Lagos nights carry secrets the way gutters carry rain—loud, endless, and full of things that don't belong on the surface.
By the time I stepped out that evening, the street smelled of wet dust and fried plantain. I still hadn't touched the cowrie lying on my table; it glowed faintly under the flickering bulb like a trapped moon. I kept telling myself it was just phosphor paint, maybe a prank. But each time I tried to throw it away, the thing seemed to hum in my palm—low, steady, almost like a heartbeat that wasn't mine. So I pocketed it. Don't ask why. Maybe curiosity, maybe fear dressed as courage. Outside, generators coughed, okadas weaved through puddles, and hawkers screamed "pure-water, fifty naira!" The noise wrapped me like heat. I pushed through the crowd toward Yaba market, trying to lose the memory of that voice from my door. Then I saw her. She stood by a fruit stall under a broken streetlight, hood pulled over her head, long braids dripping rainwater. At first glance, she looked normal—tired, maybe. But when she lifted her face, the light caught her eyes. They weren't eyes. They were cowries—small, white, glinting like polished bone. I froze mid-step. The people around me moved in slow motion—shadows with faces blurred by mist. The city's noise dulled, and I swear the air tasted metallic, like the moment before lightning strikes. She walked toward me. Every step she took, puddles stilled. No splash, no sound. "Tari," she said. Her voice was low, steady, and wrong—like three people speaking at once. "You shouldn't have touched the wall." I wanted to run, but my legs rooted to the ground. "Who… who are you?" She stopped inches from me. The smell of rain and palm oil drifted between us. "They call me Ebi Olufẹ́mi," she said, "but the spirits call me something older. I saw you in the river of dreams. You carry Àṣẹ in your blood now." My heart hammered. "Look, I don't know what you're talking about. I just paint walls—" "Walls remember," she interrupted softly. "You woke a seal meant to stay buried."
Her cowrie eyes blinked—once—and suddenly the market around us flickered. The stalls vanished; instead I saw an ancient marketplace: mud walls, drums, people dancing around a fire. The same sigil burned in the sky above them. When I blinked again, Lagos returned. The traffic roared like it had never stopped. She stepped back. "They've started hunting you, Tari. Ọmọlẹ́ has seen the mark." That name hit me like a nail to the chest. "The tech guy? How you know about him?" Ebi smiled sadly. "Because he isn't who he seems. There's thunder sleeping inside that man—and he wants what's on your hand." Before I could ask more, a danfo screeched beside us, horn blaring. She vanished—just gone. People stared like nothing happened. My pockets felt suddenly heavier; I reached in and found the cowrie again. Only now, faint lines of blue light pulsed across its surface, matching the burn on my wrist.
I stumbled back to my room through the drizzle, head spinning. The cowrie's hum wouldn't stop. Each beat sent small sparks crawling under my skin. I tried washing it, hiding it, even locking it in a tin, but the glow leaked through. By midnight, I'd given up pretending. I sat by the window, watching the city blink with distant lightning. Then came a knock—soft, cautious. "Tari, open. Na me." Chuka's voice. Relief washed through me. I opened the door. He burst in, soaked from rain, breathless. "Guy, you don see the news?!" "What again?" He shoved his phone in my face. A live-stream played—Ọmọlẹ́ at another event, smiling for cameras. Behind him, on a massive digital banner, was the sigil again—cleaner, sharper, alive. "He call am Project Ase," Chuka said. "Say e go merge African spirituality with new tech. Guy, na you design this logo abi?" I shook my head slowly. "No."
But inside me, something moved—like power stretching after a long sleep. The mark on my wrist flared white, bright enough to light the room. Chuka jumped back. "Tari! Your hand dey shine!" I grabbed my wrist, heart racing. "Close the window!" He did. The glow dimmed, leaving a faint scorch mark on the wall. The smell of ozone filled the room. Chuka stared at me like I'd just raised the dead. "Bros… you sure say we no suppose go church?" Before I could answer, the bulb above us flickered twice and burst. In that half-second of darkness, I saw a flash—two red eyes watching from the corridor.
