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Nengi's TV, Opolo (2025)

25/12/2025

🎄❤️ Christmas Appreciation from Nengi’s TV ❤️🎄
To every one of you who reads my stories, likes, shares, comments, and supports this page thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your love, engagement, and encouragement keep the stories alive and inspire me to do more.
As we celebrate this beautiful season, I wish you joy, peace, love, and abundant blessings in your homes. May this Christmas bring light, laughter, and good news to you and your loved ones.
Please keep supporting and invite others to follow Nengi’s TV more powerful stories are coming.
Merry Christmas and much love 🤍✨

25/12/2025

🎄 THE CHRISTMAS CHICKEN THAT REFUSED TO DIE😀😀😀🤣🤣🤣

Written by Nengi Anita Obed for Nengi's TV
In the Olatunji household, Christmas did not begin with carols.
It began with the chicken.
Every December 24th, Mama Olatunji would point at the fattest chicken in the compound and declare, with the authority of a judge:
“This one will die tomorrow.”
And every year, something went wrong.
This year’s chicken was named General.
Not officially, of course. But after surviving three failed attempts at capture, two broken brooms, and one emotional breakdown from Mama Olatunji, the name stuck.
General was bold. He walked like a landlord. He crowed at odd hours. He stared at visitors like he was collecting rent.
Mama Olatunji hated him.
“That chicken is mocking me,” she said, tying her wrapper tighter. “Is it not an ordinary Christmas?”
By 6 a.m. on Christmas morning, the compound was awake.
Papa Olatunji sat on a wooden chair, cutting onions with tears streaming down his face partly from the onions, partly from laughter.
“Leave the chicken,” he pleaded. “Let us eat sardine. Jesus will understand.”
“Keep quiet,” Mama snapped. “Today, that chicken will answer for itself.”
The children gathered like spectators at a football match.
Then the chase began.
General ran.
Over buckets.
Through the clothesline.
Under the generator.
At one point, Mama slipped and landed in the sand, arms wide open like she was embracing the earth.
The children screamed with laughter.
General flew flew! landing on the fence and crowing loudly, as if announcing victory.
Papa clapped. “I support this chicken politically.”
Mama stood up slowly, brushed herself, and smiled the dangerous smile of a woman who had suffered enough.
Just as she cornered General near the mango tree, a loud knock came from the gate.
Everyone froze.
Standing there was Auntie Bose, Mama’s elder sister, holding a nylon bag and wearing a grin that meant trouble.
“Merry Christmas!” she shouted.
Before anyone could answer, General seized the distraction, dashed past Mama, and escaped again.
Mama screamed. “This chicken has a destiny!”
Inside the house, Auntie Bose dropped her bag.
“Rice, chicken, goat meat,” she announced proudly. “Lagos sent me.”
Silence fell.
Mama Olatunji looked at the bag. Then at General, now pecking peacefully like nothing happened.
Her shoulders dropped.
“So… we don’t need to kill him?”
Papa smiled softly. “Not today.”
Later that afternoon, the family ate until their stomachs protested. Laughter filled the house. Even Mama laughed deep, tired laughter that comes after stress releases its grip.
General strutted past the window.
Mama watched him for a long moment.
“Next year,” she said calmly, “we will meet again.”
General crowed.
That evening, as the sun melted into gold, the family sat outside, full and content.
Papa raised his cup. “To Christmas.”
Mama raised hers. “To family.”
The children raised theirs. “To General!”
Mama rolled her eyes but smiled.
Because sometimes Christmas is not about big food or perfect plans.
Sometimes, it’s about laughter, chaos, unexpected help and a chicken that reminds you to breathe.
🎄❤️🐔

