https://www.facebook.com/102872988955464/

AFRICANSTORYline, Ughelli (2026)

08/05/2026

Thanks for being a top engager and making it on to my weekly engagement list! 🎉 Abba Kefas, Bety Best, David Mtshali

07/05/2026

MY HUSBAND ALMOST USED ME FOR RITUAL

Episode 7: The New Baba

I didn’t wake Folake. I stood in Segun’s doorway until my legs went numb, watching her breathe. 2 months pregnant. She didn’t know yet that her name was probably on a wall somewhere, written in charcoal, waiting for a red line across it.

By 6am, my father was already on the phone with Inspector Kemi. New voice. Female. Said she’s the new Baba. Said number 9 is Adesuwa’s sister.

Folake, Inspector Kemi said. We’re sending a car now. Nobody leaves that house until we sweep it.

We swept it. Police, DSS, even one man from Interpol because Baba Orisun’s network crossed into Benin Republic. They found nothing in our compound. But Folake’s phone had a missed call at 2:58am. Withheld number. Same time mine rang.

They’re watching us, my father said. This is not just Ilesha anymore. This is an organization.

Folake cried when we told her. Segun broke a chair. I will kill any man that comes near my wife!
It’s not a man anymore, I said. It’s a woman. And she knows us.

Inspector Kemi brought the case file. Baba Orisun, real name Olatunji Adegoke, had been running the ring for 11 years. He wasn’t the founder. He was the South-West Coordinator. Above him were Zonal Heads. The list we found was only for Osun State. There were 36 lists. One for each state.

Number 9 on the Osun list was blank, Kemi said. Until now. She just filled it in. With your sister.

Femi was in the cell, begging to talk to me. I refused for three days. On the fourth day, I went. He was thinner. His skin was peeling on his arms like he said. But his eyes were clear. The curse was gone or fake.

Adesuwa, he cried. I’m sorry. Mama pushed me. Baba said if I don’t do it, I will die poor and my father’s ghost will curse me. I was scared.
Did you love me? I asked.
Yes!
Then why didn’t you tell me you were scared? We for be scared together. Instead, you planned to kill me and our baby.
He had no answer.

Mama Adebayo, I said. Where is she?
She dey confess. Say Baba Orisun na her brother. Her real brother. The whole thing na family business. They use women to make money for 20 years. Your red wrapper? My mother sewed it. With thread from Baba’s shrine.

My blood ran cold. The woman who called me my daughter sewed my death cloth.

Who is the new Baba? I asked.
Femi shook his head. I no know. But Baba get one daughter. She dey abroad. Canada. She dey come home every December. Her name na… Tomiwa.

Tomiwa Adegoke. Canada.

Kayode, Mercy’s boyfriend, said Baba promised him Canada visa.

It was all connecting.

We left the station and went straight to Immigration. Tomiwa Adegoke, 26, landed at Murtala Muhammed Airport on December 18, 2025. She hadn’t left. She was still in Nigeria. Last known address: Lekki Phase 1, Lagos.

Lagos. Where Femi and I lived.

Inspector Kemi moved fast. By evening, a team was at the Lekki address. Empty apartment. But neighbors said a young woman with plenty jewelry lived there, and pregnant girls dey always come visit her. They described the girls. Young. Scared. Some with red wrappers.

That night, Folake started bleeding. Small, but red. We rushed to Ibadan Teaching Hospital. The doctor said, Threatened miscarriage. Stress. She needs complete bed rest. No shock. No bad news.

No bad news. But bad news was calling us every night.

At 2am, my phone rang again. Withheld.

I put it on speaker. My father, Segun, Tunde, and Inspector Kemi were in the room.

