https://isaacgodspower567.wixsite.com/godspezzywriters

Godspezzy writers, Lagos Harbour (2026)

17/03/2026

Good morning everyone
Our going out and coming in is secure 🙏

13/03/2026

Happy birthday to me say me a prayer 🤲

09/03/2026

I'm a very attractive woman and I do everything and anything that it takes to make my marriage work. I play my role as a wife and as a woman. Our s*x is fantastic and just about all areas of our relationship are great. Except. His infidelity. What drives a man to have everything at home and go look for two mistresses outside of our marriage?

How do I get him to leave them and be all about me?!

Please I don't need advice about divorcing him. I'm not leaving my husband. I just want advice on how to turn my situation around.

09/03/2026

The Wicked Prince – Episode 5
(The Return and the Last Bite)
Years went by.
Five. Maybe six.
I stopped counting after the third move.
Lagos to Abuja. Abuja to Port Harcourt. Always changing jobs, numbers, addresses.
My uncle got sick – heart trouble. He passed quietly in a small clinic. I buried him alone. No family came. No village people. Just me and the dirt.
I thought the messages would stop.
They didn’t.
Every few months, a new number. A new photo.
Me at the port loading crates.
Me buying bread at a street stall.
Me sleeping on a thin mat in a shared room.
Always from far away. Always clear enough to see my face.
No words sometimes. Just the photo.
Other times, one line:
“Home is waiting.”
Or
“Your mother still lives in the old house. Alone.”
I never replied.
Never called back.
But the fear grew teeth.
It bit deeper every time my phone lit up at night.
Then came the day I couldn’t run anymore.
My mother called. Voice small. Shaky.
“Emeka… come home. Please. The prince… he sent people. They say the village needs you for something. They won’t leave till you come.”
I knew what it was.
Not a request.
A summons.
I took the night bus.
Sat by the window the whole way. Watched the road disappear behind me like it was swallowing my escape.
Arrived at dawn. The village looked smaller. Older. The palace still stood tall, freshly painted white. New cars outside. Guards in fresh uniforms.
I went straight to my mother’s compound.
She hugged me tight. Cried.
“They said if you don’t come to the palace today… bad things.”
I nodded.
No choice left.
Afternoon came.
I walked the main road. People stared. Some whispered. Some looked away fast.
The palace gate opened before I knocked.
A guard led me inside. No words. Just walked.
Through the main hall. Past the old throne where the video was shot.
Down a corridor I never knew existed.
To a heavy wooden door at the end.
The guard opened it. Pushed me in. Closed it behind me.
The room was dark.
One lantern on a table.
Prince Adabo sat there. Older now. Thinner. But the eyes the same. Calm. Hungry.
He smiled that small smile.
“Emeka. You came back. Good boy.”
I stood still. Said nothing.
He stood up slow. Walked around the table.
On it: a plate. Covered with cloth.
He pulled the cloth away.
A heart.
Fresh. Still wet. Steam rising a little.
He picked it up. Held it out like offering food.
“This one is yours,” he said.
“From the boy who fetched water last week. He screamed your name at the end. Said you would come save him.”
My knees almost gave.
The prince bit once. Chewed slow.
Swallowed.
Wiped his mouth.
“I don’t need more hearts now,” he said.
“The village feeds me willingly. They bring what I ask. To keep the peace. To keep their children safe.
But you… you saw too much. Ran too far.
Now you finish it.”
He held the heart closer.
Blood dripped on the floor.
“Eat.
Or I take your mother next. Then your sister in Enugu. Then whoever is left with your blood.”
I looked at the door.
Locked.
Guards outside.
I looked at him.
The crown was gone. But the power was thicker than ever.
I reached out. Hands shaking.
Took the heart.
He watched.
Smiling.
I brought it to my mouth.
The smell hit me – iron, warm, sick.
I closed my eyes.
And bit.
The taste exploded.
Salty. Warm. Wrong.
I chewed once.
Swallowed against the vomit rising.
He laughed low.
“Good. Now you’re part of it.
No more running.
You belong here now.”
He turned away.
Opened the door.
Guards came in. Took me to a small room at the back of the palace.
Gave me a mat. Food. Water.
Told me I would stay. Help.
Watch.
And one day… maybe eat again.
I sit here now.
Writing this on an old phone they let me keep.
Sending it out in pieces when the signal comes.
If you read this…
Don’t come looking.
Don’t answer strange calls.
Don’t go back to your village.
Because some hungers never die.
And some crowns make you bite back.
The End.
Written by Godspezzy Writers ✨
Ghost readers should stay away – if you’re only reading without liking, sharing, or following, the spirits might notice 😶
If this full series left you shook and wanting more dark African horror, smash LIKE on every episode, SHARE the whole story thread with your people, and FOLLOW my main page right now! Turn on notifications – new chilling tales dropping soon. Real ones stay till the end. Let’s keep the darkness growing! 🔥🖤