24/12/2025

🕯️ THE MAID
EPISODE 2: THE HOUSE WITH NO MERCY

Written by Nengi Anita Obed for Nengi's TV
Sade learned quickly that the Adebayo mansion had its own rules rules that were never spoken but always enforced.
The bell rang at 4:30 a.m.
Not an alarm.
A bell.
It echoed through the servants’ corridor like a warning. Sade sprang up from the thin mat on the cold floor, her bones aching as if she had slept on stones. Before her eyes fully opened, she was already tying her wrapper, fear sharpening her movements.
Madam hated lateness.
The kitchen greeted her with silence and expectation. Pots stacked like judges. Plates waiting to be polished. The gas cooker that hissed impatiently, as if it too had a temper.
Sade worked fast too fast burning her fingers, missing meals, swallowing pain. When the family finally gathered for breakfast, she stood by the wall, invisible, while Madam inspected the table.
“This tea is weak,” Madam said without looking at her.
“I’m sorry, ma.”
“And the floor can’t you see dust?”
“Yes, ma.”
The word sorry became Sade’s prayer.
The children of the house treated her like furniture present but unnoticed. The drivers barked orders at her. The cook mocked her village accent. And when visitors came, Madam introduced her with pride-less words:
“She’s just the maid.”
Each time, Sade felt herself shrink.
Yet something stubborn refused to die inside her.
In the afternoons, when the house emptied and the silence softened, Sade found a corner near the staircase where sunlight slipped through the curtains. There, she read old newspapers she found in the trash—slowly, carefully, sounding out words under her breath.
Court.
Rights.
Justice.
They felt powerful on her tongue.
One afternoon, Kunle passed by and stopped.
“You can read?” he asked, surprised.
Sade’s heart jumped. She folded the paper quickly. “Small, sir.”
Kunle smiled. “That’s not small.”
For the first time since she arrived, someone saw more than her hands.
But kindness was dangerous in that house.
That evening, Madam noticed Sade holding a book Kunle had left behind.
“What are you doing with that?” she snapped.
“Sir asked me to”
Before Sade could finish, the book was slapped out of her hands.
“Know your place!” Madam shouted. “You came here to work, not to dream.”
The words cut deeper than any slap.
That night, lying on the cold floor, Sade stared at the ceiling and whispered to herself:
If I stay small, I will disappear.
Outside, the mansion slept peacefully.
Inside, the maid began to wake up.

23/12/2025

🕯️ THE MAID

Written by Nengi Anita Obed for Nengi's TV
Everyone in Adebayo’s mansion called her the maid.
Not her name.
Not her story.
Just her position.
She arrived before sunrise every day, tying her faded wrapper tight around her waist, her footsteps soft against the marble floors that were never meant for bare feet like hers. By the time the family woke up, the house already smelled of detergent, hot water, and obedience.
Her name was Sade.
But nobody ever asked.
Sade was nineteen when she came to the city from Ilorin with a small nylon bag and big promises from an aunt who vanished the moment she arrived. Hunger pushed her to knock on the gates of the Adebayo mansion a house so big it felt like it had swallowed the sky.
Madam Adebayo looked her up and down and said only one thing:
“Can you work?”
Sade nodded.
That was how her life shrank into chores.
Scrubbing toilets that were dirtier than village latrines.
Washing clothes that smelled of expensive perfumes she would never wear.
Carrying insults the way she carried buckets of water silently, carefully, without spilling tears.
Madam Adebayo was not cruel in loud ways.
She was cruel in silence.
If Sade ate late, it was because she didn’t deserve to eat early.
If she slept on the floor, it was because maids don’t need beds.
If she was slapped, it was because she was “stubborn.”
And when Madam’s friends visited, Sade became invisible.
“Girl!”
“Hey you!”
“Madam’s girl!”
Never Sade.
Only one person in the house noticed her.
Kunle, the only son.
He noticed how she flinched at raised voices.
How she read old newspapers when she thought nobody was watching.
How she hummed softly while sweeping, songs that sounded like forgotten prayers.
“You’re not dull,” he once said casually.
Sade froze. Compliments were dangerous things in that house.
“Yes sir,” she replied, eyes lowered.
Kunle frowned. “What’s your name?”
She hesitated. “Sade.”
It felt strange hearing her name aloud.
Everything changed the night Madam’s gold necklace disappeared.
The house turned upside down. Drawers were emptied. Voices rose. Accusations flew like stones.
Madam Adebayo’s eyes landed on Sade.
“Where is my necklace?”
“I don’t know, ma.”
A slap came fast and sharp.
“Search her!”
They tore through her bag. Her clothes. Her dignity.
They found nothing.
But that didn’t matter.
“Thieves don’t always steal what day,” Madam said coldly. “Lock her in the store.”
The door slammed. Darkness swallowed Sade whole.
In that darkness, something broke and something else was born.
She cried until no tears remained.
Then she remembered her father’s words before he died:
“Knowledge is the one thing nobody can beat out of you.”
For months, she had secretly listened when Kunle studied. Memorized words. Learned from scraps.
In that store, surrounded by dust and old cartons, Sade made a promise:
I will not die a maid.
Morning came with chaos.
The necklace was found inside Madam’s handbag.
Silence fell like shame.
Madam cleared her throat. “Open the store.”
The door creaked open.
Sade stepped out not crying, not begging, not shaking.
She stood straight.
“I am leaving,” she said quietly.
Madam scoffed. “Leaving to where? Who will take you?”
Sade looked her in the eyes for the first time.
“I will.”
Years passed.
The Adebayo mansion remained grand, but time stripped it of relevance. Kunle traveled abroad. Madam grew older and quieter.
Then one afternoon, a sleek car pulled up outside the gate.
A woman stepped out confident, well-dressed, eyes calm.
The gateman stared.
“Who are you looking for?”
She smiled.
“I’m here to see Madam Adebayo.”
When Madam came out and saw her, her breath caught.
It took her a moment.
“Sade?”
“Yes, ma.”
Sade was no longer the maid.
She was a lawyer.
And the silence that followed was the loudest apology that house had ever known.
Some people scrub floors for a living.
Others scrub them until they find a way out.
And that was the story of the maid who refused to disappear. 🕯️