Adesuwa, the female voice said. Calm. Educated. Canadian accent. You are making this hard. I just wanted to continue my father’s work. He built this for me. For my future. You destroyed it in one week.
Tomiwa, I said.
She laughed. Smart girl. Yes. I’m Tomiwa. Baba Orisun’s daughter. And new Baba.
Why Folake? She’s not part of this.
She is now. You made it personal, Adesuwa. You took my father. You took my business. So I take your sister. Eye for eye. Womb for womb.
I will not let you.
You don’t have choice. Folake will come to me. Not today. Not tomorrow. But she will come. Because I have something you want.

The line clicked. A video message came through.

It was Mercy. In a room I didn’t recognize. Not the brown building. A normal room. Tiles. Curtains. She was alive. Crying. Holding a paper. She raised it to the camera.

Written in marker: I lied. They didn’t rescue me. This is Day 6. If Adesuwa doesn’t come alone to the old railway kiosk in Osogbo by Saturday midnight, they will cut the baby out.

Saturday. Three days away.

Inspector Kemi grabbed her radio. It’s a trap. Mercy was never rescued. We rescued a decoy. Or she was taken after.
My father looked at the video again. The tiles. The curtains. That’s not Osogbo. That’s… that’s a hotel. Look at the corner. Paradise Hotel logo on the towel.

Paradise Hotel. Room 12. Where we arrested Femi.

They never left Ilesha. They moved Mercy from the mountain to the hotel. We took Femi but left Mercy behind.

We failed.

Folake moaned in her sleep. The doctor came running. Her BP is high. No stress!

I went outside. The moon was almost full again. Waning, but still strong.

Tomiwa wanted me alone. At the kiosk. Midnight. Just like her father wanted.

I touched my stomach. 11 weeks. My baby kicked for the first time. Or maybe it was gas. But I chose to believe it was a kick. A fight.

I went back inside. I’m going, I told my father.
No.
Papa, if I don’t go, Mercy dies. If I go, maybe I die. But if I stay, I die slowly anyway, knowing I let her die. I can’t live with that.
Then we all go.
She said alone. If she sees police, she kills Mercy.
Then we go as ghosts.

Inspector Kemi was already nodding. We have a plan. But Adesuwa, this time, you don’t enter any circle. You don’t lie down. You don’t say yes. You get Mercy and you run. We handle Tomiwa.

I looked at Folake. At Segun holding her hand. At Tunde loading his father’s old pistol. At my father, who had aged 10 years in one week.

This wasn’t my war anymore. It was our war.

And on Saturday midnight, the Adebayo family was going back to Osogbo.

Not as victims.

As hunters.

Watch out for episode 7

Follow AFRICANSTORYline for more

07/05/2026

I WAS THE SACRIFICE CHOSEN AT BIRTH

Episode 4: The Sister in the Water

Her arms are cold.

Not like water. Like absence. Like the space left when someone you love dies and the air forgets how to be warm.

Dzolali holds me. My sister. My twin in death. Her red dress is mine, but hers is made of water. It moves without wind. It weeps without tears.

You’re late, she says again. Her voice is the sound of rain on thatch roofs. Of nets pulling empty. Of mothers who stop singing. I’ve been waiting 50 years, Adjoa. 50 years is a long time to be 15.

I don’t understand, I choke. The lake is at my chin. I can’t tell if I’m breathing or drowning. You’re Dzolali. The Lake Spirit. You eat girls. You

I was Esi, she says. Esi of Keta. First daughter. 1975. My father fished during the festival too. He caught nothing. So the lake took me instead. And when I drowned, the lake didn’t eat me. It became me. And I became it.

She pulls back. Her eyes the lagoon eyes are full. Not of malice. Of envy.

Do you know what it’s like? she whispers. To be 15 forever? To watch your mother die old while you stay the same? To watch your little brothers become grandfathers? To feel every girl they throw into me? I feel them all, Adjoa. Kemi. Ama. Yawo. They scream in me. And then they go quiet. And then they become me.

The knife in my hand is singing louder. Not a song. A scream. Mama’s knife. For scaling fish. For cutting bonds.

