Chapter 3: Darkness in the Wardrobe

7

Na that time, my phone vibrate again.

Na Musa send message:

"How e dey go your side?"

I reply sharp sharp:

"Wardrobe door don jam. I dey trap."

"The woman don catch you?"

"Never. That woman no well."

Musa quiet. I ask am:

"Where you dey now?"

"I don reach."

"Reach where?"

"I... dey your head top."

As I read am, my heart just freeze.

I look up quick, use the small light wey enter from wardrobe door.

One kind wicked, twisted face dey look me from up.

Na Musa face.

He no dey move, eye wide open like person wey vex, mouth open.

From the small space inside clothes,

I see rope tight for him neck.

The other side of the rope tie for wardrobe rod.

I no believe am.

Musa don die tey tey, hang for the same wardrobe wey I dey hide.

Him dead body don dey my back since.

I wan shout but my voice die for my throat. I dey sweat cold like harmattan morning. As I dey look Musa face—my own padi, my brother for street hustle—I dey remember all the time wey we chop suya together for Bariga, all the laughter for under bridge, all the runs wey we survive. See as e end for wardrobe, e no even get chance to talk last word. Lagos na jungle, and this life no get balance at all. Tears prick my eye, but I force am hold. For this Lagos, even tears dey fear to fall. My body dey shake, I dey beg all my ancestors, even people wey I no know, to save me from this evil. I close my eyes, dey pray, dey whisper, "Make tomorrow better pass today, make I see outside again." But for this wardrobe, prayer dey bounce back like echo—no escape, no hope, only darkness.