09/03/2026

What we do for love that no one sees

09/03/2026

The Wicked Prince – Episode 4
(The Throne Room and the Final Secret)
We left at first light.
No goodbyes. No bags packed in daylight.
Just two small Ghana-must-go bags with clothes, some money my uncle had saved, my cracked Nokia, and the fear that chased us out of the village.
We walked the back roads to the main highway. Caught a morning bus to Onitsha. Sat in the back, heads down, saying nothing. Every time the bus stopped, I expected guards to board. Every face looked like the prince’s for a second.
In Onitsha we stayed low. Slept in a cheap lodge near the market. Ate bread and tea. Planned the next move to Lagos.
My uncle said, “We tell nobody the full story yet. Not family. Not friends. Word travels. The prince has eyes everywhere.”
But the dreams didn’t stop.
Every night: the clearing. The fire. The heart. The chewing.
And now the new part – the side door. The bloody rag. The wave from the jeep.
I woke up sweating, checking the door lock three times before closing my eyes again.
Three months passed.
We found small work in Lagos – me loading trucks at the port, uncle helping at a spare parts shop. Life started feeling normal. Almost safe.
I even began to think maybe the prince forgot. Maybe he got what he wanted and stopped.
Then the message came.
One evening my old Nokia buzzed. Unknown number.
I opened it.
A single photo.
Blurry but clear enough.
Me, hiding behind the mango tree that first night. The date stamp: the exact night Chidi died.
Below the photo, one line:
“You ran far. But some things follow.”
My hands shook so bad the phone almost fell.
I showed my uncle. His face went gray.
“We change numbers. Move again. Maybe Abuja this time.”
But before we could, another message the next day.
This one a video clip. Short. 8 seconds.
From inside the palace. Dark room. Candle light.
Prince Adabo sitting on the old throne – the one the Eze used before he died.
He was alone. Talking to the camera like he knew I’d see it.
“I know you’re in Lagos, Emeka.
Your uncle too.
I don’t need to chase.
You’ll come back.
Everyone comes back when they’re hungry enough.
Or when someone they love disappears next.”
He smiled that same small smile.
Held up something red. Wet.
A fresh heart.
Bit into it slow.
The video ended.
We didn’t sleep that night.
We talked till dawn.
My uncle said we had to go to the police. Tell everything. Show the messages.
But who would believe two poor boys from the village against a new Eze with money, connections, and fear on his side?
I stared at the phone.
The last message had no sender name. Just a number that didn’t exist when I tried calling back.
Then it hit me.
The prince wasn’t just powerful.
He was patient.
He didn’t need to kill us quick.
He could wait. Let fear eat us slow.
Make us come back ourselves.
We deleted the messages.
Changed numbers again.
Moved to a different part of Lagos.
Told nobody where.
But every time my phone buzzes now, even years later, my heart stops.
I check.
Always expect to see that smile.
That throne.
That heart.
Sometimes I wonder if he’s still out there.
Still hungry.
Still ruling.
Still watching.
And sometimes, in the quiet moments, I wonder if running was enough.
Or if one day, the hunger will find me anyway.
The End… for now.
If the prince ever comes for you, remember:
Don’t look back.
Don’t answer unknown calls.
And never go home alone at night.
Written by Godspezzy Writers ✨
Ghost readers should stay away – if you’re only reading without liking, sharing, or following, the spirits might notice 😶
If this series gave you real chills from start to finish, smash that LIKE, SHARE the full story with friends who love dark African tales, and FOLLOW my main page right now! Turn on notifications – more horror, more village secrets, more episodes coming. Real ones stay locked in. Let’s keep the fear alive together! 🔥🖤