22/12/2025

🎄 CHRISTMAS WITHOUT HARMATTAN
Written by Nengi Anita Obed for Nengi's TV
Everyone in Umuofia village knew Christmas by one thing before any other
Harmattan.
It arrived before carols, before rice, before new clothes. It crept into noses, cracked lips, whitened the air, and coated zinc roofs with cold dust. Children woke up coughing. Mothers rubbed shea butter into ashy skin. Fires burned all day, yet nobody felt warm enough.
So when Christmas came without harmattan, the village knew something was different.
On Christmas Eve, the air was soft.
No dry wind.
No dusty haze.
No cracked lips or smoky breath.
Instead, the sky wore a gentle blue, and the breeze carried the smell of wet earth as if rain had visited quietly in the night and left without announcement.
Mama Ifunanya stood outside her mud house, confused, wrapper tied tight around her waist.
“Is this December?” she murmured. “Or has the calendar lied to us?”
Inside the house, her children laughed.
There was no big rice cooking. No chicken waiting to be slaughtered. Their Christmas meal was simple yam porridge with palm oil and dried fish. Yet the children were happy, because their mother was smiling.
This was their first Christmas since their father died.
Last year, harmattan had been harsh so harsh it felt like the wind itself came to mock their mourning. Every cough reminded them of sickness. Every cold night reminded them of loss.
But this year, the air felt kind.
Across the village, old Pa Nwoye sat under the udala tree, his walking stick resting on his knees. He had lived through more Christmases than he could count colonial Christmases, war Christmases, hunger Christmases.
“This one is strange,” he told the boys gathered around him. “A Christmas without harmattan is a Christmas that wants us to feel something.”
“Feel what?” a boy asked.
Pa Nwoye smiled. “Hope.”
At the village square, preparations went on without complaint. Women sang as they swept. Men laughed as they set up benches. The church bell rang not sharp and cold like other years, but calm, almost gentle.
During the Christmas service, sweat glistened on foreheads instead of dust. Voices rose freely, not choked by dry throats.
The pastor paused mid-sermon and looked around.
“Maybe,” he said softly, “God decided we have suffered enough cold.”
The congregation laughed, but some wiped their eyes.
That afternoon, something unexpected happened.
Dark clouds gathered.
Not the angry kind just heavy, patient ones.
Then rain fell.
Not a storm.
Not destruction.
Just a slow, steady rain.
Children screamed with joy, running barefoot through puddles. Women stretched their hands to the sky. Men stood still, letting the rain soak their clothes like a blessing that refused to hurry.
Mama Ifunanya cried openly as the rain touched her face.
“For the first time,” she whispered, “December does not hurt.”
That night, the village gathered around small fires not for warmth, but for togetherness. Stories were told. Food was shared freely. Neighbors who had quarreled greeted each other again.
And people began to notice something else.
Without harmattan, faces were clearer. Smiles lasted longer. Laughter sounded fuller. It was as if the dust had been hiding not just the land but their hearts.
Pa Nwoye spoke one final time before sleep claimed him.
“Maybe,” he said, staring at the stars, “harmattan teaches us endurance. But a Christmas without it teaches us mercy.”
And the village remembered that Christmas for years to come.
Not because it was rich.
Not because it was loud.
But because it was gentle.
A Christmas without harmattan.
A Christmas that breathed. 🎄✨

