26/01/2026
PART 2
I didn’t follow Baba into the sitting room that night.
I couldn’t.
My legs refused to move.
But Adebayo stood up on his own.
Slowly.
Stiffly.
Like someone being pulled by invisible strings.
When he passed me, I grabbed his wrist.
His skin was cold.
Not “AC cold.”
Not “night breeze cold.”
Grave cold.
“Adebayo,” I whispered, my voice shaking, “please… don’t go.”
He looked at me.
And for a second, just one second, I saw fear in his eyes.
Then Baba snapped his fingers.
And it vanished.
I waited until the sitting room door closed.
Then I followed quietly.
I hid behind the curtain by the corridor and peeped.
Baba had drawn a circle on the floor.
Not chalk.
ASH.
Inside the circle were objects laid carefully:
• A cracked clay pot
• Kolanut shells
• A small leather pouch
• And a rusted cutlass that looked older than the house
Adebayo knelt inside the circle.
Baba stood behind him.
Chanting.
Not loudly.
Not aggressively.
Soft.
Steady.
Like a lullaby meant to put a soul to sleep.
Then Baba placed his hand on Adebayo’s head and said:
“The body is weakening. The years are leaking.”
My chest tightened.
He reached into the leather pouch and pulled out something black and shriveled.
A TONGUE.
I clamped my hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming.
Baba lifted it and continued:
“Ancestors of the Adebayo line…
You promised us continuity.
You promised us longevity.”
My blood ran cold.
PROMISED???
That was when I understood.
This wasn’t prayer.
It was a payment.
Baba turned slightly, and I realized he was smiling.
“Our first son lived long because his wife gave herself willingly,” he said.
“Our second son lived long because his wife was prepared.”
Then he looked straight at the curtain.
Straight at me.
“But this one,” he continued calmly,
“married a woman who asks questions.”
I stumbled back.
The floor creaked.
Everything stopped.
Baba snapped his fingers again.
Adebayo screamed.
Not a normal scream.
A deep, raw sound, like something was being torn out of him.
Baba pressed the cutlass gently against Adebayo’s back.
Not to cut.
To mark.
And I saw it.
The scratches weren’t random.
They formed symbols.
Names.
DATES.
Dates that stretched into the future.
Dates that did not belong to Adebayo.
I ran.
I locked myself in the bathroom and slid down the door, shaking.
My phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
You cannot interrupt a covenant older than your blood.
Then another.
The wife is always the final vessel.
I started crying.
At dawn, Adebayo returned to the bedroom.
He lay beside me.
He didn’t touch me.
He didn’t breathe the same way.
I watched his chest rise and fall… but his reflection in the mirror didn’t move.
I screamed.
That morning, I went to Baba’s room.
The bed was neatly made.
The wooden box was open.
Inside it were old photographs.
Men.
All different faces.
Same eyes.
Same smile.
Same date written behind each photo.
One year after marriage.
At the bottom of the box was a framed picture.
Young Baba.
Standing beside a shrine.
With a woman kneeling in front of it.
Her face scratched out.
But her wrapper…
It was the same one I wore for my wedding night.
My phone rang.
It was my mother.
“Leave,” she said without greeting me.
“They’ve already presented you.”
Before I could answer, she added:
“If you sleep in that house one more night…
you will not wake up as yourself.”
Behind me, I heard Adebayo’s voice.
Soft.
Empty.
“Why are you packing?” he asked.
I turned.
And saw Baba standing in the mirror behind him.
Smiling.
To be continued… 😈🔥
