glanced at Jay. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched as I was led away.
CONTINUED IN NEXT POST

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