29/06/2025
PART TWO: LABUBU (The Demon's Pet)
By Awawu Wuraola Tijani Yusuf (Wura's Pen)
The morning after Islamiyah’s glamorous birthday bash came like a whirlwind.
By 7:00 a.m., Lagos was already buzzing — but not the traffic, not the street hawkers, not even the banks.
This time, it was Instagram stories, TikTok reels, Snapchat flames, YouTube recaps, X (formerly Twitter) threads, and WhatsApp statuses that were doing all the shouting.
The tag:
>
..was everywhere.
Trend table? Number one in Lagos, number two in Nigeria, number four globally.
Fashion bloggers called it “a royal event.”
Event planners were taking notes.
Vendors were resharing posts that tagged them.
And Islamiyah? She woke up in a luxury hotel suite beside her man and turned on her phone… only to see her face and her doll plastered on hundreds of pages.
---
📱
🎥 “This birthday had luxury, class, and the baddest doll in Nigeria! Watch Islamiyah vibe with Labubu again! 😍🔥 ”
💬 Comments:
: “Forget Benz — that doll Labubu is my dream gift 😩💕”
: “Where can I order my own Labubu biko? She’s giving vintage goddess 😍”
: “I watched this 5 times. The way she kissed that doll ehn. My ovaries moved 😭”
: “Something about the doll just dey sweet me… like I need my own friend like that.”
: “Una dey craze. Doll that looks like it knows your sins?”
---
📱
🎥 “Femi shocked the world with a Benz. But this doll? Labubu? Iconic. This is giving Hollywood horror meets Lekki luxury! ”
💬 Comments:
: “The doll dey resemble Wednesday Addams small sha 😍🔥”
: “Wait first. Who designed that doll?? Labubu fit go viral o!”
: “E sweet me when she talk say ‘Labubu is my talk-mate’ 😂😂 this babe no well”
: “Labubu is a vibe. I want one for my birthday too!”
---
📱
🎥 “The top 3 moments from : 1) That Benz drop 😭 2) The money rain 💸 3) Islamiyah hugging Labubu like it’s her bestie for life.”
💬 Comments:
: “Omo! Someone connect me to the doll plug abeg. I want Labubu twins 💀❤️”
: “Una dey laugh but Labubu carry main character energy o”
: “I swear down, if my man gives me doll like that, I go cry join!”
---
📱
🎥 “Labubu is trending separately o! This doll got fans of her own 😂 ”
💬 Comments:
: “Y’all be sleeping on the fact that Labubu’s smile is everythinggg”
: “They should start a cartoon series called Labubu & Isbae 💯”
: “Abeg who dey sell this doll? I need to scare and slay my enemies at once 💀❤️”
---
Even YouTube picked up steam.
Reactors and vloggers started calling Labubu the “Silent Star of .”
One influencer, , dropped a full 15-minute reaction video titled:
> “Why Labubu Was The Best Birthday Gift — Don’t Argue.”
She wore her satin bonnet, sipping tea, and went:
> “Forget car, forget cash. That doll is on another level. The way Isbae held it? You could see connection. Labubu is a whole mood!”
---
Meanwhile on TikTok, the doll had become a trend of her own.
Clips were slowed down and edited into dark, aesthetic loops with creepy yet artistic music. Some used Billie Eilish’s “you should see me in a crown,” others used Oxlade’s “Ku Lo Sa.”
The vibe? Mystery meets beauty.
Hashtags were flying:
>
# MyDreamDoll
# DollGoals
# LabubuIsbae
# BaddieAndTheDoll
---
But not everyone was comfortable.
In the dark corners of the internet—Telegram groups, burner X accounts, gossip DMs—a different type of talk was going on.
# TeamBisola wasn’t laughing.
They didn’t care about Benz. Or wine glasses. Or doll kisses.
They saw a friendship betrayed.
They saw pain masked in perfume.
And most of all…
They saw danger.
---
📱Twitter/X
> “Everyone’s loving Labubu now. But don’t forget — sweetness can be a warning.”
💬 Replies:
: “People that don’t study horror movies will always play with cursed objects.”