09/03/2026

The Wicked Prince – Episode 3
(The Night I Almost Became the Next One)
The wave he gave me from the jeep wasn’t friendly.
It was a warning.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Like counting down the days until my turn.
After that, I stopped going out after dark.
Stayed inside after sunset. Helped my mother lock every door and window. Slept with a small knife under my pillow – not that it would help against guards with machetes.
But fear doesn’t let you hide forever.
Two weeks after the palace rag incident, my uncle came to our compound at dawn. Face pale. Eyes red like he hadn’t slept.
He pulled me aside behind the kitchen.
“Emeka, they took Mama Ngozi last night.”
The old woman who sold herbs and told stories about old juju. She lived alone since her husband died.
“They say she went to fetch water from the stream. Never came back. But I passed her house this morning. Door open. Mat on the floor like she was dragged. Blood drops leading to the back path.”
My stomach dropped.
Mama Ngozi had whispered to me once: “That prince… his shadow is too long. One day it will cover us all.”
Uncle continued, voice shaking.
“I think they’re moving faster now. Maybe because the old Eze is dying. The prince wants to… finish whatever he’s doing before he takes the throne.”
We decided that night was the last chance.
We had to see inside the palace. Not the main gate – the side door where the prince came out with bloody hands.
If we could get proof – a photo on my old Nokia phone, or just see enough to tell someone in town – maybe the police would listen. Or at least we could run with a clear story.
We waited till 1 a.m.
No moon. Thick clouds. Perfect dark.
We took the long way through the cassava farm, crawling under fences, avoiding dogs. My uncle carried a small torch wrapped in cloth – only flash when needed.
We reached the back wall again. Same bushes. Same plantain trees hiding the side door.
We waited.
Nothing for almost an hour. Legs cramping. Mosquitoes biting.
Then the door creaked open.
Prince Adabo stepped out.
This time he wasn’t alone. One guard followed. The prince carried a small sack – something moving inside. Twitching.
He whispered something to the guard. The guard nodded, took the sack, and walked toward the bush path.
The prince stayed. Lit a cigarette. Stood there smoking, looking at the sky like he was thinking about nothing important.
My uncle whispered, “Now. While he’s distracted.”
We crept closer. Too close.
I pulled out the phone. Ready to take a picture if something happened.
Then it did.
The guard came back empty-handed.
He said something low. Prince Adabo smiled. Nodded.
Then they both turned toward the bushes – straight toward us.
I froze.
My uncle grabbed my arm. “Run.”
We bolted.
Feet pounding dirt. Branches whipping our faces. Heart in my throat.
Behind us, shouts. Footsteps. Flashlights cutting through the dark.
We split up – uncle went left toward the river, I went right toward the farms.
I ran blind. Tripped on roots. Fell hard. Phone flew out of my hand.
I scrambled up. Kept running.
Then I heard it.
Close. Too close.
A voice: “Stop, boy.”
I turned.
One of the guards. Tall. Machete in hand. Face hard under the torchlight.
I ran faster. Lungs burning.
Dodged between yam mounds. Jumped a small ditch.
He was gaining.
Then I saw the old well – abandoned, half-covered with wood.
I dove behind it. Held my breath.
The guard stopped. Listened.
Shone the light around.
Passed right by me.
Kept going.
I waited ten minutes. Maybe twenty.
No sound.
I crawled out. Legs shaking. Found my phone – cracked screen but working.
I didn’t go home.
Went straight to my uncle’s place.
He was already there. Panting. Shirt torn.
“We almost died tonight,” he said.
We sat in the dark. No light. No talking for a long time.
Then he spoke.
“Tomorrow we leave. Pack light. Tell nobody. We go to Onitsha. From there, Lagos. No looking back.”
I nodded.
But deep down I knew:
The prince wouldn’t forget my face.
And some hungers follow you no matter how far you run.
To be continued…
Watch out for Episode 4 – The throne room and the final secret.
Written by Godspezzy Writers ✨
Ghost readers should stay away – if you’re only reading without liking, sharing, or following, the spirits might notice 😶
If this episode had your heart racing, LIKE this post, SHARE with your squad who love true African horror, and FOLLOW my main page right now! Turn on notifications so you never miss the next drop. Let’s keep the chills coming – engage or the prince might find you next 👀🔥🖤

