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23/07/2025

Title: WHEN THE RAIN RETURNS

Episode 5: The Other Amara

Amara didn’t remember falling asleep. But she woke in the middle of the night, not in her guesthouse bed, but on the floor, her head resting on cold concrete.

The walls were unfamiliar. The air was thick. And in the distance, a low, metallic sound echoed… drip… drip… drip…

She sat up slowly, head pounding. Her phone was missing. Her bag gone, only her flashlight lay beside her, its beam faint but steady. She turned it on, the narrow light slicing through the blackness, revealing walls covered in mirrors.

But the mirrors were wrong. Each reflection showed a different version of her. One smiling, one crying, one with blackened eyes and blood down her chin.

She backed away and they moved a heartbeat after her, just barely out of sync. “No, no… this isn’t real,” she whispered. But the mirrors trembled, as if they were breathing.

One Amara, the one farthest left, raised her hand slowly and pointed forward. Amara turned. There, at the end of the hallway, stood herself. Same clothes, same hair, same wide, frightened eyes. But this version smiled. Not out of joy but out of cruelty.

And it spoke with her voice: “You don’t deserve your life.”

Amara froze. “What are you?”

The other her tilted its head. “The forgotten. The abandoned. I waited in that room. I listened to your father scream. I wore his face. I followed the grief.” It stepped closer.

“Now, I wear yours.”

Amara stumbled backward, heart racing. “You can’t be me. You’re not”

“But I am,” the thing interrupted. “And no one will know the difference.”

The mirrors cracked all at once, shattering the false versions of her as if the thing had claimed its rightful image.

The glass didn’t fall. It hung in the air, frozen mid-shatter, like time was unraveling.

The Other Amara stepped forward. Every footstep echoed twice hers, and something deeper behind it.

“They won’t even miss you,” it whispered.

Suddenly, Amara’s flashlight began to flicker. She turned to run, but the hallway twisted, mirrors shifted and the exit moved further with every step she took.

Like a nightmare loop, like her world was being overwritten.

She tripped and landed face-first on something soft. Carpet.

Her room?

She looked up. She was back in the guesthouse. Everything looked… normal, too normal. The bag was on the table. The diary closed. Her phone sat beside it, screen glowing.

She stood slowly.

Was it all a dream?

Then she saw it.

The mirror on the wardrobe.

She was in it but her reflection was standing still. Not mimicking her but just watching.

Then it smiled. Not her.

It.

Amara screamed and threw a towel over the mirror, heart thundering. She staggered back and grabbed her phone. It was open to a text conversation.

From Aunt T**i.

T**I: “Amara, baby, you just left here. You forgot your sweater.”
T**I: “Strange though… you didn’t say goodbye.”
T**I: “Why did you say your name was Adaeze?”

Amara’s fingers went numb.

Adaeze was her mother’s name.

She typed quickly:

AMARA: “T**i it’s me. I’m in Lagos. I haven’t seen you in days.”

T**I: “That’s impossible. You were JUST here. You even hugged me… but you felt cold. I thought it was the rain.”

T**I: “Are you playing some kind of joke?”

The screen flickered again.

A final message appeared:

“Too late.”

Then the lights went out.

Again.

Silence.

Amara slowly turned toward the mirror. The towel had fallen to the floor.

Her reflection was gone.

Gone.

She reached for the door, but it was locked. From the outside.

A faint scratching came from under the bed.

Then a whisper:

“I’m almost finished.”

Watch out for episode 6...

22/07/2025

Title: WHEN THE RAIN RETURNS

Episode 4: It Followed me.

Amara didn’t remember how she got back to the guesthouse.

Her mind was clouded, her limbs weak, her breath shallow like something had crawled into her lungs and refused to leave. She stumbled into the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, and stared into the mirror.

She was pale. Eyes wide. Lips trembling.

And behind her, for just a second, a figure.
Tall. Thin. Watching.

She spun around.
Nothing.

Only the soft hum of the water pipes and the distant honk of Lagos traffic.

But something was wrong.

Her skin crawled.

She stepped back into the bedroom. The windows were shut, but the curtains fluttered gently like they were being whispered to. Her diary sat open on the table, though she had zipped it shut in her bag.

The page it lay open on?
The page with the letter.

The one her mother had never sent.

But the ink… had changed.

The words were warped. Smudged.
And in a corner, scrawled in a different hand, were three chilling words:

“It sees you.”

She slammed the book shut and tossed it aside, heart pounding in her chest. She reached for her phone to call Aunt T**i. She needed to hear a voice that felt like home.