: “Una dey love the same thing that will collect your peace.”
: “The name alone — Labubu show say na labalubu omi go carry una go.”
---
📱TikTok
🎥 Side-by-side stitch of Islamiyah kissing Labubu and old video of Bisola crying.
Caption: “Your man. Your best friend. Your betrayal. Plus doll. The universe is watching.”
💬 Comments:
: “Labubu looks too real. Like e dey breathe.”
: “Who smiles at a doll like that unless something dey involved?”
---
Despite the murmurs, the larger crowd was drunk in praise.
Labubu became a symbol of love, loyalty, and luxury.
Some saw her as a talk-mate,
some as a comfort doll,
others as a new fashion wave.
People joked about starting a Labubu Club — a social group of girls who would own their own personalized dolls and share tea stories every Sunday.
---
📱WhatsApp Status (from random users)
“I love this Labubu doll die. I go find one for myself 💕”
“Omo na this kind doll I need for companionship.”
“Labubu for president please 💅🏼”
“Something dey off sha, but the aesthetic go well.”
---
At 11:00 a.m., Labubu was already being made into memes, emojis, merch designs, and fan art.
By 12 noon, over 20,000 people had Googled “Labubu Doll Nigeria.”
By 2:00 p.m., fake vendors started advertising their own knockoff versions:
“Labubu-inspired dolls now available! ₦5,500 with free perfume.”
---
And in a quiet place…
One woman watched everything.
Bisola.
No tears this time.
No bitterness.
Just... observation.
She watched them adore the gift.
She watched Labubu become famous.
She watched Islamiyah hold it close.
And quietly, slowly, she smiled.
---
The message came in early the third day after the birthday — a bright, excited DM on Instagram with blinking emojis and three missed calls to follow.
> :
“Babes!!! Labubu don blow o 😭😭😭🔥🔥🔥. I’ve got TEN clients already asking if I can replicate that doll! Please tell me you’ve got more 😭💵💵💵💵 I fit order PLENTY.”
Deola stared at the screen, wide-eyed.
She knew the doll had gone viral, but the demand hitting like this? Overnight? It was wild.
She didn’t respond immediately. She just stared, thumb hovering over the keypad.
After a few seconds, she replied, simply:
> “Let me get back to you. Labubu isn’t just a doll.”
She dropped the phone like it was hot and stormed into Bisola’s room.
Bisola was sitting cross-legged on her bed, holding a needle and a piece of cotton in her hand. She was sewing idly — nothing specific, just trying to occupy her mind while the internet danced around a fire she started.
Deola closed the door behind her and leaned against it.
“Bisola,” she said slowly, “you won’t believe who just messaged me.”
Bisola didn’t look up. “Bims?”
Deola blinked. “How did you know?”
“Because I just saw her post her own birthday surprise with one Labubu copy inside. I know say people go begin rush am.”
Deola sat down on the edge of the bed. “Babe, she wants more. Like, plenty. Ten already. And more coming. I swear, this thing wey you create... e don enter market.”
Bisola’s hands paused. She looked up, worried.
“I no create anything. I summon something. That Labubu no be doll. It’s a... spirit. I only sew the body.”
“But they no know that. That one wey Islamiyah hold na the only one we do ritual for. The rest na just cloth and thread. What if we make more? Legit, harmless ones. No chanting. No night oil. Just cute Labubus. What do you think?”
Bisola shook her head. “If anything happens to Islamiyah, they will trace it to me. To that doll.”
Deola took her hand. “That’s why you won’t be involved publicly. I’ll be the face. Me. You’ll stay behind the scenes and just sew. Let me deal with buyers, social media, vendors... everything.”
Bisola was quiet for a long time.
The sewing needle slipped between her fingers, but she didn’t even notice.
Then she whispered, “You sure?”
“I’m sure. This is your redemption. Let the world love the soft side of Labubu. Not the revenge.”
---
Three hours later, the girls were in Tejuosho Market.
They moved from one shop to another, buying all kinds of fluffy materials, colorful threads, glass button eyes, and soft fiber filling. They picked cloths in velvet pink, lemon green, cocoa brown, midnight black, and pearl white.