22/12/2025

💔THE CALL I WASN’T SUPPOSED TO ANSWER 💔Part 24
“The Choice That Ends the Silence”
Written by Nengi Anita Obed for Nengi's TV
The console responded to Amara’s touch like it had been waiting for her all along.
Light rippled across its surface.
Data streams rose into the air names, dates, faces, crimes spinning slowly like ghosts demanding to be seen.
Her father’s hologram watched her quietly.
“This choice will define everything,” he said.
“Once you begin, there’s no turning back.”
Amara’s hands trembled.
She saw two paths forming on the screen.
OPTION ONE: DISAPPEAR
Erase her identity.
Bury the vault forever.
Live quietly.
Safe… but silent.
OPTION TWO: RELEASE
Expose the truth.
Shatter empires.
Become a target for the rest of her life.
She closed her eyes.
Images flooded her mind
The machine.
The restraints.
The forest.
The Enforcer’s glowing eyes.
The Man’s voice telling her she belonged to him.
Her eyes snapped open.
“I’m done running,” she said softly.
She selected RELEASE.
The chamber hummed violently.
GLOBAL DISTRIBUTION INITIATED
DATA MIRRORING ACTIVE
FAIL-SAFE ENGAGED
Her father’s hologram smiled, pride shining through his fading image.
“You chose the harder road,” he said.
“The braver one.”
“Will it stop him?” Amara asked.
“It will expose him,” her father replied.
“And men like him don’t survive the light.”
A distant, furious metallic crash echoed outside.
The Enforcer struck the door again harder this time.
Cracks spread across the steel.
Amara turned sharply.
“It’s breaking in!”
Her father’s image flickered.
“This chamber was never meant to be your tomb,” he said quickly.
“There’s an exit through the water tunnels behind you. They’ll lead you far from here.”
“And you?” she whispered.
“I’ll stay,” he said gently.
“My job was to protect the truth… and you.”
Tears blurred her vision.
“I love you,” she said.
“I know,” he replied.
“I always knew.”
The hologram dissolved into light.
At the same moment
Across the world, screens lit up.
Phones.
News stations.
Government servers.
The vault opened.
Secrets spilled.
Names fell.
Power shook.
THE MAN EXPOSED
In the control room, alarms screamed.
“Sir! Our systems everything is leaking!”
The Man stared at the screens as his empire unraveled in real time.
Accounts frozen.
Allies disappearing.
Arrest orders flashing red.
For the first time
Rage cracked his calm.
“Find her,” he snarled.
“Find her now.”
BACK IN THE CHAMBER
The door finally gave way.
The Zero-Class Enforcer burst through in a storm of metal and sparks.
Amara ran.
She dove into the narrow tunnel just as the chamber collapsed behind her, swallowing the Enforcer in falling rock and fire.
Cold water rushed around her ankles then her knees then her waist.
She didn’t stop.
She ran until the tunnel opened into a rushing underground river
And let it carry her away.
DAWN
Amara emerged miles away, soaked, bruised, exhausted—but free.
She collapsed on the riverbank as the sun rose, painting the sky gold.
Her phone vibrated weakly.
One message.
Unknown Number.
“You changed everything.”
She stared at the screen, then powered the phone off and dropped it into the water.
Amara stood.
The world was waking up to the truth.
And somewhere out there…
The Man was running.