Why me? I ask. Why 50 years? Why not take someone else?

Because the lake is not a god, Esi says. It’s a prison. And every prison needs a warden. The mark on your chest isn’t a debt. It’s a key. The sixth circle is you. The five before you are me, and Yawo, and Ama, and Kemi, and the first one, Panyin. We each held the lake for 50 years. Then we choose the next.

She touches my chest. The mark burns. I see them. Flashes. A girl in 1925, white dzo, walking into water. A girl in 1975, screaming, Esi. Three others. All 15. All first daughters. All me.

You don’t die, Esi says. You become. You become the lake. You keep it sleeping. You keep it from eating the village. And after 50 years, you choose the next girl. And you go free.

Free.

The word is a hook in my heart.

Free to where? I ask.

Esi smiles. It’s a sad thing. A 50-year-old sadness on a 15-year-old face. To wherever drowned girls go. I don’t know. No one’s ever left to tell me. But it can’t be worse than here. Than this.

On the shore, Mama is screaming. Not words. Just sound. The sound a cow makes when its calf is taken. Papa is holding her back. Kofi is crying. The priest is beating his drum, faster, faster, trying to drown us out.

They think you’re dying, Esi says. They can’t see me. They never see me. They only see the water. They only see the debt.

What if I say no? I ask. The knife is shaking. What if I don’t take it? What if I just... drown?

Then I stay, Esi says. For another 50 years. And the lake gets hungry again. And it won’t wait 50 years next time. It will take your brother. And your cousins. And their daughters. Because you broke the chain. And the lake eats broken chains.

She takes my hand. The one with the knife. She presses it to her chest. To where her heart would be, if she had one.

“Or,” she says. You can set me free. Take the knife. Put it in my heart. The lake will let me go if the next keeper kills me. That’s the rule. Blood for blood. Sister for sister. I’ll die. Really die. And you’ll live. 50 years as the lake. Then you choose the next girl. And you’ll be free too. Someday.

50 years.

I’ll be 65 when I get to choose. I’ll have to pick a girl. A 15-year-old. Maybe Kofi’s daughter. Maybe Simi’s granddaughter. I’ll have to watch her walk into me. I’ll have to hold her. Like Esi is holding me.

And if I don’t?

Kofi dies. Now. Tonight.

I look at the shore. Mama has broken away from Papa. She’s in the water. Waist deep. Screaming my name. Adjoa! Adjoa, come back! Please! Please!

She can’t swim. She told me that. When I was 6. The lake took my mother, she said. I never went back.

But here she is. Coming for me.

Esi sees her too. She’ll drown, Esi says. Softly. Mothers always do. When they try to take back what the lake owns. Do you want her to?

No.

God, no.

I raise the knife.

Esi closes her eyes. She smiles. Real this time. Thank you, Sister.

The blade touches her water-dress.

And Mama screams, ADJOA, NO!

Her voice breaks the lagoon.

The water shatters.

And from the broken water, something else rises.

Not Esi. Not me.

Grandfather.

50 years dead. Eyes full of mud. Fish in his hair.

And he’s holding Kofi.

By the throat.

Under the water.

Watch out for Episode 5.

Follow AFRICANSTORYline for more

07/05/2026

EVERY FIRST DAUGHTER IN MY FAMILY DIES AT 25

Episode 8: Sunrise

5:14am.

We’re back in my apartment. David has Mama’s diary, the UI paper, three laptops, and a whiteboard he stole from a Yaba cybercafé. Papa and Mama sit on my couch, holding hands like teenagers. They haven’t spoken since we told them about the deal. What is there to say? Sorry we traded you? Sorry we were going to hold you down?

6:03am is sunrise. 49 minutes left.

The paper, David says, circling a paragraph with red marker. Page 22. Ajala is bound by the spoken word, but she is also bound by time. She cannot act before a debt is due, nor after a debt is forgiven.