Deola took charge. She bargained like a pro, haggled until the sellers hissed and still gave her discount, and even collected a few business cards for wholesale orders.
Bisola walked quietly behind her, occasionally touching a fabric and nodding when asked for opinion. She was trying to stay detached. No rituals, no spirits. Just cloth and thread. That’s all.
By evening, they were back at home with four large Ghana-Must-Go bags filled with materials.
They arranged the fabrics in categories and set up a makeshift workstation in the sitting room.
Then they started sewing.
Bisola drew new sketches for Labubu’s body, making some with bows, others with hoodies, some with braided woolen hair, and even one with miniature glasses.
Deola handled logistics — opening a new Instagram page, creating a TikTok account, taking high-quality pictures, and posting teaser videos with the name:
>
Within 24 hours, the page had over 3,000 followers.
Within 48, influencers started DMing for collaborations.
Labubu was no longer a demon.
It had become a brand.
---
Elsewhere on Lagos Island, Islamiyah was still soaking in her fame.
She had barely slept. After the party, after the luxury suite, after the late-night pillow talks with Femi, she had spent the morning glued to her phone, watching clips from her own birthday like a fan watching a celebrity.
Her followers had doubled. Her TikTok Lives were always packed. The birthday was now referred to online as:
> “The Isbae24 Experience.”
And sitting beside her — as always — was Labubu.
The doll was perched beside her bed, propped against a pillow. It wore the same stitched grin, the same intense eyes, the same calm.
Islamiyah took a sip from her wine glass and laughed loudly, watching a fan edit where someone made Labubu wink and drop sunglasses to Davido’s “Unavailable.”
“Haha! You people are mad,” she giggled. “Labubu no well o.”
She laughed again and reached for another sip — but her fingers met empty air.
The glass had fallen and shattered beside the bed.
She jumped. The red wine was already dripping into the rug.
“Ha! Ahn ahn, did I not place it properly?”
She looked at the table. The coaster was still there. Clean. Undisturbed.
She frowned and turned to look at Labubu.
The doll had shifted.
It was now slightly tilted — facing her.
“Labubu…” she murmured, picking it up. “You wan dey scare me?”
The doll stared back in silence.
She smiled softly, cuddling it like a child.
“I miss him already,” she whispered, still smiling. “You know... Femi’s different. I know he loves me. But…”
Her smile faded.
“I think he still has feelings for Bisola.”
She stared at the doll now like it was human. Like it could hear her.
“I don’t want him to think about her again. Ever. He’s mine now.”
She shifted the doll to her lap and began stroking its woolen hair.
“But who will I talk to about that except you, right? You’re the only one that listens.”
Labubu’s button eyes shimmered under the light.
Islamiyah rested her chin on its head. “Maybe we should plan something, hmm? You and I. Girl code.”
Just then, her phone rang. She jumped slightly, looked at the screen.
Femi.
She stood up, placed Labubu gently back on the couch, and picked the call.
“Oooin, Mr. Lover Lover!”
As she walked toward the sitting room to continue the call, behind her…
Labubu tilted slightly again.
No wind.
No fan.
No motion.
Just that faint creaking sound,
as the doll sat alone in the room,
its grin growing wider in the silence.
---
The clock on the gold-rimmed wall struck 6:17 p.m. as the sun dipped gently into the Lagos lagoon. A warm breeze swept over the glossy banana trees lining the high fences of the house at Banana Island, rustling their leaves like a warning whispered too soft for human ears.
Inside, Islamiyah was a picture of poise and perfection.
She wore a fitted silk dress the color of roasted wine, her braided hair swept into a knot with a golden pin shaped like a peacock. The air smelled of oud and cinnamon; she’d sprayed two layers too many, hoping to seal the memory of her scent in Femi’s mind the second he stepped through the door.
In her arms sat Labubu, nestled close like a baby. The doll wore a new bow she’d sewn earlier that day—pink, satiny, and glittering in the dim lights of the living room. Its grin, as always, was stitched wide, never changing, yet never quite the same.