22/12/2025

NATASHA — THE GIRL WITH THE MASK
Written by Nengi Anita Obed for Nengi's TV
EPISODE 11 — Dead or Finally Free?
There was no pain.
That was the strange part.
Natasha floated in darkness, weightless, silent
as if the world had finally stopped demanding something from her.
No voices.
No commands.
No triggers.
Just stillness.
For the first time in her life…
no one was inside her head.
BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH
A distant sound echoed through the void.
A heartbeat.
Slow.
Faint.
Uncertain.
Then another sound
a voice breaking through the dark.
“Stay with me… please… stay with me.”
Adrian.
Natasha tried to respond, but her lips wouldn’t move.
Images drifted past her like smoke:
Her mother smiling.
The white rooms.
Children crying.
The mask.
Blood on marble floors.
And finally
herself, standing without fear.
A question surfaced in the silence:
If you wake up… who will you be?
THE WORLD THINKS SHE’S DEAD
News headlines exploded across screens by morning:
“MYSTERIOUS WOMAN BLEEDS OUT AT ABUJA SUMMIT”
“DR. ELIJAH KANE ARRESTED AFTER MASSIVE DATA LEAK”
“PROJECT SERAPH UNDER INVESTIGATION”
The footage showed her collapse.
The blood.
The stillness.
By official record
Natasha died on that marble floor.
And for once, the lie protected her.
UNDERGROUND
Natasha woke up coughing.
Air burned her lungs.
Her body screamed in agony as consciousness slammed back into her.
She gasped, eyes flying open
Dim light.
Concrete ceiling.
The smell of antiseptic and rust.
She tried to move.
Pain answered.
“Easy,” a familiar voice said.
Adrian.
He sat beside her, eyes red, hands shaking.
“You were gone for three minutes,” he whispered. “Three full minutes.”
She swallowed hard.
“I… feel… empty.”
He nodded slowly. “You should. You ripped out the only thing keeping you alive.”
Her hand moved weakly to her neck.
Bandaged.
Scarred.
But silent.
No hum.
No glow.
“No voice,” she whispered.
Tears slid down her temples.
“I can’t hear them anymore.”
Adrian let out a breath that sounded like a sob.
“You’re free,” he said. “But the doctors said… whatever they did to you… your body will never be the same.”
She laughed weakly.
“They already took everything,” she murmured. “What’s left to lose?”
THE FALL OF A GOD
Across the city, Dr. Elijah Kane sat alone in a cold interrogation room.
His power stripped.
His allies vanished.
His secrets exposed.
He stared at the table, shaking.
“She was my masterpiece,” he muttered. “You can’t destroy something like that.”
The investigator leaned forward.
“She destroyed you.”
Kane smiled bitterly.
“You think she’s gone?” he whispered.
“She was never just one girl.”
THE MASK RETURNS
Days later.
Natasha stood alone in the underground safehouse bathroom.
She stared at her reflection.
No glow in her eyes.
No mask on her face.
Just scars.
Human ones.
She reached into her bag and pulled out something wrapped in cloth.
A new mask.
Not white.
Matte black.
No smile carved into it.
Just smooth… and empty.
She traced its surface with her fingers.
“I’m not your weapon,” she whispered to her reflection.
“But I’m not innocent either.”
She lifted the mask
And stopped.
Slowly, deliberately
She placed it on the table instead.
“No more hiding,” she said.
When she turned, Adrian stood at the doorway.
“They’ll come for you again,” he said quietly. “People like Kane don’t build just one monster.”
Natasha’s eyes hardened not glowing, but burning.
“Then I’ll hunt them,” she replied.
“Not as Seraph 13.”
She picked up a blade.
“But as Natasha.”
Somewhere far away… a monitor flickered to life.
A familiar symbol appeared:
SERAPH STATUS: REACTIVATED
UNIT 14: ONLINE
A young girl opened her eyes.
And screamed.