But the phone screen flickered. Then went black.

Suddenly, the TV across the room turned on by itself.

Static.

She stared, frozen.

Then a voice crackled through the static. A whisper. Raspy. Familiar.

“You look… just like her.”

Amara backed away slowly.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no…”

The screen shifted, the static twisting, taking form and an image flickered into view.

A little girl standing in the rain.

She wore red shoes. Clutched a teddy bear. Her back was turned.

Amara’s heart stopped.

She had seen that girl before, not in person, but in a dream she used to have as a child. The same red shoes. The same bear.

She whispered, “That was me.”

The screen went black.

Then the knock came.

Soft. Precise. Three slow taps.

She didn’t move.

Again. Knock. Knock. Knock.

She crept toward the door and pressed her eye to the peephole.

Nobody.

But something was wrong.

The corridor was dark. Too dark. The lights had gone out.

She turned to grab her flashlight and froze.

Her reflection in the TV screen was smiling.

But she wasn’t.

Her reflection raised its hand. She hadn’t moved.

She screamed and hurled a chair at the TV. The screen cracked and the smile vanished with it.

In the silence that followed, her breaths were ragged. Her hands shook.

She grabbed her diary and flashlight and fled the room.

Outside, the air was thick and warm, but she shivered. She walked aimlessly, her thoughts spiraling.

What was that thing? Was it a ghost? A demon? A memory?

And more importantly, had it followed her from that room? Or… had it always been with her?

A bus passed, honking.

She sat on the curb, head in her hands.

That’s when the woman approached.

Old. Wrapped in layers of shawls. Eyes milky white, like she had seen too much to see anything else.

“You went to 2B,” the woman croaked.

Amara looked up, startled. “Do I know you?”

The woman didn’t answer. She only stepped closer.

“You touched the wall. You read his journal.”

Amara stood up, backing away. “Who are you?”

“I was there when they sealed it. When your father screamed until his voice broke. He begged them not to lock him in. Said it wasn’t safe. Not because of him, but because of what was already in there.”

Amara’s voice trembled. “What was in there?”

The woman looked toward the sky. “A mirror. A mimic. A shadow that copies and corrupts. It finds broken families… and finishes what pain began.”

Amara’s skin went cold.

The woman leaned close and whispered:

“It doesn’t kill you. It replaces you.”

Then she turned and walked away, slowly disappearing into the smoke and smog of the street.

Amara didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She hesitated, then pulled it out.

It had rebooted.

One message. Unknown number.

“Tell Aunt T**i goodbye.”

She dropped it.

Ran.

She didn’t know where she was running to only that she had to keep moving. Keep breathing. Keep existing.

Because now, she wasn’t just looking for her father.

She was running from something that had already taken too much.

And if the woman was right…
It wasn’t done.

22/07/2025

Title: WHEN THE RAIN RETURNS

Episode 3: The Locked Room

Amara didn’t sleep that night.

Back at the guest house, she paced the narrow room with its leaking tap and flickering bulb, replaying the call over and over in her mind.

“Go home, Amara. Before you find what you're not ready for.”

How did he know her name?

How did he know she had come looking?

More importantly, who was “he”?

She barely closed her eyes before the sun dragged itself back into the sky. By 7 a.m., she was already dressed, bag slung over her shoulder, adrenaline masking her fear.

She was going back.

To 2B.

The compound was quieter now, the early morning sun casting long, uneasy shadows across the cement walls. But the fear had hardened into something else: resolve.

She had come for answers. She wouldn’t leave with warnings and whispers.

The door to 2B creaked open more easily this time. The air inside was heavier, warmer, almost alive like it had been waiting for her.

She stepped in, flashlight ready.

But something had changed.

The photo on the wall was gone.

So was the stool, and the torn newspaper.

The room had been cleaned.

Even the three words behind the frame "HE’S STILL HERE" were scraped off, barely a scratch left in the wall.

Amara's heart slammed against her chest.

Who had been here?

She walked toward the back hallway, the one where the figure had vanished. Her flashlight scanned the wall again, tracing every crack, every corner.

That’s when she saw it.

A faint outline, a vertical crack in the wall, almost invisible.

A hidden door.

She pushed gently.

Nothing.

She pressed harder, then kicked. A groan echoed as the wall shifted slightly. A click.

Then it opened.

A hidden room.

Dark. Cold. Completely silent.

Amara hesitated. This was beyond reason now. This was something no one had told her about.

And still… she stepped in.