Islamiyah sat poised on the edge of the cream leather couch, one hand gripping the remote, the other clutching the doll. Her phone buzzed.
Text from Femi:
“Just drove into the estate. 5 mins.”
She smiled.
Her heart fluttered with anticipation. He’d been gone for three days on a business trip to Senegal. He promised to be back for dinner Thursday. And here he was, a man of his word.
Then the doorbell rang.
She sprang up like someone pressed her with a spring, adjusted her neckline, placed Labubu gently on the couch, and rushed toward the door.
Click.
Femi stepped in, suitcase in one hand, car key in the other. His fitted kaftan smelled faintly of leather and travel.
“Bae!” Islamiyah shouted, flinging herself into his arms.
He caught her, but his hug lacked its usual warmth.
She leaned in, expecting the usual:
> “You smell divine, my baby…”
But instead, he winced.
Frowned.
Pulled his head back slightly.
“Wait... What’s that smell?”
Islamiyah blinked. “What smell?”
He sniffed again. The air shifted around him. Then came the words:
> “Babe... this house dey smell like something dey rot.”
She pulled away, confused. “Rot how? What kind of rot?”
“Like... like dead rat. But stronger. Like... animal co**se or soaked mop and heat. You no perceive am?”
She frowned, clearly annoyed. “Femi, this is Banana Island. There’s no way a rat entered this place. You think I use rat poison?”
“I didn’t say you used poison. But this smell... babe, it’s bad. Real bad. You no dey notice am since?”
She looked around. Her nose twitched slightly, unsure. “I no smell anything strange since morning.”
Femi stepped in and dropped his suitcase. “No, no, no. I dey serious. We need to find that thing.”
He walked further into the house, nose twitching like a bloodhound. Islamiyah followed behind, confused and mildly defensive.
Thus began the search.
---
First stop: The Living Room.
They moved pillows, lifted the couch cushions, opened drawers, and looked behind curtains. Nothing. The air smelled faintly of scented candles, but that underlying scent lingered — just at the edge of perception.
Femi crouched and sniffed under the TV console.
“Nada.”
---
Next: The Kitchen.
Islamiyah turned on the lights as they stepped in.
She pulled the fridge door open. Clean. Only chilled wine, apples, and a pack of frozen shrimp.
She opened the freezer. No sign of meat going bad.
Femi checked the cabinets. The spice rack. The sink drain. He even unscrewed the waste bin and sniffed it directly.
“Maybe one snail don fall behind fridge?”
They pulled the fridge forward. Nothing. No slime, no creature.
The smell was still there. Stronger.
---
They checked the Store Room.
Bags of rice. Clean mop. Packaged cartons. Disinfectant sprays. Nothing.
---
Then the Toilets.
Femi flushed them all.
He poured Dettol. Still, nothing.
---
They moved to the Laundry Room.
He opened the washing machine. Dryer. All empty.
“No forgotten sock or boxers wey dey rot somewhere?”
Islamiyah rolled her eyes. “You dey take me play.”
---
Next: The Guest Room downstairs.
They turned the mattress. Checked the corners. Opened drawers. Peeled back bedsheets.
Nothing.
---
Then the AC vents.
That’s when Femi got suspicious.
“If rat die inside AC system, na wahala o.”
They unscrewed one vent. Clean. Cool air flowed.
Femi turned off the main control to test. The smell remained.
---
Upstairs: The Master Bedroom.
Islamiyah’s sanctuary.
They entered. The lights flicked on.
Everything looked perfect — air fresheners, makeup kit, her silver-framed mirror, plush beddings. Labubu sat by the window, placed there earlier after the dress-up.
Femi walked around, sniffing corners like an officer.
Islamiyah folded her arms.
“This is getting embarrassing.”
“No babe, I dey serious. Something is off. You don’t just return from Senegal into rotting spirit smell. And it’s here, strong.”
He moved close to the walk-in closet. Opened it.
Sniffed.
Pulled out shoes. Dresses. Even a Balenciaga box.
Nothing.
Then he turned to the bed.
Lifted the sheets.
Nothing.
He paused.
