Chapter 1: Night of the Swing

For midnight Lagos, na only mad people or spirits dey swing for playground.

Even before the dispatch radio finish to crackle, something about the report just no pure. Who dey carry pikin go swing for this kind hour? Our dispatcher, Musa, first think say na one of those yeye prank calls wey dey disturb police for Lagos. But the caller voice get wahala, trembling like person wey don see abomination.

"Dem don dey swing since night reach," he talk, voice low and shaking. "Dem never stop at all. Oga, abeg, come check am."

My mind jump to all the strange tins wey dey happen for this city once midnight enter. Maybe na cult boys. Maybe na person wey craze. Or, e fit even be another thing. For Naija, you gats always ready for the unexpected.

When we reach there, the little girl wey dey swing don already die.

The old woman kept putting the little girl back onto the swing, again and again, over and over. Her wrapper trailing in the sand, eyes blank like she dey see another world.

The little girl don fear die.

Even the air for that playground heavy, like the night swallow all our breath. The distant clang of NEPA wires hum for background, and the smell of fried akara from a neighbour’s window float across the estate. Sade, my colleague, swallow spit, clutch her necklace tight, then whisper small prayer: "God abeg, cover us with your blood." You fit feel ancestral spirits waka for every shadow, dey watch us with silent eyes.

1

We get the call around midnight, rush go the scene.

The little girl still dey swing back and forth, and the old woman dey push am from behind with strength wey no match her age.

But no single talk or look between them—only the creak-creak of swing chain echo for the dark.

The swing chain dey cry one long, high-pitched sound, that kind wey you go hear for playground wey government forget. E join with the chirp of crickets, make the night long and somehow wrong.

Wetin suppose be warm family moment just turn cold, chilling, like horror film.

E remind me of those tales my grandma dey yarn—mami wata, restless spirits. Goosebumps full my body. The moon just hang low, no dey shine enough for this empty estate. Not even one soul waka pass.

"Mama, abeg, make you stop. We wan ask you small question."

My voice steady, but the old woman face no change, as if say she no even hear me at all.

Something dey wrong. I sharply move go her side, hold her hand.

Her hand cold like well water before sunrise—no be normal for old person.

My colleagues use chance to stop the swing. Na then we see the little girl face well.

Her face ashen, features twist, like she see serious fear.

Her body stiff, breath long stop.

At that moment, the old woman beside us just resemble person wey dey far from here.

Like person wey just wake from deep dream, she start to shout, try drag her hand from my grip.

"Wetin una dey do? Why una no wan allow my granddaughter play swing?"

She begin mumble, "E just dey bright outside—how e come dark like this?"

Her voice thin, desperate. Her eyes dey waka round, lost, dey search the night for answer only she fit see. My mind flash to Mama Nwosu, my old neighbour, wey dey waka for compound sometimes, dey find her late husband.

I just dey wonder: This midnight, how she go dey talk of daylight?

She see the little girl body for ground, panic catch am. She rush hug the child, slap her face, call out:

"Nnenna, you dey sleep?"

Her hand dey shake as she tap the girl cheek, voice dey rise, like prayer wey nobody answer.

"Nnenna, wake up, abeg, no scare Grandma."

When the girl no answer, her cry tear through the night.

"My granddaughter, how I go explain this one to your papa now?"

Her wailing cut the night sharp. The security man wey watch from distance just shake head, cross himself, "Ah, Chineke me e!"

Me and my colleagues look each other. This woman really be the girl grandmother.

The case just too strange. We carry her go station for more questioning.