The smell was overpowering, mildew, rust, and something else. Decay.

The room was small, windowless. A mattress lay in one corner. An old lamp in another. On the wall, a calendar from 2009 hung untouched. Underneath it, a journal.

She picked it up. Flipped the pages.

“David Okoro.”

Her father’s handwriting.

She scanned a page.

“They say I abandoned her. But they never asked why.
They only saw the exit, not the threat.
They didn’t see what followed me.”

Her breath caught. What threat?

She flipped further.

“She was four when I saw the thing outside her window.
It wasn’t human. It wore my face, but it wasn’t me.”

Her hand trembled.

Another page:

“I hear it now. In the hallway. Scraping, whispering.
It waits until I sleep, then stands beside the bed.
And laughs.”

Suddenly, the door behind her slammed shut.

She dropped the journal.

Darkness swallowed the room.

She spun around, flashlight shaking.

Click.

The sound of something unlocking.

She backed away from the door, but it didn’t open. Instead, it clicked again. And again.

Like something was unlocking... from inside.

A voice rasped from the shadows:

“Amara… just like your mother.”

She froze.

“Who are you?” she screamed, pressing against the wall.

No answer.

The flashlight flickered.

In the corner, something moved, barely visible, but tall, hunched, limbs too long.

The beam caught eyes. Not glowing. Not human.

Cold. Empty. Watching.

Then it spoke again.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

She screamed, banging the door, kicking, crying.

Suddenly it opened.

Amara fell backward into the corridor.

Nothing followed.

She scrambled to her feet and ran out of 2B, out of the building, past a staring neighbor who muttered something under his breath:

“Another one gone mad in that flat…”

She ran until her lungs ached, until her legs gave out beneath an abandoned shed behind the guest house.

She sobbed into her arms.

This wasn’t just a story of a lost father.

Something terrible had happened in that apartment.

And now, whatever it was… knew her name.

Watch out for episode 4.

18/07/2025

Title: WHEN THE RAIN RETURNS

Episode 2: The Man in the Corridor

Amara’s bus ride to Lagos took eight hours, but the anxiety stretched it into eternity.With her mother’s old travel bag, a faded diary, and a shaky address written in smudged blue ink, she arrived just after sunset.

The city greeted her not with warmth, but with chaos flashing lights, honking taxis, voices shouting over one another. She wasn’t afraid of the city. She was afraid of what she might find. The address on the letter led to a compound in Ajegunle, an aging two-storey building surrounded by crumbling walls and bent iron gates.

There was no name on the gate, just peeling paint and a buzzing lamp swinging in the wind. Her feet hesitated. Why would her father, once so full of dreams be here?

She stepped in.
The corridor was long and narrow, its cement floor damp with something that smelled like rot. A flickering bulb overhead cast strange shadows on the walls. Somewhere above, a baby cried, and below, a dog barked and then whimpered into silence.

Apartment 2B. Her mother had written it in the corner of the letter, almost like a whisper. Amara climbed the stairwell slowly. Each step creaked under her feet. Her hand brushed against the wall for balance, but something sticky clung to her fingers. She didn’t dare look. At the top, the hallway split into two. On the left, a radio played soft gospel music behind a shut door. On the right, silence. Her heart thudded as she approached 2B. The door was old, wooden, and splintered around the handle. No name. No sound from within.

She raised her fist and knocked.

Silence.

She waited.
Then, just as she stepped back, the door creaked open slightly, just a few inches. No one stood there. “Hello?” she called softly. No answer. She leaned in, heart racing. The room beyond was dark. She pushed the door slowly open and stepped inside.The air was thick, musty, like unopened closets and forgotten years. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, barely lit. Cobwebs clung to every corner. Dust rose with every step she took. “Hello?” she called again. Still nothing. The room was almost empty a rusted bedframe, an overturned stool, old newspapers scattered on the floor. On the wall, a photo hung sideways: a young man in a suit holding a baby. Her breath caught. That baby was her. Suddenly, a loud bang echoed from the back room. Like something had fallen. She jumped, pulse pounding.“Who’s there?”No answer. She reached for the photo, but the moment her fingers touched the frame, a shadow moved in the corner of her eye. She spun around. There, at the end of the corridor inside the room, stood a figure. Tall.

Still. Watching. Her voice broke. “Daddy?” The figure didn’t move. She took a step forward, trembling. “Is it… you?”
The figure stepped back into the shadows then vanished. She ran toward the hallway, but it was empty. Nothing. No door, no second room. Just a blank wall. Impossible. Her hands shook. She fumbled for her phone, turned on the flashlight, and scanned the wall. There were no signs of a door. Just cracked cement and mold. But she had seen someone.

