Chapter 1: The Wicked Game

When we were small, we played a wicked prank and tricked the village chief’s grandson into the dried-up well deep inside the bush.

Back then, our mind dey sharp pass blade, and we no dey fear anything. That afternoon, sun still dey hot for sky as we dey chase each other with stick and stone, our laughter loud like market noise. We see Chijioke, him face dey shine because na chief pikin. But our plan hot for belle like fresh pepper. As him dey follow us play, we just dey wink for each other.

We blocked the mouth of the well with stones and covered it with fallen leaves. The leaves dry pass suya meat, crunch for hand like old naira note. Even as our hand dey shake small, we gather stones, each person carry the biggest dem fit see. The leaves for ground, brown and crunchy, we scatter am on top till the whole place blend like e no get well at all. Na only the sound of our own breathing and bush cricket dey worry us.

As we watched the police search everywhere for one whole month without finding anything, we secretly dey happy. When the village square full every evening, torchlight dey shine for every corner, we go stand dey form innocence. Even the chief himself dey sweat for night, torchlight dey shine for bush like firefly. Inside us, our mind dey sweet, because nobody dey suspect anything. Sometimes, when our parents dey talk about the missing pikin, we go nod head like goat, but inside we dey laugh. Na so secret dey sweet.

As we grew up, the five of us all made it in life and became rich. Na so life come better for all of us—everybody hustle, scatter for different places. Some people start business, some travel go abroad, some even buy big car wey be like airplane for road. The thing surprise people for village. Dem go say, 'This our pikin ehn, God just butter their bread.' But only us sabi the kind secret wey dey our chest.

But to our shock, we later hear say one person wan build mansion right on top that same dried-up well. The day wey I hear the gist, na for one WhatsApp group. My hand shake, my mouth dry. The ground for my office be like say e dey move. I remember the place clear for my head, the bush path, the old iroko tree, even the smell of that well—like water and forgotten dreams.

To avoid our secret coming out, we agree to go back and take care of the remains. The group chat hot that night, everybody dey type, dey fear. Na so we agree say we go gather for night, carry shovel, torchlight, and nylon bag. My heart no rest, sweat dey my palm, but nobody fit back out. We dey move like people wey juju dey pursue.

The five of us set out together, but only four reach. The ringleader from those days, Tunde, just disappear—no show.

As we dey wait under the tall pawpaw tree near the bush path, my mind dey count all the times Tunde dey ginger us that year. This night, e just ghost. We dey whisper, dey look road, dey call him phone—switched off. Breeze cold, bush dey silent, even frog no gree croak.

With all their pressure, I no get choice. Na me crawl enter the dark mouth of the well by myself. Femi and Sadiq begin to point finger, say na me be outsider, say my own hand clean pass their own. Me, I know say na set up, but the thing wey dey push me pass my fear. Sadiq say make we pray small, but nobody get boldness to talk am loud. For my mind, I dey beg God make nothing bad happen, but my leg still dey move me go that well. Jesu, abeg, no let my enemy laugh last.

As I shine my torchlight down, na so I see two skeletons dey lie for bottom of the dried-up well. The torchlight beam waka for darkness, as e flash reach ground, the white bone glare up at me. Two skeletons, dry like broomstick, head bend, bone scatter everywhere. Na fear and confusion jam for my chest. I nearly drop the torch for shock.

Just as I wan shout, I hear the sound of stones dey drag above my head… Na that kind scraping sound wey go make blood freeze. My throat dry, voice die for my mouth. I begin remember all the small, small prayers my mama teach me. My mind dey count all the wrong things I do since I small.