Nnamdi didn't sleep for the rest of the night. He sat hunched on the bed, the cracked phone on his knees, watching the seconds crawl by on the flickering screen. Each minute felt like an hour. Every sound — the creak of the roof, the rustle of mice in the corners — made him flinch.
When the first grey light leaked through the thin curtain, he pushed himself up and washed his face at the small basin by the window. His eyes were red, rimmed with fear and exhaustion. He could hear his mother moving about the kitchen, humming a hymn. He wondered if she knew something was wrong with him — if she could smell the fear on his skin.
She called out through the door. "Nnamdi! You no go chop?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't. How could he explain to her that he was afraid of his own phone?
He slipped on his slippers, shoved the cursed device deep into his pocket, and stepped out into the damp morning air.
The street was waking up. Old men sat on wooden benches, blowing smoke into the early light. Children in uniform dragged their feet to school, mothers shouting after them to hurry. But to Nnamdi, the world felt muted, like he was moving through fog.
He didn't know exactly where he was going until he found himself at the old market behind his campus hostel — the place where this nightmare had started.
He still remembered the day he bought the phone. He'd just finished an exam he knew he'd failed. His old phone had died that same week, battery swollen like a bloated corpse. He didn't have enough money for a new one, so when he saw a battered Infinix on a crooked wooden table for half the normal price, he thought God had answered his prayer.
Now he wondered if it was the devil instead.
The market was only half alive this early. Vendors unfolded faded umbrellas and shouted greetings at each other. The smell of roasted groundnuts and fried yam clung to the dusty air.
Nnamdi found the spot easily — the same crooked table under the same shredded green canopy. But the old man who'd sold him the phone — a wrinkled man with a missing eye — was gone.
In his place sat a skinny boy, no older than twelve, peeling roasted corn with dirty fingernails. The boy's shirt was too big for him, hanging off one shoulder.
Nnamdi swallowed the lump in his throat. He approached slowly. "Good morning."
The boy looked up, blinking slowly, as if waking from a dream. He didn't smile. Didn't say a word.
"There was an old man here," Nnamdi said, forcing the words out. "He sold phones. I bought this…" He pulled the battered phone from his pocket, held it out. "Do you know him?"
The boy didn't even look at the phone. He popped a corn kernel in his mouth, chewed, and spat the husk on the dusty ground.
"No man here," the boy said, voice flat. "Only me."
Nnamdi felt his scalp prickle. "I'm not crazy. He was here. He sat right where you are. He sold me this phone for five thousand naira."
The boy tilted his head. "It's not yours."
"What?"
"It chose you."
The words dropped like a stone in Nnamdi's stomach. "Who told you that? Are you playing with me? Where's the old man?"
The boy's lips stretched into a grin too wide for his small face. His teeth were yellow, bits of corn stuck between them. He leaned forward, so close Nnamdi could smell the smoky sweetness of roasted corn and something else — something like wet earth.
"It wants you to remember," the boy whispered. His eyes were too dark. Deep pits. Empty. "It wants you to pay back what you owe."
Nnamdi stepped back so fast he almost knocked over a pile of plastic bowls on the neighboring stall. A woman scolded him, but he barely heard her.
When he looked back, the boy was gone. The crooked table was empty. The corn husks lay scattered, but there was no sign of the boy — no footprints in the red dust.
Nnamdi's breath came in short, sharp bursts. His phone buzzed in his hand. He looked down, half hoping it was dead again.
But the screen lit up with a new message. A photo.
Adaobi.
Her face was blurry but unmistakable — that shy smile, the small gold stud in her nose. But her eyes in the photo were wide, glassy, frozen like she was staring past whoever held the camera.
And at the edge of the frame, half in shadow, was a stitched mouth — just like the shape he'd seen in his room.
Below the photo, the message read:
[She's next.]
Nnamdi's mind raced. He hadn't seen Adaobi in weeks. They'd fought over something stupid — her pastor told her he was a bad influence, and she'd stopped picking his calls. But now…
He had to find her.
He turned in a circle, scanning the market. Everything looked normal — people buying tomatoes, haggling over used jeans, a beggar woman humming to herself by a pile of old radios. But the normalcy felt fake, like a thin blanket hiding something rotten underneath.
His phone buzzed again. Another photo. Adaobi, this time outside her hostel gate, wearing the same red wrapper she'd posted on her WhatsApp status last month.
[She's waiting.]
He couldn't breathe. He bolted from the market, ignoring the shouts behind him as he knocked over a tray of oranges.
The sun was climbing higher now, burning away the early chill. Sweat ran down his back as he sprinted across the cracked road, dodging okadas and shouting drivers. His sandals slapped against the asphalt.
He didn't stop until he reached the gates of Adaobi's hostel. The small compound was quiet. A group of girls washed clothes by the tap. They looked up when they saw him, some giggling, others frowning.
He tried to catch his breath. "Please — Adaobi. Which room?"
They just stared.
He pulled out the phone, showed the photo. "Please! I need to see her! It's important!"
One girl — slim, wearing a pink bonnet — stepped forward, eyes wide. "She's not here."
"What do you mean she's not here? She stays here!"
The girl looked away, nervously twisting her wrapper. "She left last night. She said she was going to see… someone."
"Who?"
The girl shook her head. "We don't know. She just left."
Nnamdi's phone buzzed again. He didn't want to look — but he did.
[Tick tock.]
He looked up at the girls, but they were already drifting away, whispering to each other. He stood alone at the gate, heart pounding so loud he could hear it in his ears.
Somewhere out there, Adaobi was waiting. Or hiding. Or worse.
Nnamdi tightened his grip on the phone. He didn't know what the thing wanted. He didn't know why it had chosen him.
But he knew one thing.
He wouldn't run anymore.