Turning back, she approached the photo again. This time, she gently pulled it off the wall. Behind it, carved crudely into the cement, were three words: HE’S STILL HERE

She gasped, dropping the frame. A sudden gust of cold wind swept through the room but the door hadn’t opened. Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. She stared at it, hands frozen. It rang again. She slowly answered. “Hello?”A raspy male voice whispered, “Go home, Amara. Before you find what you're not ready for. ”The call ended. She stood frozen, her pulse like thunder in her ears.How did they know her name? She bolted from the room, down the stairs, out into the street, barely noticing the faces turning to watch her flee. In the distance, the sky rumbled.

Rain was coming.

Watch out for episode 3....

18/07/2025

LWKMD

17/07/2025

Ebube the relationship specialist don ask question o, your boyfriend or your father?

17/07/2025

Title: WHEN THE RAIN RETURNS

Episode 1: The letter she never sent

The rain came without warning, soft and slow, like the tears Amara refused to cry.

She sat by the wooden window frame, the pages of an old photo album sprawled across her lap. Outside, the village of Arodan moved at its usual, unhurried pace, goats wandered freely, voices echoed from the market, and clouds hung low like secrets too heavy to hold.

But Amara's world was not outside. It was tucked inside a small blue envelope, aged and sealed, hidden beneath a loose floorboard in her late mother’s room. She had only found it two days ago, while clearing out her aunt’s house for repainting. It was tucked under an old stack of diaries and wrapped in faded lace.

The letter was addressed to a man she barely remembered David Okoro. Her father.

She had stared at it for hours. The name was familiar, but hollow. A name spoken only in whispers and warnings. Her mother rarely spoke of him. Her aunt, Mama T**i, called him "the man who vanished."

Amara remembered one thing about him, his laugh. Deep and warm. A sound like distant thunder.

Now, at seventeen, she held his name in her hands.

Taking a deep breath, she unfolded the letter.

"David,"

"If you're reading this, it means I never got the courage to send it. Or perhaps life simply did not let me. I don't know where you are anymore, or if you even care, but I must try."

"Amara is growing. She’s four now. She asks about you. Not often, I don’t tell her much. Not because I’m angry, but because I don’t know what to say."

"I told myself you would come back. That you were just confused. But the days grew quiet. The letters stopped. And the baby I used to rock in my arms now asks why other children have fathers who visit their school plays."

"If nothing else, come for her. Let her know you exist. That once, you loved her. Even if you cannot stay."

"Her name means 'grace'. I chose it because I knew I would need it to survive without you."

"Adaeze."

The handwriting trembled across the page, not from the rain, but from emotion. The kind Amara could feel in her bones, even years after the letter was written.

Her hands shook as she folded it back.

He was alive. Somewhere.

Her mother had believed he would come. Had begged him to.

So why didn’t he?

She wanted to scream, but the pain was too old for shouting. It sat in her chest like cold ash.

Footsteps approached. Mama T**i stood at the doorway, her wide arms folded, her face weary with the kind of tired only women who raise other people's children knew.

"You found it, didn’t you?" she asked, eyes on the envelope.

Amara nodded.

"Why didn’t anyone tell me?"

T**i sighed. “Because what good would it have done? Your mother died waiting for a man who never came. I didn’t want you doing the same.”

“But I deserve to know him. Even if he’s a coward.”

T**i walked in and sat beside her. “Your father… wasn’t all bad. He was scared. Young. And poor. Your mother’s people didn’t want her with a man who couldn’t offer more than dreams. He left to find something better. Maybe he never did.”

Amara swallowed. “I want to find him.”

T**i turned sharply. “For what?”

A long silence followed, broken only by the ticking of the old wall clock and the whisper of the rain.

Then T**i stood up. “There’s an address at the back, isn’t there?”

Amara nodded.

“Then you better pack. If you’re going to chase ghosts, you might as well wear good shoes.”

Amara smiled faintly, the first smile in days. The rain outside thickened, soaking the red earth, washing away years of dust. It was as if the skies, too, had been holding something in a sorrow, a longing, a buried story.

She stared at the letter one last time before slipping it into her diary.

She didn’t know what she would find at the end of this road, a man, a memory, or just more silence. But it no longer mattered.

The search had begun.

Watch out for episode 2

11/07/2025

Ebube the relationship expert don ask question o, your boyfriend or your daddy?🤣🤣🤣

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