Chapter 2: Bullet Comments and Bedsheet Wahala

No, abeg, I no want again…

I push Obiora commot and dive under my bedsheet, dey sniff. Bedsheet dey smell like last night’s perfume and small sweat—e dey remind me say wahala never finish.

I no even send am. I just bundle myself like yam, dey form say cold dey catch me. See me see trouble! Tears nearly drop, but na forming girl.

He just hiss, pin me down again, hold my ankle, voice full of wicked joy: “So, your toy phobia don end abi?”

My mind cut—e be like say e dey see through my fake fear. I wan deny, but mouth no gree open.

He carry that bad-boy energy come. If you see as Obiora dey smile that wicked smile, e be like say e wan start war. My own be say, make God run am quick.

Before I fit talk, he press my waist down, start another round of wahala wey make me cry.

I shout, beg, call ancestors—nothing! Na pure stubbornness dey keep me awake. See as Obiora dey do like say na marathon we dey run. No shame.

E last reach morning.

True, before cock crow, I still dey hear "ah, ah, you neva tire?" for my mind. Na wah.

He go baff, dress up, waka go office.

Just as I dey try breathe well, e don bath finish, wear him suit, spray one kind ogbonge perfume wey dey smell like money and power.

Before e commot, he hook finger for my neck, threaten me: “No even try run tonight.”

He talk am as if na decree from Oba. My body just chill, but I form hard face.

As the door close, I drag myself out of bed.

I limp small. You know say after that kind night, e go be like say you run relay race. I just dey pray make neighbour no see as I dey waka like duck.

My legs no dey shake again, my belle don calm, my small tail don get full power back.

I stretch, yawn, touch my back—tail dey vibrate like generator wey just chop new fuel. Na that time I know say power don return.

I lick my lips, satisfied. My mama wey dey Switzerland send me text: dem don finally find the one.

Mama text dey show for WhatsApp: "My daughter, the elders approve. Prepare yourself."

Since succubi start to dey marry humans, half-blood don full everywhere. My parents always dey pray make I keep the blood pure, so dem dey find perfect contract partner for me.

If you see the way dem dey look pedigree for my house, you go think say na big men dey buy cow for Sallah.

Three years after my awakening, dem don finally see the guy.

E be like say my destiny don finally land. Na to pack load remain.

I pack my load sharp sharp, rush airport.

I no even brush, na only face cap and hoodie I take waka. If dem catch me, I go just dey shout, "I dey late, abeg!"

Airport dey smell of suya and roasted corn, conductor dey shout for car park, but me I dey focus on my escape.

Then—bam!—bullet comments land again:

[Girl, you wan find wahala? If you run now, na only plain pap and old doughnut you go chop till you old.]

[That poor second male lead still dey naked, dey buy all those lace pant and masquerade cloth, no even know say—BAM!—him main wife wan ghost am~]

[I no fit with these two. Three years together, dem no know say both of dem na succubus? Always dey form, dey tiptoe. Just imagine the madness when dem both show their real self—abeg, rerun that scene where tail wrap waist!]

[Aaaa, supporting babe, run! I dey wait to see second male lead craze when e realize say dem don play am like mumu, e go turn dark mode, you go end up dey weed for North Pole.]

Those comments come like harmattan breeze—just blow me cold, scatter my plans.