21/12/2025

NATASHA — THE GIRL WITH THE MASK
Written by Nengi’s TV
EPISODE 10 — The Abuja Trap
Abuja glittered at night.
Tall glass buildings reflected power, money, and lies. Beneath the clean streets and guarded gates, secrets slept comfortably believing they were untouchable.
Natasha watched the city from the back seat of a stolen SUV as it rolled toward The Aurelia Summit Hall.
Her hair was tied back.
Her face bare.
Her eyes calm and calculating.
No mask.
That alone made her more dangerous.
Adrian sat beside her, tapping nervously on a tablet.
“This place is a fortress,” he said quietly. “Biometric scanners. Facial recognition. Armed response teams. If Kane suspects anything”
“He won’t,” Natasha replied. “Men like him only fear ghosts. I’m flesh and blood now.”
She opened a small metal case.
Inside lay her old tools
blades, micro-charges, disruptors
and one newly printed access card bearing a fake name:
NADIA KINGSLEY INTERNATIONAL INVESTOR
She slid the card into her pocket.
INSIDE THE LION’S DEN
The Aurelia Summit Hall buzzed with elite guests.
Suits.
Diamonds.
Perfume masking decay.
Natasha walked in confidently beside Adrian, heels clicking softly on marble floors. Cameras scanned her face.
Green light.
Access granted.
Adrian exhaled sharply. “You’re clear.”
“Of course I am,” she murmured. “They taught me how to pass.”
Across the hall, Dr. Elijah Kane stood at the center of attention, smiling politely as politicians laughed around him.
Older now.
Grayer.
But unchanged.
The man who signed children’s death warrants with a pen and a calm conscience.
Natasha’s jaw tightened.
Her implant pulsed faintly.
Target acquired.
THE TRAP SPRINGS
Just as Natasha began to move
Pain exploded behind her eyes.
She staggered slightly, catching herself on a pillar.
Adrian’s voice crackled urgently through her earpiece.
“Natasha something’s wrong. Facial recognition just spiked. He knows you’re here.”
She scanned the room.
Security personnel subtly shifted positions.
Exit doors closed.
The lights dimmed slightly.
Kane lifted a glass, tapping it gently.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced smoothly, “a brief interruption.”
His eyes locked directly onto Natasha.
“I see a familiar face tonight.”
The room fell quiet.
Natasha stepped forward.
No running.
No hiding.
“You’re late,” Kane said, smiling thinly. “I wondered when you’d come looking for answers.”
“Answers?” she replied coolly. “I came for justice.”
Soft laughter rippled among the unaware guests.
Kane leaned closer. “Justice is a luxury invented by the powerful. And you… were my greatest invention.”
Security closed in.
Adrian’s voice panicked. “Natasha, get out NOW!”
But she didn’t move.
“Project Seraph failed,” Kane continued. “You became… emotional. Unstable.”
She smiled slightly. “You made me human. That was your mistake.”
THE DOUBLE CROSS
Suddenly
every screen in the hall flickered.
Adrian’s face appeared on them.
Guests gasped.
“Good evening,” Adrian said, voice steady despite the sweat on his brow. “Allow me to introduce Dr. Elijah Kane… murderer, child trafficker, and architect of Project Seraph.”
Gasps turned to murmurs.
Kane’s smile vanished.
“Cut the feed!” he snapped.
But it was too late.
Classified documents flooded the screens.
Photos.
Videos.
Testimonies.
The truth spilled into the open.
Security froze, confused.
Natasha stepped closer to Kane.
“You taught me how to destroy quietly,” she said. “Tonight, I chose loudly.”
Kane’s face twisted with rage.
“You think exposure kills me?” he hissed. “I have contingencies.”
He pressed a button on his ring.
Natasha screamed.
Her implant surged violently.
She collapsed to one knee, gasping as pain ripped through her nervous system.
Kane leaned down, whispering:
“You still belong to me.”
THE CHOICE
Adrian’s voice cracked over the comms.
“Natasha! The implant he’s triggering a shutdown sequence!”
Her vision blurred.
Her body shook.
Security moved in, unsure who to obey.
Natasha looked up at Kane, tears mixing with fury.
Then she made a decision.
She reached behind her neck and grabbed the implant site.
Adrian screamed. “Natasha, DON’T!”
With a raw cry of pain
She ripped it out.
Blood sprayed.
She collapsed fully to the marble floor.
Screams erupted.
Kane staggered back in shock.
“She’ll die!” he shouted. “You’ll DIE!”
Natasha lay there, shaking, bleeding… smiling.
“Worth it,” she whispered.
Everything went dark.

