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Spanix Writes, Bénin (2026)

14/03/2026

THE BELL THAT SWALLOWED SOUND

Chapter 7: The Final Silence

Chioma stared at the bell for hours.
The merchant’s warning echoed: “If the ghost touches you for real, it’s over.”

But the cold brush on her arm last night had felt too real. Too much like Obinna’s hand when he used to pull her close after a long day.

She was tired.
Tired of fighting the noise outside.
Tired of the half-memories that slipped away like sand.
Tired of waking up to an empty bed and wondering who used to fill it.

“Just one more time,” she whispered to the empty parlour. “Make everything stop. No more pain. No more ghosts. Nothing.”
Her fingers closed around the handle. The iron was warm now, almost feverish, like it had been waiting for this.
She rang it.

TING!

The silence came fast, deeper than ever before.
No okada horns in the distance.
No children laughing.
No wind through the mango tree.
No heartbeat in her own chest.

She pressed a hand to her breast — nothing. Just stillness so complete it felt like drowning in glass.

Chioma sat on the floor, back against the wall, and let it wash over her.

For the first time, there was no grief clawing at her throat.
No flashes of the truck crossing the median.
No last text: “Buy groundnut for me, Nne.”
No proposal in the Enugu restaurant.
No laugh that used to make her stomach flip.
All of it… gone.

She tried to summon something — anything.
A name.
A face.
A feeling.
Nothing came.

She looked down at her left hand. A thin gold band sat on her fourth finger — simple, worn from years of soap and sweat. She stared at it like it belonged to someone else.
Who put this here?

Why was she wearing a wedding ring?
The question floated in the silence, unanswered.

She stood up slowly, legs shaky, and walked to the small mirror on the wall. A woman looked back — tired eyes, lines around the mouth from smiling at someone who no longer existed in her mind.

She touched the ring, twisted it once.
Nothing stirred. No memory. No ache.

The bell on the table pulsed once, softly, like a satisfied sigh.
Chioma smiled — small, empty, peaceful.
She had won.

Or had she lost everything?

Outside, the world kept moving — people shouting, generators coughing, life refusing to pause.

But inside her house, and inside her head, there was only silence.
And in that silence, she no longer knew who she had been married to.

Or if she had ever been married at all.

06/03/2026

THE BELL THAT SWALLOWED SOUND

Chapter 6: The Merchant Returns

Chioma couldn’t sleep that night.
The faceless figure at the foot of her bed had vanished with the dawn, but the whisper lingered in her head: "Ring me again, Nne. Let me come back… fully."

What was happening? Was it a dream? Or was the bell playing tricks?

She paced the parlour, her wrapper tied loosely, eyes fixed on the black iron object sitting innocently on the table. The carved faces seemed to laugh faintly.

Outside, Amaeze was waking slowly – distant okada horns, women shouting "akara hot!" in the morning market. But inside her chest, a storm was brewing.
"Obinna," she whispered. "If it's you, please speak properly."
No answer.

Then, a sharp knock at the gate, like someone with no time to waste.

Chioma peered through the window. It was the old merchant – same faded green agbada, same dried-river skin, same knowing smile.

She opened the gate a crack, heart racing. "You again? What do you want?"
He bowed his head slightly. "My daughter, I’ve come back for the bell. It has started, hasn’t it? The whispers. The visitors in the night."

Chioma froze. "How do you know?"

He stepped inside without asking, closing the gate behind him. "This bell… it was born from my own sorrow. My wife, Adamma, died young. Cancer took her slowly. Before she passed, her tears filled a bucket. I used them to forge this bell with a blacksmith who knew ancient ways. It swallows sound, yes. But each ring steals a memory to feed itself. And when the memories pile up, it starts giving back… but not the way you expect."
Chioma sat down heavily. "Giving back? Like… a ghost?"
The merchant nodded, his eyes sad. "Na so. First, small whispers. Then shadows. Then the face appears, but twisted. It’s not your Obinna truly. The bell wears him like a cloth, to make you ring it more."

