The black envelope burned a hole in Iyi's pocket like a secret too heavy to carry. The weight wasn't in the paper or the wax seal no, it was in the promise. The promise of something different. Something that could change everything. But promises in Lagos were often like the city's relentless rain sudden, cold, and impossible to trust.
He walked through the streets of Obade with a strange mixture of hope and dread tangled in his gut. The city was alive, thrumming with its usual chaotic energy: hawkers shouting over one another, children darting between legs like fish in a swollen river, the occasional honk of an impatient motorbike slicing through the noise. But to Iyi, all of it felt muted, as if the world had turned down the volume just enough to make him hear his own heartbeat.
He passed by the corner where he usually set up his small soap stall now nothing but a patch of cracked concrete stained with old oil spills and cigarette ash. A faint smell of burnt charcoal lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of rotting fruit dumped nearby. His throat tightened. The stall was more than a place to sell; it was a small anchor in the vast ocean of Lagos survival. But today, it felt like a relic from a life slipping farther from reach.
He stopped for a moment, the envelope heavy against his palm. His fingers traced the crimson wax seal the symbol of a serpent coiling around a cowrie shell. He didn't know the meaning, but the image stirred something deep and ancient inside him, a pulse beneath the hunger and the grime of the city. It was a memory he couldn't place, like a name on the tip of his tongue.
Meet at the crossroads of Market Street and Ajegunle Road at dusk. Bring nothing but yourself and the courage to accept what is offered.
The words echoed in his mind like a riddle. Who would send this? Why him?
A slow breeze picked up, tugging at the frayed edges of his worn shirt. The sun, a blistered orange orb, began its descent behind the rusted rooftops, casting long, stretching shadows over the maze of streets and alleys.
Iyi's stomach twisted not just with hunger, but with something sharper, something heavier: anticipation. He remembered his mother's face, gaunt and tired, her eyes shadowed by worry. She had always told him, "Mothers don't eat pride." But pride didn't fill empty bowls or pay for the medicine his little sister needed when she caught fever.
He swallowed hard, trying to push the bitterness away.
In Lagos, survival was a game of risk. Every day was a wager against the city's indifference. The envelope felt like a gamble that could either save him or destroy him.
The journey to the crossroads wasn't far, but every step felt longer, burdened by the weight of the unknown.
As he walked, the familiar sights blurred into a strange dreamscape. The narrow alleys that once felt like home twisted into shadows that seemed to watch him. The faces of passersby were fleeting shapes some kind, many indifferent, some with eyes sharp as knives.
He passed a group of street children huddled around a makeshift fire, their faces smudged with soot and hope. They eyed him curiously as he moved past. One of them, a boy no older than ten, reached out and tugged at Iyi's sleeve.
"Boss, you got something to eat?"
Iyi shook his head, forcing a smile he didn't feel.
"Not today, little one."
The boy's eyes darkened, but he didn't press further.
The crossroads of Market Street and Ajegunle Road was a place Iyi had always avoided. It was where the city's heart beat loudest and darkest where deals were made under the veil of twilight, where promises were whispered and broken before dawn.
Now, he was drawn there like a moth to flame.
The sun finally dipped below the horizon, and the sky bled deep purples and reds. The city lights flickered awake street lamps casting halos of yellow, neon signs buzzing with colors that seemed too bright for the night.
Iyi arrived early, his breath visible in the cool evening air. He scanned the crowd, searching for the sender of the envelope.
A figure emerged from the shadows, moving with a calm certainty that cut through the chaos. Cloaked in a dark jacket, their face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, they walked toward Iyi without a word.
The silence between them stretched taut, like a wire ready to snap.
Without speaking, the figure extended a hand, palm up.
Iyi hesitated. His heart thundered in his chest, pounding like a drumbeat echoing through his ribs.
What was he really choosing?
To step into the unknown and risk everything or to return to the slow, gnawing hunger that had defined his life so far?
Memories flashed unbidden the cold nights with his mother, the bitter taste of pride swallowed to feed his family, the lies told to survive another day.
The figure's hand was steady, waiting.
With trembling fingers, Iyi reached out.
The instant his palm met the other's, a cold shock ran through him, sharp and electrifying.
The world around him seemed to shift.
Colors deepened. Sounds sharpened. The city's chaos faded into a distant hum.
And suddenly, he was no longer just Iyi, the hungry boy from Obade.
He was something more.
The shadows twisted, revealing flickers of faces spirits, ancestors, watchers eyes glowing in the dark.
A voice whispered in his mind, ancient and clear: "Welcome to Ayepegba. Your hunger is the door. Your choice, the key."
Iyi's breath caught in his throat.
He stumbled backward, the crowd and city rushing back like a wave.
The figure was gone.
Only the black envelope remained in his hand, its wax seal now cracked, the crimson symbol faintly glowing.
His world had changed.
But the question lingered:
What price would he pay for the riches promised?
And was he ready to face the hunger beyond hunger the hunger of the spirit?