She didn’t forgive anything, I say. I’m coding. My fingers are flying. If I’m going to die at sunrise, I’m going to die doing what I do best. She just agreed to take me at 24 instead of 25. That’s still a debt.

Unless, Mama says quietly. We all look at her. She’s clutching her wrapper, knuckles white. Unless the first daughter isn’t... yours to give.

Papa closes his eyes. Abike, no.

Tell me, I say.

Mama takes a breath. The kind that takes 24 years to exhale. You’re not my first daughter, Tolu. You’re my second.

The room tilts.

What?

1999, Papa says. His voice is ash. We had a girl. Before you. Adunni. She was born at 7 months. She lived for 3 hours. Baba Fakunle... he came to the hospital. He said the covenant was satisfied. A first daughter, given at birth. We thought... we thought that meant you were free.

But Ajala doesn’t deal in death, Mama cries. She deals in want. We wanted another child after Adunni. We begged. Baba said Ajala granted it, but the price was the same. First daughter at 25. We thought she meant you. We never... we never told you about Adunni. We were ashamed.

I stop coding. My hands are numb.

I’m not the first daughter.

Adunni was. And she already paid.

David is already pulling up birth records on his laptop. Holy s**t. Tolu, if you’re legally the second child, then Ajala’s contract with you is invalid. You can’t offer what isn’t yours. She can’t take you.

She’ll take the Trust instead, I say. And when she realizes it’s an NGO with no assets, she’ll void the settlement and come for everyone.

Unless.

I look at the time. 5:41am. 22 minutes to sunrise.

I go back to my laptop. I open the CAC portal. Adeyemi First Daughters Trust Ltd/Gte. I scroll to Board of Trustees.

David, what’s the legal definition of a ‘first daughter’ for the purpose of this Trust?

He blinks. Uh... whatever the Trust Deed says it is.

I smile. The same smile I gave Ajala. Exactly.

I open the Trust Deed. I add one line to Clause 3.1: For the avoidance of doubt, ‘First Daughter’ as used in this Deed shall refer exclusively to Adunni Adeyemi, born April 12, 1999, deceased April 12, 1999. The Trust’s obligation to deliver said First Daughter to any claimant is hereby acknowledged as discharged on the date of her death.

I hit save. I upload it. I get a CAC acknowledgment email. 5:55am.

The Trust’s debt is paid, I say. Adunni died. Debt settled. 24 years ago. Ajala is 24 years late to the crossroads.

The air in the apartment changes. The grave smell is gone. Replaced with something else. Puff-puff. And frangipani. Aunty Kemi’s perfume.

6:01am.

My phone rings. No caller ID. I put it on speaker.

Ajala’s voice. But it’s different. Smaller. You... you changed the terms.

No, I say. I clarified them. You said you trade in want, Ajala. You wanted a first daughter. You got one. April 12, 1999. You just forgot to collect. Statute of limitations on debt is 6 years in Nigeria. You’re 18 years late.

A sound comes through the phone. Like a thousand women exhaling at once. Like a knot untying.

You lawyered me, Ajala whispers. With grief. With paperwork. With a sister you never met.

Welcome to Lagos, David says.

6:03am.

Sunrise.

I’m still breathing.

The first rays hit my window, and for the first time since I was 8, I don’t count how many days I have left.

Ajala’s voice comes one last time, fading. The contract is broken. The line is free. But Tolu Adeyemi... when you have a daughter, name her Adunni. So I remember who beat me.

The line goes dead.

Mama is sobbing into Papa’s chest. But they’re not sobs of grief. They’re sobs of 24 years of held breath, finally released.

David looks at me. So... you’re 24. You’re alive. What now?

I look at the sunrise. Real Lagos sunrise. Hazy, orange, with the sound of generators and prayers and danfo horns.

Now, I say, I turn 25.

And for the first time in 60 years, an Adeyemi first daughter gets to say that and mean _next year.