Femi sniffed again, this time leaning in close toward Islamiyah like a cat stalking a scent.
She je**ed her head back. “Ah ah, what’s that for?”
He squinted, nose twitching. “Babe… you dey sure say you bath today?”
Islamiyah froze. “What did you say?”
“I said—” he leaned back a bit, raising his hand in surrender— “when last you bath?”
Islamiyah gasped. “Are you saying I’m the one smelling?”
“I didn’t say that directly—”
“Oh! So it’s indirectly you want to say it!”
“Calm down nau. This smell dey follow you up and down. I no dey accuse, I dey observe.”
She hissed and turned away, hands folded across her chest. “That’s very insulting, Femi. You came back after three days and the first thing you say is that I smell?”
“I didn’t say you, I said there’s a smell—”
“But you’re sniffing me like a lost dog!”
They started going back and forth.
“You’re saying I’m rotting?”
“I’m saying there’s something rotting—near you!”
The argument grew hotter. Islamiyah was already close to tears. Femi, uncomfortable and tired from his trip, didn’t want to escalate, so he softened.
“Okay, let’s do it this way,” he said gently. “Just go and take a bath. For my peace of mind.”
Islamiyah glared at him.
He took her hand. “Please. Bae. Just try. If after you bath I still dey smell that thing, we go continue search. But if it disappear, maybe…”
She snatched her hand and walked off without saying another word.
---
Twenty minutes later, she returned in a silk robe, water glistening on her collarbone. Her face was still stiff with pride, but she smelled faintly of black soap and rosewater.
Femi sniffed again.
The smell had reduced—but not gone.
He smiled awkwardly. “Better. Much better.”
“Don’t patronise me,” she snapped.
“No, I mean it. Whatever was smelling, it’s not as strong again. Maybe it was heat. Maybe the AC dey blow old air.”
To avoid another round of drama, he went to his perfume shelf and started spraying the entire room.
From Tom Ford Oud Wood to Creed Aventus, from Bleu de Chanel to Maison Francis Kurkdjian Baccarat Rouge, the air became a cocktail of elite fragrances.
He sprayed the bathroom. The hall. Even the closet and AC vents.
By the time he was done, the house smelled like a perfume expo.
Islamiyah sat with Labubu in her lap, stroking its yarn hair absent-mindedly.
She didn’t understand what was going on, but she hoped—prayed—it would pass.
---
That same Thursday evening, Deola was working magic.
Her phone buzzed like a time bomb. Orders were flying in. DMs packed. Comments raining.
She had just completed her 50th sale.
Each doll was sold at ₦150,000.
Bims, who had upgraded her business package, was now reselling at ₦200,000 and even adding deluxe packaging — scented wrapping paper, handwritten notes, and ribbons in gold and black.
Labubu was trending like madness.
The hashtag: had over 1.2 million views.
---
TikTok Clip 1:
> “Yaaay! My own Labubu has landed 😍😍. I don’t even care if it’s cloth and thread, this one pass designer teddy. Just look at the finish!”
She unboxed it with bright pink nails, holding the doll close to her cheeks and giggling.
> “You people don’t understand — this doll is too fine. It’s giving luxury spiritual pet. I love it die!”
Top Comments:
“Where una dey order abeg! I need five!!”
“PrincessZee always gets the trendy things early 🔥🔥”
“I go name mine Labubu Junior 🥺💖”
---
TikTok Clip 2:
Tola, a beauty influencer, unboxed hers with her long lashes fluttering like wings.
> “Ladies and gentle-men, meet the new man in my life — LABUBU! 😍”
She hugged it and posed in front of her ring light.
> “Biko don’t judge me. When next man offend me, I will whisper all my secrets into this doll. It listens.”
Top Comments:
“Omo! This doll dey catch cruise!”
“Now I want one too. Do they have Labubu for men?”
“Abeg Labubu na therapist o 😂”
---
TikTok Clip 3:
Remy filmed her unboxing while sipping coconut water by a pool in her bikini.
> “If you don’t have Labubu in your house, are you even living the Lagos Island soft life?”
She turned the doll to the camera.
> “This one will be my gossip partner. Boys, beware.”