The corridor was silent except for the distant hum of rain. The two red eyes hung there, steady, almost patient. I blinked and they were gone, but the air stayed heavy—as if the building itself was holding its breath. Chuka whispered, "Tari… who dey there?" I didn't answer. My palm still glowed faintly; the smell of burnt dust lingered. I stepped into the hallway, barefoot, every shadow looking too deep. Someone had drawn a spiral on the wall in wet paint—fresh, still dripping, the same pattern that had branded my wrist.
From the far end came the clatter of a door slamming, then footsteps retreating down the stairs. I ran after them, heart pounding. On the landing, the security light flickered just enough to show a shape disappearing into the rain: tall, slim, hoodie up, carrying something that shimmered like metal. "Hey!" I shouted, but the wind drowned my voice. By the time I hit the gate, the street was empty except for puddles reflecting neon signs. I turned back and found an envelope taped to the gate, already soaked. My name scrawled across it in charcoal: Tari Ajanaku. Inside—one phrase on a torn flyer:
"Ọmọlẹ́ remembers."
Somewhere across town, inside a high-rise whose windows never opened, Ọmọlẹ́ Akinwole stood before a wall of screens. Each display showed lines of code pulsing with the same sigil Tari had uncovered. He traced the glowing lines with his finger; they pulsed brighter. His assistant, a woman in a silver scarf, entered quietly. "Sir, we caught another resonance spike. Yaba district this time." Ọmọlẹ́ smiled, slow and cold. "Good. The Seal is awakening faster than I hoped." He paused, eyes unfocused as if listening to something beyond sound. "Find the boy. But don't touch him yet. The Aṣẹ must settle first." The woman nodded and slipped away. The screens dimmed, but the sigil remained on one monitor—its curves shifting like it was alive.
Back in my room, I sat with Chuka and tried to breathe. He kept glancing at my wrist, muttering small prayers. "Guy, I no go lie," he said, "this your matter don pass human understanding." I wanted to laugh, but the fear sat too deep. "You ever feel like the world just changed behind your back?" He looked at me. "Every day, bro. This Lagos self, e dey move faster than prayer." We stayed quiet for a while, the rain hitting the roof like steady applause. Then the bulbless ceiling flickered—this time with blue light, soft and rhythmic. The cowrie on my table was pulsing again. As I watched, it rolled by itself to the edge, dropped, and cracked open. Inside was a small black stone etched with the same sigil. A whisper filled the room, close as breath. "Find the river under the city." Chuka jumped. "Who talk that thing?" I didn't answer; the voice wasn't in the air—it was inside my chest.
When I looked up, Ebi was standing at the window, rainwater tracing her face. "They've seen you now," she said. "The hunt has begun." "What do they want?" "The Seal," she said simply. "And the blood that woke it." Her cowrie eyes turned toward Chuka. "He must not follow you. His fate belongs elsewhere." Before either of us could speak, she touched the cracked cowrie. The pieces lifted, spinning in the air like fireflies before fusing into a small charm that floated toward me. "Wear it," she said. "It will hide your light—for a while." I caught it. The air around her shimmered. She turned to the window. "When the river calls, don't hesitate." "Ebi!" I shouted, but she was gone—vanished into the downpour like she'd never been there.
I stayed awake till dawn, staring at the horizon where the city smouldered into morning. Chuka had dozed off in a chair, twitching through half-dreams. I turned the charm in my hand; it was warm, pulsing faintly, and somewhere beneath the city, I thought I heard water moving—deep and angry. For the first time, I realized this wasn't about art anymore. The wall, the sigil, the cowrie—they were pieces of something older, something that wanted me to finish what it had started. I whispered to the morning, "What did I wake up?" And the city, in its usual Lagos way, answered with horns, curses, and a sudden, distant thunder that sounded almost like laughter.