Watch out for episode 9

Follow AFRICANSTORYline for more

06/05/2026

MY HUSBAND SECRET CALABASH

Episode 5: The Final Confrontation 🌟

The villagers gathered, oblivious to the danger lurking before them. Kwame stood tall, the calabash glowing with an otherworldly light. Aisha and Esi exchanged a determined glance, their allies positioned strategically around the square.

Kwame raised his hands, and the villagers fell silent. My friends, today marks a new era. With the calabash's power, we'll bring prosperity to our village!

Aisha stepped forward, her voice clear. No, Kwame. You'll bring only destruction.

Kwame's eyes narrowed. Aisha, you're just jealous. You never understood the calabash's true power.

Esi moved to stand beside Aisha. We understand it, Kwame. We know what it does to you.

The villagers began to murmur, sensing a confrontation. Kwame's face twisted, his eyes wild. You fools! You'll never stop me!

Aisha's mother stepped forward, her eyes blazing. We already have, Kwame. The calabash's power ends today.

The villagers surged forward, confused and frightened. Aisha and Esi rushed Kwame, trying to reach the calabash. Kwame fought back, his strength fueled by the calabash's dark energy.

The battle raged, Aisha's allies struggling to subdue Kwame. Esi reached the calabash, her hands shaking as she grasped it. Aisha's mother began to chant, ancient words of power that echoed through the square.

The calabash glowed brighter, its power surging. Aisha felt a shockwave as it shattered, releasing a torrent of dark energy. Kwame screamed, his body convulsing as the calabash's hold was broken.

The villagers stumbled back, disoriented. Aisha rushed to Kwame, her heart heavy with sorrow. It's over, Kwame. The calabash is gone.

Kwame's eyes cleared, his face twisted in anguish. What have I done?

Aisha's voice was gentle. You can make it right, Kwame. You can seek help, heal the wounds you've caused.

The villagers began to disperse, their eyes opened to the truth. Aisha and Esi shared a weary smile, their mission accomplished. The calabash's power was broken, and a new era of truth and healing could begin.

As they walked away, Aisha felt a sense of peace, a weight lifted. She knew there would be challenges ahead, but she was ready. The darkness was gone, and the light of a new dawn was rising.

Epilogue: A New Beginning 🌅

Aisha stood in the town square, the morning sun casting a warm glow. The villagers were rebuilding, their faces filled with hope. Kwame was getting the help he needed, his journey to redemption just beginning.

Aisha smiled, her heart full. The calabash's legacy would serve as a cautionary tale, a reminder of the dangers of ambition and greed. But for Aisha, it was a story of survival, of love and strength in the face of darkness.

The sun rose higher, casting a new light on the village. Aisha's story would be told for generations, a testament to the power of courage and determination.

THE END

05/05/2026

MY HUSBAND ALMOST USED ME FOR RITUAL

Episode 6: The Holy Mountain

Osogbo by sunrise looks peaceful. The old railway tracks were rusted, grass growing between the sleepers. The yellow kiosk was exactly like the photo paint peeling, Coca-Cola sign faded. A woman was frying akara nearby, her radio playing gospel music. No one would guess that 20 meters away, a man was trading pregnant women for money.

I walked alone. The police car dropped me two streets back. Inspector Kemi’s voice was in my ear through a tiny bud hidden under my scarf. We have you on camera. Drone is up. Three officers in the akara queue. Two in the vulcanizer shed. Say ‘ofada’ and we move.

My legs were shaking, but I walked. The red wrapper dragged in the dust. It felt heavier now, like it knew I had put tech inside it. Like it was angry.

A boy of about 12 came out from behind the kiosk. You be Adesuwa?
I nodded.
Follow me. Baba dey wait.

We walked past the railway, into the bush. The path was narrow, trees closing over our heads. The air got cooler. The boy didn’t talk. He just walked, barefoot, stepping over roots like he’d done it a thousand times.