Top Comments:
“It’s giving rich witch energy 😂😂”
“Remy’s version with the shades is everything!”
“Labubu for president 😂🧸”
---
TikTok Clip 4:
This mum influencer showed her three toddlers hugging their own customized Labubu dolls.
> “Yes o! Mama got one for each baby. You won’t believe how peaceful their nap time has been since. Thank you !”
Top Comments:
“This doll go soon replace pacifier 😭😭”
“Awwww, triplets + Labubu = perfect picture 😍”
“This is so cute, I want mine with a pink bow too!”
---
TikTok Clip 5:
He unboxed the doll in his kitchen beside a pot of jollof rice.
> “My Labubu go help me taste food before guests arrive o. Spiritual tasting doll.”
He gave it a wooden spoon and posed like they were co-chefs.
Top Comments:
“Chef don dey cook with charm now 🤣”
“Make Labubu no chop all the food before guests come o!”
“This doll just dey everywhere 😭”
---
By midnight, was on Nigeria’s TikTok top ten trends.
Bims’s order list doubled. Deola’s burner phone refused to rest.
And somewhere in that same city, a girl sat quietly in her mansion, cuddling the original Labubu — the only one that had been summoned properly.
Her hands stroked its ear as she whispered, “Femi doesn’t believe I smell. Right?”
The doll said nothing.
But the air around it thickened.
Just slightly.
------------
Exactly seven days.
Seven days since Islamiyah hugged that doll during her birthday party.
Seven days since her name, the doll’s name, and the phrase “Labubu Love Forever” topped every TikTok trend in the country.
And now, the game had changed.
The demand was insane.
From an initial price of ₦150,000, the dolls shot to ₦200,000 straight from Bisola and Deola, and some resellers like , , and were selling Labubu dolls for ₦250,000 each.
Even at that rate, people were fighting to order.
Every influencer, boutique owner, or “it-girl” wanted a Labubu.
It had become a symbol of status, uniqueness, and luxury.
# UnboxLabubuWithMe now had 15.5 million views and growing.
No bad press. No suspicions. Just praise and more praise.
But beneath the surface, Labubu had begun to feed.
---
In the Mansion at Banana Island
Islamiyah stood in front of her mirror and stared hard at her reflection.
The person that looked back didn’t look like her.
The once flawless skin on her cheeks now looked a bit sunken.
Her under-eyes had shadows, despite hours of sleep.
Her colour was fading. Not dull—just... dim.
Even her makeup didn’t sit the way it used to.
She turned sideways. Her collarbones were more pronounced. Her hips had dropped. Her once radiant smile had become something she forced.
But still, she held on to Labubu.
Like a child gripping their only friend in a lonely house.
---
Bisola had had enough.
She barged into the old woman’s place that Thursday afternoon, heat blazing behind her eyes.
“Madam!” she shouted, throwing down the velvet pouch containing the leftover threads, chalk, and herbs. “Your jazz no work!”
The old woman, seated as usual in her bamboo chair, didn’t flinch.
“You say the demon go scatter her life. E don reach seven days and nothing happen. She dey live soft life, post soft videos. Even her doll go viral.”
Bisola’s voice cracked from fury.
The old woman just smiled.
“Labubu is working. But my demon... it starts with a scent. Then silence. Then ruin. My dear, have patience.”
“Patience? She’s still slaying online!”
The old woman chuckled. “The sweetest rot is the one no one notices at first. When my demon starts to stink, you’ll know.”
But Bisola had stormed out, tossing one of the cowries at her feet.
“Fake woman!”
As the door slammed shut, the old woman whispered, “Labubu... feed well.”
---
It's being two weeks now since the birthday.
Islamiyah went live that evening, Labubu seated beside her on the pink fur stool.
“Hi guys!” she waved with an overly bright smile.
Her eyes were slightly dull. Her skin, even under a filter, looked greyish.
People noticed.
Comments started rolling:
“Isbae you okay? You look slimmer o”
“Wetin dey happen? Face pale small…”
“You need sleep jare, this celeb life dey drain person.”
“Hope no stress you too much oo.”
