Chapter 1: The Silent Delivery

11:30 p.m. Rain don threaten since evening but e never fall, the air heavy like e dey wait for drama. I dey house alone, just order food for delivery.

The compound don quiet, even generator for next compound don off. Only the faint sound of distant okada horn and my own heartbeat dey remind me say Lagos still dey awake somewhere. Mosquito dey buzz near my ear, I slap am, hiss small. Hunger dey bite me, so I no even reason all this silence wey cover my flat.

When the delivery app show say the rider don reach my door—0 meters away—my phone begin ring.

For this kind late hour, na only that app dey make my phone ring anyhow. I pick am, expecting to hear 'madam, I don reach o', but na only silence I hear for the other side. No sound at all. The quiet just get as e be, e make cold catch me. Na this kind silence dey make person remember all those crime gist wey dey trend for WhatsApp.

E be like say the kind silence get weight. I even check phone again, look window, wonder whether na network dey play or person dey try arrange me. The silence hold for like five seconds, my mind just dey race.

I vex, cut the call. Sharp sharp, the delivery rider send me private message: [Sorry, I no fit hear or talk. I call you just to let you know say your food don arrive. I no fit explain for phone, abeg, sorry.]

My eye dey narrow, but hunger na real devil. I reread the message. I never hear of delivery rider wey no dey talk before, but I dey try make sense of am. Maybe na deaf and dumb, or e just no wan talk for night—Lagos get all kinds wahala.

[You fit dey worried. I don already drop your food for your door. Abeg, pick am quick.]

I wan open door, na so bullet comments—those floating messages wey dey waka for livestream—flash for my eye.

My heart jump. I blink, think say na tiredness dey cause me to see nonsense for night. But the words dey float clear, like those comments for online video. Even the spelling get that Naija sharpness, no gbagaun at all.

[No open the door. The person wey dey outside no be deliveryman—na murderer.]

[He call to check, from your voice, whether na woman dey live alone for here.]

[Abeg, all these horror story main character dey too dull. This delivery guy dey too suspect, and you still wan open door?]

I freeze, shock catch me as the bullet comments just appear. My hand wey wan turn the handle, I sharply comot am.

For Lagos, we dey fear this kind wahala. My body suddenly cold like garri soak for fridge. E be like say my ancestors whisper for my back, 'Nne, shine your eye.'

Wetin be this? Murderer? Horror story main character?

My mind dey argue, 'You no dey craze? How bullet comments go dey float for your eye?' But the thing clear, no be dream.

Na me dem dey talk about?

I no dey believe all those juju things, but these words dey float for my front—clear as day.

I remember all those nollywood films wey person go dey see vision before gbege start. The thing dey real for my own front now. I fit even feel small pepper for my chest.

My heart dey beat gbo gbo gbo. I no fit think of anything else. I just dey hold onto the key info from the bullet comments:

Right now, person wey fit kill me dey outside my door.