After 20 minutes, the trees opened. A hill rose in front of us. Not big, but steep. At the top was another brown building. No windows. But this one had paintings on the wall white chalk drawings of women with big stomachs, and a knife above each one.

Holy mountain.

My ear bud crackled. Adesuwa, we see the building. We cannot get visual inside. Too thick. Be careful. Repeat, be careful.

The boy stopped at the bottom of the hill. You go alone from here. Baba say make you climb. No shoes.

I removed my slippers. The ground was sharp stones and broken bottles. I climbed. Every step cut my feet. By the time I reached the top, blood was mixing with dust on my toes.

The door opened before I knocked.

Baba Orisun was not old. That was the first shock. I expected 70, white beard, red eyes. He was maybe 45. Clean-shaven. Fine boy in his youth, you could tell. He wore a white lace kaftan and a small red cap. He was smiling.

Adesuwa, he said. My lost sheep. Welcome.

Inside, the building was one room. No chairs. Floor was sand. In the middle, a circle drawn with white powder. Inside the circle, seven white candles burning. And lying beside the circle, on a mat, was Mercy Ojo.

She was alive. Eyes open. But her mouth was covered with cloth and her hands were tied with red rope. She was wearing the same red wrapper. When she saw me, she started shaking her head, tears running down her face. Don’t come, her eyes said. Run.

Baba saw me looking. She is number 8. But the spirit said number 7 must come first. You disrupted the order, Adesuwa. Now you must fix it.

Let her go, I said. My voice came out stronger than I felt. I’m here. Take me.
The spirit doesn’t take by force. The spirit takes by choice. You must enter the circle willingly. You must lie down. You must say yes.
And if I say no?
Then Mercy dies, and I take number 9 next month. And number 10. Until I get a willing one. There are many Femi’s in this country, Adesuwa. Many hungry husbands. The list is long.

He pointed to the wall. I hadn’t seen it before. Names. Dozens. Written in charcoal. Some crossed with red. Some fresh. At the bottom: Mercy Ojo Canada Client. Adesuwa Adebayo Cancelled Replace.

Cancelled. Because I ran.

He brought out a knife. Not old and rusty. New. Shining. Lie down, Adesuwa. It will not pain. The baby will sleep first. Then you. You will wake up rich in the next life.

I looked at Mercy. At the knife. At the names on the wall. At my feet bleeding on the sand.

Then I stepped forward. Into the circle.

Inspector Kemi’s voice was screaming in my ear: Adesuwa, no! Don’t enter! Ofada! Say ofada!

I didn’t say ofada.

I knelt. Then I lay down flat on my back, inside the white powder. The sand was cold. The candles were hot. I looked up. The roof had a small hole. Through it, I could see sky. Blue. New moon was gone, but morning sun was coming.

Baba Orisun raised the knife. Say yes, Adesuwa. Say ‘I give myself to the spirit.

I closed my eyes. Put my hand on my stomach. I give myself, I whispered.

He smiled. Louder!
I GIVE MYSELF TO THE SPIRIT! I shouted.

And then I said, clear and loud: OFADA.

The roof exploded.

Not the whole roof. Just the small hole. It became big. Ropes dropped. Three policemen in black fell from the sky like angels of war. POLICE! DOWN! DOWN!

Baba froze for one second. That was all my father needed. He came through the door I didn’t know he was there and hit Baba at the back of his knees with his pistol. Baba fell. The knife flew.

I rolled out of the circle, grabbed Mercy, and used the kitchen knife from my bra to cut her ropes. She couldn’t stand, so I dragged her.

Shots fired. Not at us. At the wall. Warning shots. ON THE GROUND! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!

Baba Orisun was on the ground, screaming. Not from pain. From rage. You broke the circle! The spirit will curse all of you! Your children will die! Your wombs will close!

Inspector Kemi kicked the knife away. The only spirit here is the Holy Spirit, and He just arrested you.