She laughed and replied:
> “Guys, I’m good. Just a little tired, you know? All the parties and shoots... But I’m eating well o. My skin just dey humble me small.”
She added more lip gloss, adjusted her wig, and cuddled Labubu.
> “At least Labubu no dey judge me. Abi you go leave me too?” she joked.
No one laughed.
The chat slowed for a bit. Something about the whole vibe felt… off.
But she pushed on, promoted a skincare brand, andcontinued her live when Femi entered the room.
He hadn’t stayed since their last argument. He claimed to be busy with contracts, but the truth was—he couldn’t breathe in that house.
The smell.
It had become unbearable.
Like something rotting from inside the air.
The minute he entered the front door, he nearly gagged.
“God.”
He covered his nose, then walked straight to the room. He wasn’t there to talk or cuddle.
He came to pack his things.
Islamiyah, sitting by her makeup table, applying concealer to cover the hollows under her eyes, turned and smiled.
“Hey, baby…”
Femi didn’t answer.
He walked to the wardrobe, began removing shirts, trousers, belts, cologne.
“Femi, what’s going on?”
“I no fit again,” he said without looking at her.
She stood up, Labubu still in her hand.
“What do you mean?”
“This house… you… everything dey smell like death.”
She gasped.
“I’ve bathed. Twice!”
“It’s not about bath!” he snapped. “Even those around you complain. The last shoot, the stylist said, "You dey smell like sewage!"”
Islamiyah started crying.
“No… I am not smelling. Femi, don’t do this. You know I’m not like that.”
He faced her now.
Angry.
“This is not about whether you clean or not. This thing… this thing wey follow you… it’s deeper. People dey avoid you.”
She broke down. “Femi, please. Stay. I need you.”
She forgot she was still live on TikTok. The camera on her dresser still rolling.
She crawled toward him, grabbing his leg.
He pushed her off.
“Don’t touch me! You stink like a used rotting co**se.”
The words cut her like fire.
Femi kept going.
“That's how its began, have you forgetten? How you said Bisola have been used that blood never stop coming out of her kpetus that's why she didn't let me touch her for weeks? I met the doctor you introduced to me last week after you birthday and he said Bisola had a miscarriage and she didn’t even knew she was pregnant. He also said you told him to lie to me that there is no causes for the bleeding except if it is spiritual. You said she smell but used perfume to cover up. Why can't you also use perfume to cover up? You seduced me. You lied to me. You destroyed your friend, Bisola, just to show you win. But look at you now. Wasted.”
He grabbed his bag and stormed out.
Islamiyah collapsed.
Fainted.
---
Two seconds.
That’s all it took.
The entire meltdown streamed LIVE.
Within minutes, screen recordings were up on Instagram, Twitter, TikTok, even Facebook.
> “BREAKING! Femi walks out on Isbae during TikTok Live after accusing her of stinking like co**se. She fainted.”
> “Love gone sour! Femi drags Isbae for seducing him and betraying Bisola! TikTok fans in shock 😱 ”
> “Femi said ‘don’t touch me you stink!’ 😩😩 This is the biggest breakup this year. RIP Isbae and Femi 💔💔💔”
Twitter Spaces were buzzing:
“Do you think it’s spiritual or just body odour?”
“I’ve never seen Islamiyah look so broken. She’s fading sha.”
“Somebody check on Bisola o. I hope she’s not laughing now.”
---
At Labubu Lounge
Deola was at the showroom when her phone buzzed like crazy.
She checked.
Her jaw dropped.
She ran straight into Bisola’s sewing corner.
“Check TikTok! Check TikTok now!!”
Bisola looked up, sewing needle still in her hand.
“What happened?”
“Islamiyah fainted on live!”
Bisola froze.
Deola played the clip.
They watched the whole thing — the insults, the begging, the faint.
Bisola was shocked to find out what Islamiyah told Femi.
They were Silence.
They didn’t speak for a long time.
Then Deola looked at the other dolls sitting acrossthe room.
Labubu.
Still smiling.
Still watching.
She whispered, “Labubu don start his work.”
Bisola nodded slowly.