08/03/2026

Work hard in silent so that when you fail, nobody will know🥱😌

I no dey motivate anybody🥱😂

08/03/2026

Life as a millionaire no easy o
Ohh sorry una no fit relate 🙂🤣

08/03/2026

Happy Sunday from this side
Hope you all are going to church fans

08/03/2026

The Wicked Prince – Episode 2
(The Palace Secret Room)
The smile he gave me at the funeral still burns in my head.
Small.
Quiet.
But it said everything: “I know what you saw. Speak and disappear.”
After Chidi’s burial, I tried to act normal. Went to farm with my father. Helped my mother sell garri at the market. But every time I passed the palace road, my legs felt heavy. The black jeep was always parked outside. Guards at the gate. Prince Adabo sometimes stood on the balcony, looking down at the village like he owned every roof.
I started hearing more whispers.
An old woman named Mama Ngozi said her grandson saw the prince near the river at night, carrying a sack.
A boy who fetched firewood said he heard crying from inside the palace walls once.
Nobody connected it openly. Fear kept mouths shut.
One evening, my uncle – the one who believed me – called me to his small house behind the church. He locked the door. Spoke low.
“Emeka, I heard something. The palace has a room nobody talks about. Behind the main hall. Old storage they say. But people swear they hear things at night. Voices. Knives on wood. I think… that’s where he takes them sometimes.”
I felt cold. “Uncle, we can’t go there. If they catch us—”
“We won’t go inside. Just look from outside. Confirm. Then we decide what to do. Maybe tell the police in town. Or leave forever.”
I didn’t want to. But Chidi’s face kept coming back. The open chest. The calm chewing.
We waited for a moonless night. No light. No shadows moving too much. Around 11 p.m., we slipped out. Walked the back paths, avoiding the main road. My uncle knew every shortcut from his farming days.
We reached the palace fence – high mud wall with broken bottles on top. We crouched behind thick bushes near the back. From there we could see a small side door, half-hidden by plantain trees. Light came from under it. Yellow. Flickering. Like candle or lantern.
We waited.
Nothing for long minutes.
Then the door opened slow.
Prince Adabo stepped out.
Alone this time. No guards. He wore a plain black shirt, no beads, no crown cloth. Looked almost ordinary. But his hands… they were red. Wet. He wiped them on a rag, threw it into the bushes. Then he went back inside. Door closed.
My uncle whispered, “That rag… smell it later. Blood.”
We didn’t move.
Few minutes later, the door opened again. This time two guards came out dragging something. A body. Wrapped in mat. Head covered. They carried it toward the bush path that leads to the old shrine – same place I saw Chidi.
They passed close. Too close. We pressed flat to the ground. One guard stopped, looked around. Sniffed the air like he sensed something. My heart stopped. Then he shrugged and kept walking.
They disappeared into the dark.
We waited till silence came back. Then we crept to where the prince threw the rag. My uncle picked it up with a stick. Held it to his nose. Nodded once. “Blood. Fresh.”
We ran home. Legs shaking. Didn’t speak till we were inside.
That night I didn’t sleep.
I kept thinking: How many bodies? How many hearts?
And why? Power? Juju? Hunger like the old stories say about some men who eat human parts for strength?
Next morning, another “disappearance.”
A young man who worked as houseboy in the palace. Said he ran away to the city. But his mother cried – said he would never leave without telling her.
Prince Adabo drove through the village later that day. Windows down. Smiling at people. Waving like a good son.
When he passed our compound, he slowed the jeep. Looked right at me sitting outside.
Raised one hand.
Waved slowly.
Then drove on.
I knew then: He wasn’t just hungry.
He was hunting. And he knew I was watching.
To be continued…
Watch out for Episode 3 – The night I almost became the next one.
Written by Godspezzy Writers ✨
Ghost readers should stay away – if you’re only reading without liking, sharing, or following, the spirits might notice 😶
If this episode gave you goosebumps and you want the darkness to continue, LIKE this post, SHARE with friends who can handle real village horror, and FOLLOW my main page right now! Turn on notifications so you catch Episode 3 the moment it drops. Real ones engage – let’s grow this scary community! 🔥🖤