She remembered the figure – broad shoulders, the tired slouch Obinna had after work. But no face. No real warmth.
Last night, it had leaned close, a shadow hand almost touching her cheek. The whisper came again, soft like a lover: "Nne, the accident no be my end. Ring am, make I feel you again. Make we dance like before."

It sounded like Obinna – that deep voice teasing her about her burnt jollof. But something was off, like an echo from an empty well.
Chioma shook her head. "I don’t believe it. Let me see him again."

The merchant sighed. "You will see. But the price to take the bell back is now double – fifty thousand. Or it will swallow you whole."
Fifty thousand? She didn’t even have five. Obinna’s insurance was long gone.

"Please, no," she begged. "Help me."
He shook his head. "I warned you at the market. Now it has hooked you like ogogoro."
He turned to leave, but paused. "One thing: if the ghost touches you for real, it’s over. It will pull you into the silence forever."
Then he melted into the morning crowd, gone.
Chioma locked the gate, hands shaking. The bell pulsed once, like a heartbeat.

That night, she didn’t ring it. But sleep wouldn’t come.
Around midnight, the figure returned. Taller this time, closer.
"Chioma," it whispered, voice thick with longing. "Why you dey fear? Na me o. Your Obi. The truck take me, but this bell fit bring me back. Just ring am one more time. Make I get face. Make I hold you proper."

The shadow hand reached out, cold fingers brushing her arm.
Goosebumps rose. Was it real? Or was the bell lying?
She looked at the table. The bell waited, faces hungry.
What would she do?................. TO BE CONTINUED!!!!

04/03/2026

THE BELL THAT SWALLOWED SOUND 🔕

Chapter 5: The Storm Inside

Harmattan had come to Amaeze like a jealous lover — dry, dusty, and demanding attention.

But this year, the village festival was louder than ever. Masquerades stomped through the streets in raffia skirts and wooden masks, whipping the air with canes while drums thundered like angry gods. Highlife music blasted from giant speakers at the town square: Victor Uwaifo’s guitar wailing “Joromi” on repeat. Palm wine flowed like river water, men shouting toasts, women laughing sharp and free. Children chased fireworks that popped like gunshots. Even the goats bleated in protest.
The noise was a storm.

Chioma locked her gate early, barred the windows with old planks, and retreated to her parlour. The bell sat on the table, black iron glowing faintly in the lantern light, the carved faces twisting like they were dancing too.

Outside, the festival roared closer — a parade passing her street, drums shaking the zinc roof, voices chanting “Ayi! Ayi!” in rhythm.
Her head pounded. Every beat reminded her of Obinna’s heart against hers during their last dance at a similar festival. He had spun her under the stars, whispering dirty jokes in her ear until she laughed so hard she begged him to stop.
Now, that laugh was fading.
She grabbed the bell, fingers tight.
“Just make it stop,” she begged.
She rang it once.
TING!

The world outside muted instantly. The drums died mid-beat. The masquerades froze silent. Even the harmattan wind, usually whispering through cracks, went still.

But it wasn’t enough. The storm inside her — the grief, the loneliness — still raged.
She rang it again. And again.
Six times in a row, each TING stretching the silence longer, deeper, like pulling taffy.
By the fourth ring, she felt it: a warmth spreading from the bell into her palms, pulsing like a heartbeat. The iron grew hot, the faces on it seeming to move, mouths opening wider as if swallowing the noise hungrily.

Chioma didn’t care. She lay on the floor, wrapper loose, sweat drying in the unnatural quiet. For six straight hours, she floated in that void — no festival, no village whispers, no aching empty bed.
It was ecstasy. Forbidden, spicy peace. Like sneaking a lover into your husband’s house.
But when the silence finally cracked and faded at dawn, the price hit like a slap.
Obinna’s laugh.
Gone.

She tried to summon it — that deep, rumbling sound that started in his belly and exploded like fireworks. The one that made her fall in love at their first meeting in the market, when he joked about her bargaining skills being “deadlier than a soldier.”
Nothing. Just a hollow echo in her mind.
Chioma curled into a ball, sobbing silently at first, then loud, raw, like an animal.
The notebook lay open beside her. She scribbled desperately: “His laugh — loud, foolish, makes my stomach flip.”