21/12/2025

💔THE CALL I WASN’T SUPPOSED TO ANSWER💔 Part 23
“The Door Beneath the Ravine”
Written by Nengi Anita Obed for Nengi's TV
The moment Amara’s palm met the steel door
Everything stopped.
The wind.
The echo of falling stones.
Even the pain in her body.
The symbols on the door ignited with a soft golden light, flowing like liquid fire beneath the metal. The circular indentation warmed beneath her skin, pulsing in sync with her heartbeat.
ACCESS CONFIRMED.
The door began to open.
Slowly.
With a deep, ancient groan, the steel slab slid inward.
Amara felt it then
A memory not her own.
A place she had never seen, yet somehow remembered.
Behind her
The Zero-Class Enforcer lunged.
Its broken frame slammed into the doorway just as the opening widened enough for Amara to slip through. Metal screeched against metal.
She stumbled inside
And the door slammed shut behind her with a thunderous finality.
The Enforcer crashed against it from the outside.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each impact sent vibrations through the chamber but the door held.
Then
Silence.
Only the sound of Amara’s ragged breathing remained.
She leaned against the wall, sliding down to the floor, trembling.
She was alive.
Again.
INSIDE THE CHAMBER
The room lit up gradually, soft amber lights blooming from the walls.
It wasn’t a vault full of weapons.
It wasn’t a server room.
It was… a sanctuary.
The chamber was circular, carved directly into the rock, smooth and warm despite being buried deep inside the ravine. At the center stood a single console sleek, untouched by time.
And behind it
A hologram flickered to life.
A familiar face appeared.
Her father.
Amara’s breath caught in her throat.
“Daddy…”
The hologram stabilized, his eyes gentle but heavy with sorrow.
“Hello, my brave girl,” he said softly.
“If you’re seeing this, then you’ve done the impossible.”
Tears streamed freely down her cheeks.
“You put this inside me,” she whispered.
“The code… the power… all of it.”
He nodded.
“I did. And I’m sorry.”
She stood slowly, stepping closer.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why me?”
Her father sighed.
“Because you were the only one they wouldn’t suspect. And because the encryption required something no machine could replicate.”
He met her eyes.
“A human soul.”
Amara swallowed.
“The Man,” she said.
“He’s coming. He won’t stop.”
“I know,” her father replied.
“He built the organization around control and fear. But what he never understood… is choice.”
The hologram gestured toward the console.
“This chamber doesn’t hold weapons, Amara. It holds truth.”
The console activated, projecting files, faces, names
governments.
corporations.
leaders.
Evidence of corruption so vast it made her knees weak.
“This is the vault,” her father said.
“The proof that can collapse everything he built.”
Amara stared in disbelief.
“You hid all this… inside me?”
“I hid the key inside you,” he corrected gently.
“The truth always belonged to the world.”
A distant metallic roar echoed faintly from outside.
The Enforcer.
Still trying.
Her father’s expression hardened.
“You don’t have much time,” he warned.
“When you leave this chamber, your life will never be normal again.”
Amara lifted her chin.
“My life stopped being normal the day I answered that call.”
The hologram smiled proud.
“There is one final choice you must make,” he said.
“Use the vault to destroy him publicly… or use it to disappear forever.”
The chamber fell quiet.
The weight of the world pressed down on Amara’s shoulders.
She stepped toward the console
And placed her hand on it.