They dragged Baba out. They carried Mercy. I walked down the hill myself, barefoot, bleeding, but alive.

At the bottom, my father was waiting. He didn’t hug me. Soldiers don’t hug on battlefield. He just touched my head once. My daughter.

In the police van, Mercy held my hand. She couldn’t talk yet, but she squeezed. Thank you.

By 12pm, we were at Osogbo Teaching Hospital. Mercy was 4 months. Baby was fine. Heartbeat strong. Like mine.

Femi and Mama Adebayo were transferred to Osogbo to face charges with Baba. The list of names became state evidence. 17 women. 6 dead. 11 alive. Now 12, with Mercy.

That night, I slept in my father’s house again. No nightmares. Just deep, black sleep.

But at 3am, my phone rang. Withheld number. I picked up.

Breathing. Then a new voice. Younger. Female. Adesuwa Adebayo?
Who is this?
You killed Baba. But Baba is not one man. Baba is an office. I am the new Baba. And number 9 on the list… is your sister.

The line died.

I ran to my brother Segun’s room. His wife, Folake, was 2 months pregnant. She was asleep, hand on her stomach.

Safe. For now.

The war was not over. It had a new general.

And my family was the next battlefield.

Watch out for episode 7

Follow AFRICANSTORYline for more

05/05/2026

EVERY FIRST DAUGHTER IN MY FAMILY DIES AT 25

Episode 7: The Woman at the Crossroads

The crossroads at Ojuelegba is different at 3am.

No traffic. No danfo. No area boys shouting o wa, o wa. Just four empty roads meeting under a single flickering streetlight, and the kind of silence that Lagos never has. The kind that makes you check if your ears are still working.

David and I stand in the center. Between us is a printout of the 1973 UI paper. THE MARKET WOMEN OF THE IN-BETWEEN. Page 14, paragraph 3: Ajala appears only where four paths meet, and only to those who bring an offering of equal value to what they seek to keep.

Our offering is on the ground. Not kola nut. Not blood.

A tablet.

On the screen: CAC registration for a new company. Adeyemi First Daughters Trust Ltd/Gte. Directors: Tolu Adeyemi, David Okoye. Objective: To hold, protect, and preserve the life, liberty, and future of all first daughters born into the Adeyemi lineage, in perpetuity.

You’re insane, David whispers again. It’s his favorite thing to say to me now. You can’t incorporate a spirit.

Watch me.

The streetlight buzzes. Once. Twice. Then it dies.

She’s here.

Ajala doesn’t walk into the crossroads. The crossroads walks into her. One second the road is empty. The next, she’s standing 10 feet away, wearing a nurse’s uniform from 2001. The same one Mama described. She has no shadow. Her face is young, maybe 25, and beautiful in a way that hurts to look at. Like a photograph of someone you loved who died.

Tolu Adeyemi, she says. Her voice is the sound of ultrasound machines and first cries. You broke my contract with Fakunle. You owe me recompense.

I don’t owe you s**t, I say. My Lagos is showing. Fear makes me rude. Baba was your collector. He was running a Ponzi scheme with my family’s daughters. That’s fraud. Contract is void.

Ajala tilts her head. Is that what you think this is? Law? She laughs, and every stray dog in Surulere starts howling. I don’t trade in law, little girl. I trade in want. Your grandmother wanted children more than she wanted morality. Your parents wanted peace more than they wanted courage. And you, Tolu... you want to live.

She steps closer. The air gets heavy with the smell of antiseptic and newborn blood. Everything has a price. Fakunle paid me with 17 daughters so your line could have 80 years of children. Now he’s dead. The account is overdrawn. So tell me, first daughter: what are you willing to pay so your sisters live? So your cousins live? So the daughters after you live?

David grabs my hand. Tolu, don’t answer. In the paper if you name a price, she holds you to it.