But reading it back, it felt like words about a stranger.
Exhausted, she dragged herself to bed as the sun rose, the festival hangover quieting the village outside.

Sleep came uneasy, dreams swirling with half-remembered faces.
Then, in the dead of night, she woke.
A figure stood at the foot of her bed.
Tall, familiar outline. Obinna’s broad shoulders, the way he slouched when tired.

But his face… blank. No eyes, no mouth, just smooth shadow like unfinished clay.
Chioma’s breath caught. “Obi… is that you?”
The figure leaned closer, and a whisper brushed her ear — faint, but clear, laced with something hungry, something not quite human.
“Ring me again, Nne. Let me come back… fully.”
The bell on the table pulsed once, like it was answering......................

TO BE CONTINUED!!!!

If silence demanded a memory in exchange, which one would you fight hardest to keep?

03/03/2026

THE BELL THAT SWALLOWED SOUND 🔕

Chapter 4: The Village Whispers

Word spread through Amaeze like harmattan dust.
By the fourth day, nobody passed Chioma’s compound without whispering.
“Na her house be that one — the place where even the wind dey fear to talk.”

Mama Ngozi from the next street crossed herself and spat. “Na juju. That widow don invite spirit wey dey chop sound.”
Children dared each other to knock on her gate and run. But even they stopped after one boy swore he heard nothing — not even his own footsteps — when he got too close.

Inside, Chioma barely noticed.
She had rung the bell nine times now. Each ring stretched longer, the silence deeper. She floated in it like water, forgetting the market stares, the empty bed, the way her neighbours crossed the road when she walked by.
But the small deaths kept coming.
Yesterday, she lost the memory of Obinna’s proposal — the cheap restaurant in Enugu, the ring hidden in egusi soup, his nervous laugh when she almost swallowed it. Gone. Just a blank spot where joy used to be.

Today, it was his voice on their last phone call. “Nne, traffic dey mad but I go soon reach.” She could still read it in her notebook, but hearing it in her head? Silent.

The bell sat on her table now, always within reach. It looked heavier, the carved faces sharper, like they were feeding on her losses.
A loud bang shook the gate.
“Chioma! Open this thing now or I go climb am!”
Ada again. Persistent as malaria.
Chioma sighed, tucked the bell under a cloth, and opened up.

Ada burst in, eyes wild, holding a small calabash of holy water from the church. “Babe, the whole village dey talk! They say your house na graveyard for noise. Pastor even mention am for prayer meeting — ‘deliver us from silent demons’.”
Chioma rolled her eyes. “Na gossip. I just dey use earplug.”

Ada grabbed her hands. “Lie to them, not me. I see your notebook. The pages dey empty themselves. That bell… e dey steal Obinna from you. Please, throw am away. Or give me make I burn am.”
Chioma pulled back. “You no understand. The silence… e dey help me breathe.”

Ada’s voice cracked. “But wetin go remain of you when all the memories finish? Obinna go die twice — once in the accident, once in your head.”
For a moment, doubt flickered in Chioma’s chest. She glanced at the cloth-covered bell.
Then the neighbour’s generator roared to life next door — that endless, grinding hum that sounded just like the truck engine in her nightmares.
“No,” Chioma whispered. “I need am.”

Ada begged for another hour, tears flowing, holy water sprinkled everywhere. But Chioma’s mind was made up.
Finally, Ada left, defeated, promising to pray for her.
Chioma locked the gate, sat down, and rang the bell again.
TING!!

Peace flooded back.
She leaned back, eyes closed, letting the quiet heal her.
But outside, Ada hadn’t gone far.
She hid behind the mango tree across the road, watching. Waiting.
After thirty minutes, she crept back, scaled the low fence quietly — years of childhood mischief paying off.