21/12/2025

Happy Sunday lovelies 😘😘❤️❤️🌹🌹🌹

20/12/2025

👑 THE QUEEN’S NIGHTMARE

Written by Nengi Anita Obed for Nengi's TV
The nightmare always began the same way.
Queen Amaka stood barefoot in the middle of the palace courtyard, her crown heavy on her head, the gold biting into her temples. The night air smelled of smoke and blood. Around her, the ancient walls of Obodo Kingdom wept dark stains sliding down the clay like tears that refused to dry.
Then the drums began.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
They were not the drums of celebration. They were the drums of death.
Amaka turned slowly, her heart pounding, and saw them.
Her people.
They stood in silence, their eyes hollow, mouths sewn shut with red thread. Children she had blessed. Women she had protected. Warriors she had sent to battle. All staring at her with accusation burning in their gaze.
A single voice broke through the silence.
“You failed us.”
Amaka screamed and woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, her hands clawing at silk sheets.
The palace was quiet. Too quiet.
She sat up, touching her crown resting on the stool beside her bed. Real. Solid. Yet her heart still raced as though the nightmare had followed her into the waking world.
This was the seventh night.
And the dreams were getting worse.
By day, Queen Amaka was everything a ruler should be.
Wise. Graceful. Untouchable.
She sat on the ancestral throne carved from iroko wood, settling disputes between farmers and hunters, widows and chiefs. Her voice was calm, her judgments fair. The people bowed low when she passed, whispering praises.
“Long live the Queen.”
“Mother of the Kingdom.”
“The Lioness of Obodo.”
But when night fell, the palace became her prison.
Each dream revealed more.
In one, the sacred river dried up and cracked, fish rotting under the sun while elders wailed. In another, her own reflection stepped out of a mirror, eyes black as charcoal, whispering:
“You know what you did.”
Amaka began to fear sleep.
She summoned the royal diviner, Baba D**e, an old man whose eyes had seen three reigns and two wars. He listened in silence as she spoke, his fingers tracing ancient symbols in white chalk.
“These are not ordinary dreams, my Queen,” he finally said. “They are memories demanding to be remembered.”
Amaka’s breath caught. “Memories of what?”
Baba D**e looked up at her, his gaze heavy.
“Of a sin buried beneath your crown.”
The truth came like a blade to the chest.
Years before she became queen, Obodo Kingdom had been ruled by her elder sister, Queen Nkiru strong, beloved, and fearless. Amaka had lived in her shadow, praised less, seen less, loved less.
When famine threatened the land, the oracle had spoken clearly:
A sacrifice must be made.
Royal blood.
Nkiru had refused.
But Amaka had listened.
In secret, she had met with desperate chiefs, men hungry for survival and power. One night, under the excuse of prayer, Queen Nkiru disappeared into the sacred forest and never returned.
By morning, Amaka wore black.
By the next moon, she wore the crown.
The famine ended. The land prospered.
And the kingdom called it destiny.
Now destiny was knocking back.
The nightmares were not punishments they were warnings.
Strange things began to happen in Obodo. Crops spoiled overnight. Children fell ill without cause. The sacred drums cracked during festivals. At night, villagers claimed to see a woman walking near the palace walls, her head crowned in fire, her voice crying Amaka’s name.
The people began to whisper.
“The ancestors are angry.”
“The throne is cursed.”
Queen Amaka stood alone one night on the palace balcony, staring into the darkness. For the first time since she took the crown, tears rolled freely down her face.
“I wanted to save the kingdom,” she whispered. “I wanted to matter.”
The wind answered her with a familiar voice.
“You wanted my life.”
At dawn, Queen Amaka made a decision no ruler had ever made.
She gathered her people in the courtyard and stood before them without her crown.
Her voice shook, but it did not break.
“I am the reason the ancestors are restless,” she confessed. “I sit on a throne built with blood. I offer myself to restore what I destroyed.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Before anyone could stop her, Amaka walked toward the sacred forest the same path her sister had taken years before.
They never saw her again.
But that night, rain fell for the first time in months. The sick recovered. The river flowed strong and clear.
And in the palace, the nightmares ended.
Yet even now, elders say that on quiet nights, when the moon is full, two queens walk together near the forest one crowned in gold, the other in peace.
Because some crowns come with glory.
And others come with nightmares that must be paid for.

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