I know, I say. I kneel and turn the tablet to face her. I’m not naming a price. I’m filing a merger.

Ajala stops. What?

Adeyemi First Daughters Trust Ltd/Gte, I read from the screen. Effective immediately, all debt, all covenants, all ‘first daughter’ obligations owed by the Adeyemi bloodline are being transferred to this corporate entity. The Trust assumes all liabilities.

Ajala’s smile drops. You can’t

Section 42 of CAMA 2020, David cuts in, holding up his phone. He’s been reading all night. A company can assume the debts of its members. And a company can’t die at 25. It can only be dissolved.

By court order, I finish. Or if it fails to file annual returns for 10 years. I checked. Ajala, you can show up in 2050, 2075, 2100. You can take the company to your crossroads. Good luck liquidating an NGO.

For the first time, Ajala looks... confused. Then angry. The streetlight explodes. Glass rains down but none of it touches us.

You think you’re clever, she hisses. The nurse uniform rots off her body, revealing something underneath made of umbilical cords and teeth. Fakunle was a fool to use fear. I use need. Let’s see how clever you are when every woman in your family becomes barren tomorrow. No more first daughters. No more daughters at all. Your line ends with you, Tolu. Childless. Alone. Will you live to 80 then? Will it be worth it?

The threat hits like a physical blow. Mama. My cousins. My future nieces. All of them... empty.

David is shaking. Tolu, maybe we

No. I stand up. I’m 24 years, 11 months, and 5 days old. I died for 3 minutes. I came back. You want a first daughter, Ajala? Take me. Right now. At 24. Not 25. Break your own rule. But the Trust stands. The debt ends with me. My sisters get to choose if they have kids. My cousins get to choose. No more culling. No more trades.

Ajala goes still. The cords and teeth recede. The nurse uniform knits itself back together.

A first daughter... offered willingly... before 25? She sounds like she’s tasting the words. That... has never happened. The contract says 25. Full womanhood. But a willing sacrifice at 24... that’s a new clause. That’s... precedent.

Take it or leave it, I say. My heart is hammering, but my voice is steel. But if you take me, you sign this. I pull out a paper. Settlement Agreement & Release of All Claims. David drafted it. You release the Adeyemi line, in perpetuity, from all obligations. Past, present, future. You sign it in blood.

Ajala looks at me for a long time. Then she laughs. It’s not cruel this time. It’s... impressed.

Clever girl, she says. Iyabo should have hired you in 1962.

She pricks her thumb with a fingernail. Black blood wells up. She presses it to the paper.

The moment she does, every streetlight on Ojuelegba flares back to life. The silence breaks. In the distance, a danfo horn blares. Lagos is back.

Ajala looks at me. Really looks. 24 years, 11 months, and 5 days. You have until sunrise, Tolu Adeyemi. That’s when you turn 24 years, 11 months, and 6 days. If you’re still breathing then, the deal is broken and I take them all.

Then she’s gone. No wind. No drama. Just gone.

The tablet battery dies.

David is staring at me. Tolu... sunrise is in 2 hours. What did you just do?

I sit down hard on the asphalt. My legs finally give out.

I bought us 2 hours, I say. And I just gave a spirit that eats time a deadline.

I look east. The sky is already starting to grey.

Call my parents, I say. Tell them to pray. But not for me.

David fumbles for his phone. For who then?

I smile, and it feels like Kemi’s smile. Like Iyabo’s smile before she got desperate. Like the smile of every first daughter who never got to be 26.

For her, I say. Because Ajala just made a deal with a Lagos tech girl. And she has no idea what we do to entities that miss their SLA.

Watch out for episode 8

Follow AFRICANSTORYline

AFRICANSTORYline

08/05/2026

07/05/2026

07/05/2026

07/05/2026

06/05/2026

05/05/2026

05/05/2026

Address

Telephone

Website

Alerts

Shortcuts

Share

Category

Listing takedown request