The gate was locked, but the parlour window was open a crack.
Ada peered in. Chioma was asleep in the chair, the bell uncovered on the table.
“I go save you, my friend,” Ada whispered.
She reached through the window, fingers brushing the cold iron.
Just once. To see what the fuss was about.
She rang it.
TING!!

The world went mute.
Ada’s eyes widened. The silence was… intoxicating. Like stepping into a cool river after a hot day.
But then it hit.

A sharp pain in her head, like something being ripped out.
She staggered back, clutching her temples.
When the silence lifted, Ada looked around, confused.
Who was she watching? Why was she here?
And then the big one: her own mother’s face.
Gone.

She knew she had a mother — old, lives in the village, sells akara every morning. But the face? Blank. Like a photo burned away.
Ada screamed — but no sound came out at first.
Panic rising, she ran home, heart pounding.
Inside the compound, Chioma slept on, unaware.
But the bell on the table… it seemed to smile.............TO BE CONTINUED!!!!!

In Trying to help her friend, see what Ada got herself into..... What should she do?
What do you think will happen next?

02/03/2026

THE BELL THAT SWALLOWED SOUND 🔕

Chapter 3: Small Deaths

By the third day, Chioma had rung the bell six times.
Each ring bought her an hour or two of heaven. The compound became a tomb of silence — no generator wars, no children screaming “aunty buy pure water”, no radio preachers shouting about end times. She would sit on Obinna’s old cane chair, close her eyes, and let the quiet wrap around her like his arms used to.
But every time the silence ended, a new piece of him was gone.
First it was the colour of his favourite shirt.
Then the exact sound of his laughter — that deep, foolish one he made when she burnt the yam porridge.
Now, this morning, she couldn’t remember the way he said her name when he was tired. “Chi-chi” or “my Chioma”? Both felt wrong.
Fear clawed her stomach. She dragged out the old exercise book she used for church tithe records, flipped to a fresh page, and started writing feverishly.
Things I must never forget about Obinna:
His name: Obinna Chukwudi Eze
He was my fiancé. We were getting married December 18th.
He called me “Nne” when he was feeling soft.
The accident: He was coming back from Enugu with the rest of the wedding money. A trailer from Lagos lost its brakes on the Onitsha-Enugu expressway. The driver was sleeping, they said. The trailer crossed the median and slammed into Obinna’s Corolla head-on. He died instantly. They said he didn’t suffer. I don’t believe them.
Last thing he texted me: “Buy groundnut for me, Nne. I’m almost home.”
The way he smelled after work — sweat, engine oil, and that cheap Wild Tiger perfume I hated but now miss like oxygen.
She wrote until her hand cramped. Then she read it back.
The words about the accident were already fading.
Not the ink — the memory.
The sound of the crash she had imagined a thousand times was now muffled, like it happened to someone else. The colour of the trailer? Gone. The exact time the police called her? Blank.
Chioma slammed the book shut, heart racing. She rang the bell again — just once, quick, like a drug addict chasing the first high.
Silence flooded the room.
She opened the book again. The page about the accident was now completely blank. Only the heading remained: “The accident:”
The rest was white paper. As if the bell had reached inside her head, found those painful lines, and swallowed them too.
A knock shattered the quiet.
“Chioma! Open this gate before I break it o! It’s Ada!”
She hid the bell under her pillow and went to open the gate.
Ada stormed in, sweating, wrapper tied high like she was ready for war. “Babe, people are saying your house don turn cemetery. No sound since three days. Wetin dey happen? You dey do juju?”
Chioma forced a laugh. “I just dey enjoy quiet life.”
Ada eyed her suspiciously, then spotted the open exercise book on the table. Before Chioma could stop her, Ada picked it up.
“Wetin be this? Your ‘never forget’ list?”
Ada flipped pages. Her face changed.
“Chioma… the page about how Obinna died is blank. And the one about the day he proposed — the ring, the restaurant in Enugu, everything — nothing dey here. Just white paper. You no write am?”
Chioma snatched the book, blood draining from her face.
She had written every single detail. She remembered writing them.
But the bell had taken them anyway.
Ada’s voice dropped to a whisper. “This thing wey you dey use… na the silence dey cost you Obinna piece by piece?”
Chioma didn’t answer.
Because outside, the evening noise was rising again — okadas, generators, life refusing to stay quiet.
And all she could think about was ringing the bell one more time… just to make the fear go away.................... TO BE CONTINUED!!!!!!