08/03/2026

The Wicked Prince – Episode 1
(I Saw What He Did That Night)
The worst part was the chewing.
Slow.
Calm.
Like the heart in his hand was just ordinary meat from the market. Blood dripping down his chin while the moon watched everything. He didn’t even blink.
My name is Emeka.
Back then I was 17, living in a small village near the river in Anambra. Our place had one main road, one primary school, one church, and one palace where the Eze and his family stayed. Life moved slow. We farmed, fished, went to market on Eke days. Normal village things.
Then Prince Adabo came back from Lagos.
He had gone to university, wore fine agbada, drove a black jeep that nobody else in the village could afford. When the old Eze fell sick, people said the prince would help rule until his father got better. At first everybody was happy. “Our prince is educated now. Things will change.”
But things changed in the wrong way.
People started disappearing.
First it was Okonkwo, the hunter who knew every path in the bush. He went out one evening and never came home. They found his wrapper torn near the river, said maybe crocodile took him.
Then Ngozi, the girl who sold akara by the junction. She closed her stall early one night and vanished. Her mother cried for weeks. Nobody found anything.
Then my own cousin Chidi. 19 years old. Strong like ox. He went to check animal traps at night and didn’t return.
That night everything broke for me.
I couldn’t sleep. Heat was too much. I went outside our compound to sit under the mango tree. Around 1 a.m. I heard footsteps on the path. Heavy. Careful. I hid behind the thick trunk. From there I could see toward the old shrine nobody used anymore.
Prince Adabo walked past with two of his guards.
They carried something wrapped in dark cloth. It looked heavy. One leg dragged a little on the ground. My stomach turned. I knew that leg. Chidi always wore that blue wrapper with white stripes.
I followed them. Quiet. Heart hammering. They went behind the shrine to a small clearing where a low fire was burning. They dropped the bundle. Unwrapped it.
It was Chidi.
Eyes open. Mouth open. Chest already cut wide. Blood everywhere on the dirt. Fresh.
The guards left fast. Prince Adabo stayed. Alone.
He knelt down. Pulled a small calabash from his bag. Then he reached inside Chidi’s chest with bare hands. Pulled out the heart. It was dark, wet, still steaming a little in the cool night.
He held it up to the firelight like he was checking it.
Then he bit.
First bite small.
Then bigger.
Chewing slow. Swallowing. Blood ran down his face onto his beads. He wiped it with his sleeve like it was nothing. Ate half. Then the rest. Finished everything. Licked his fingers one by one.
I wanted to scream.
I couldn’t. My whole body was shaking. If he turned and saw me… I knew I would disappear next. Like the others.
He buried the body quick. Shallow hole. Covered with dirt and dry leaves. Stood up. Looked around once. His face was calm. Normal. Like he just finished eating pounded yam.
Then he walked back toward the palace. No hurry. No fear.
I waited till his footsteps were gone.
Then I ran home. Locked myself inside. Cried quiet so my mother wouldn’t wake. Next morning they “found” Chidi in the bush. Said farm accident. Machete cut. Animal attack. The cuts were too clean. Too straight. But nobody questioned.
Prince Adabo came to the burial.
Wore white. Gave my aunt money. Hugged her. Said “sorry for your loss.”
When he passed me, he looked straight into my eyes.
Smiled small.
Nodded once.
Like he was saying: “I know you were there. Keep quiet.”
I kept quiet.
But the fear never left.
To be continued…
Watch out for Episode 2 – The palace secret room and what I heard inside.
Written by Godspezzy Writers ✨
Ghost readers should stay away – if you’re only reading without liking, sharing, or following, the spirits might notice 😶
If this episode gave you chills and you want more dark village tales, LIKE this post, SHARE with your people who love real scary stories, and FOLLOW my main page right now! Turn on notifications so you don’t miss Episode 2. Real ones only – let’s build this community! 🔥🖤

Godspezzy writers

17/03/2026

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