Each ring of the bell buys her silence… but at the cost of losing him piece by piece.
Should Chioma continue with ringing the bell?
"

01/03/2026

THE BELL THAT SWALLOWED SOUND 🔕

Chapter 2: The First Ring

Chioma didn’t wait till morning.
The moment she stepped into her quiet compound, she locked the zinc gate, drew the curtain across her parlour window, and sat on the old cane chair Obinna used to call “throne of the gods.”
The bell rested on her lap like a sleeping child. Cold. Heavy. Waiting.

Outside, the night was loud as usual — generator from the next compound, distant okada revving, someone’s radio blasting “Ife” by Olamide, crickets doing too much. Inside her head, the noise was worse: the last words Obinna said before he left for work that morning, the sound of the truck brakes that never worked, the priest’s voice at the burial shouting “dust to dust” like it was good news.
She couldn’t take it anymore.

Her hands trembled as she lifted the bell. The carved screaming faces on the iron seemed to watch her.
“Just once,” she whispered. “Make I know wetin peace feel like again.”
She rang it.
TING!

The sound was small, almost polite… but everything else died.
The generator outside coughed once and went mute.
The radio cut off mid-chorus.
The crickets froze.
Even the fan in her room slowed to nothing, blades hanging still like they had been unplugged from life itself.
Total silence.

Not the kind you get when you cover your ears.
This was deeper.
This was the silence of the grave… but warm. Gentle. Like God had finally pressed mute on the whole world just for her.
Chioma’s shoulders dropped. Tears she didn’t know were coming rolled down her cheeks. For the first time in eight months, her chest wasn’t tight. Her head wasn’t spinning. She could hear her own heartbeat — slow, steady, alive.
She stayed like that for almost an hour, eyes closed, breathing like a newborn. No thoughts. No memories attacking her. Just… nothing.
When she finally stood up, her legs felt light. She walked to her bed, lay down without removing her wrapper, and slept like someone who had never known sorrow.
The best sleep of her life.

Morning light crept through the window and tapped her eyelids.
Chioma woke up smiling — something she hadn’t done since the accident. She stretched, touched the bell on her bedside stool, and laughed softly.
“Obinna, if you see this thing ehn…”
She stopped.

The name felt right, but something was missing.
She tried to picture him in her mind — his face was still there, smiling the way he always did when he teased her about her cooking. But when she reached for one small detail, it slipped away like smoke.
What colour was his favourite shirt?
The one he wore every Saturday to watch football.
The one she washed a thousand times.
She squeezed her eyes shut, searching.
Blue?
No… green?
Or was it that striped one?
Nothing.
Her heart started beating faster. She sat up, grabbed the small photo frame beside the bed — the one of them on their wedding day. Obinna was wearing the shirt in the picture. She stared hard.
It was… white?
No, the photo was black and white. Useless.
She jumped out of bed, rushed to the wooden box where she kept his clothes. She pulled out the shirt, held it to her face, inhaled deeply.
The scent was still there — faint detergent and his body. But the colour… she couldn’t name it. The word for it was gone. Like someone had reached into her brain and erased one crayon from the box.
Chioma’s knees buckled. She sat on the floor, shirt in her hands, staring at the bell on the stool.
It looked shinier than yesterday. Almost… satisfied.
A soft knock came at her gate.

“Chioma! Chioma! You dey house? Ada dey here o!”
Her best friend’s voice cut through the morning air.
Chioma looked at the bell again, fear and hunger fighting inside her chest.
She had tasted silence.
And now she was already wondering… how soon she could ring it again............. TO BE CONTINUED!!

Chioma finally rang the bell 😲😳
Do you think the silence is worth the price she will pay?

01/03/2026

Story Continues!!!!!

THE BELL THAT SWALLOWED SOUND 🔕

Chapter 1: The Stranger at Nkwo market
(Part 2)

Part 2

Even the wind held its breath.
For ten full seconds, Amaeze market became a painting. Mouths moved but no sound came out. A woman’s hand froze mid-gesture over a heap of tomatoes. An okada rider’s face was stuck in mid-shout. Total, beautiful, terrifying silence.
Then he stopped the swing.
Noise crashed back like a wave.
People gasped, staggered, some clapped, some looked afraid. Money started flying onto the old man’s table.
Chioma stepped forward before she could think.
“How much?”
The old man smiled again, sad this time.
“For you, my daughter… twenty-five thousand. Last price.”
She had only twenty-two thousand in her account — the last of Obinna’s insurance money.
She counted it out with shaking hands and gave him everything.
He placed the cold bell in her palms.
The moment her fingers closed around it, a whisper brushed her ear — soft, familiar, heartbreaking.
“Chi… don’t forget me.”
She je**ed back. The old man was already packing his table.
“Wait — what did you say?”
He looked at her one last time, eyes full of pity.
“I no talk anything, madam. But the bell… e dey talk sometimes.”
He melted into the crowd and was gone.
Chioma stood in the noisy market, heart hammering, the black bell heavy in her wrapper.
That night, alone in her empty compound, she would ring it for the first time.
But right now, as she walked home, the bell seemed to grow warmer against her skin… like it already knew her name..................

Next chapter 2!!
What do you think Chioma will do with the bell?
Would she ring it or not?

28/02/2026

THE BELL THAT SWALLOWED SOUND 🔔

Chapter 1: The Stranger at Nkwo Market
(Part 1)

The market in Amaeze was never quiet.
Not even at 6 a.m.
Okada horns blared like angry spirits. Women shouted prices for garri and okporoko. Children chased each other between stalls, their laughter sharp as broken bottles. And somewhere behind it all, the generator at Mama Nkechi’s beer parlour coughed and roared like it wanted to die.
Chioma Nwosu hated every single sound.
Eight months since the truck took Obinna on the Onitsha-Enugu expressway, and the world still refused to shut up. Every laugh reminded her of his. Every horn sounded like the one that never stopped coming. Even the church bell on Sunday mornings felt like it was ringing for his funeral again.
She moved through the crowd like a ghost in a wrapper, buying only what she must — crayfish, palm oil, salt. Her eyes stayed on the red dust at her feet.
Then the crowd parted.
An old man stood in the middle of Nkwo Market like he had grown there overnight. Tall, skin like dried riverbed, wearing a faded green agbada and a smile that knew too much. In front of him was a small wooden table. On it sat one object.
A bell.
Not the church kind. Smaller. Black iron, ancient-looking, with strange marks carved around its mouth like tiny screaming faces. No rope. Just a handle shaped like two hands clasped in prayer.
People gathered, curious.
“Wetiu be dis one?” someone shouted.
The old man’s voice was low, calm, and somehow cut through all the noise without shouting.
“This bell swallows sound,” he said. “Ring am once… everywhere around you go quiet. Perfect quiet. The kind wey fit make person hear their own soul.”
Laughter exploded.
“Obi! This one na scam o!”
But Chioma didn’t laugh.
The old man looked straight at her, as if he had been waiting for her all morning.
“Madam,” he said softly, “you look like person wey dey carry too much noise for inside.”
Chioma’s throat tightened.
He lifted the bell with both hands.
The market noise was still roaring… until he rang it.
One single, gentle ting.
Everything stopped.
No horns.
No shouting.
No children.
No generator.....................pt2 next!

What do you think will happen?
What will Chioma do?
Share your thoughts 💬

28/02/2026

Going forward, I'd be posting stories that will have you glued to your phone.

First up:
The Bell That Swallowed Sound.
Stay tuned for part 1

26/11/2025

Life is short, so break your silly egos. Forgive quickly, believe slowly. Love truly, laugh loudly and never avoid anything that makes you smile 😊.

19/01/2025

😎

Spanix Writes

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