Brevity Bard

Yewande's heart thundered as she tore down the shadowy corridor, Imani's journal clutched tightly against her chest. Chike's calls for her to wait echoed behind her, but she couldn't stop, not now. She had to find Ayodele, had to warn him. Rounding the corner, she burst into the grand foyer just as the lights flickered back on, bathing the cavernous space in a harsh, unforgiving glow. Ayodele was already there, his expression one of cold determination.  "Ayodele? What's going on?" Yewande pleaded. Before he could respond, a figure emerged from the shadows at the base of the stairs. It was Emeka, their former classmate, his eyes burning with hatred. "Well, well," he drawled, voice dripping with venom. "The gang's all here." Realization slammed into Yewande. "Emeka? You... you lured us all back here. For revenge?" Emeka's lip curled into a cruel smirk. "Very perceptive, Miss Yewande." At the mention of his name

The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the Ibadan sky in a fiery palette of orange and purple. Bisi, a young woman with a gentle smile and eyes that missed nothing, maneuvered her rusty old Peugeot through the bustling streets. The backseat was laden with bags of groceries – plump tomatoes, fragrant peppers, and a whole chicken for tomorrow's stew. As she turned onto the familiar dirt road leading to the Briarwood Estate, a sense of unease settled over her. The imposing mansion loomed ahead, its silhouette a stark contrast to the vibrant colors of the evening sky. The estate had been eerily quiet since the Briarwood family had departed for their annual vacation in Dubai a few days prior, leaving Bisi alone to maintain the vast property. She parked the car and gathered the groceries, the plastic bags rustling in the still air. As she made her way towards the back entrance, a faint sound caught her attention. Music, laughter, and raised voices drifted from the upper floors of

The echoing scream sliced through the suffocating darkness, a raw sound of terror that clung to the shadows. Yewande fumbled for her phone, the screen’s sudden brightness a blinding contrast to the oppressive gloom. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the chaos that erupted around her. “Imani!” Chike’s voice, usually so smooth and controlled, cracked with a tremor of panic. "The bloody generator’s tripped again," Ayodele cursed, his voice steadier than the others but strained with worry. "Stay together! Don't wander off." "Oh my God, oh my God," Imani’s frantic whimpers rose above the confusion, "I can't see anything! Someone help me!" Yewande's flashlight beam danced across the room, catching glimpses of faces contorted with fear. Chike's jaw was clenched, his brow furrowed in concentration. He moved with a predatory grace, his flashlight beam sweeping across the room like a searchlight. "Imani, w

The heavy oak doors creaked open, revealing a grand foyer trapped in a time capsule of faded grandeur. Yewande stepped inside, the cool marble floor a stark contrast to the February heat clinging to her skin. The scent of pepper soup and egusi stew wafted from the kitchen, a familiar warmth that did little to dispel the icy dread coiling in her stomach. Oil lamps flickered, casting long, dancing shadows on the high ceilings and ornate moldings. Years of neglect had taken their toll on the mansion. Cobwebs clung to the corners, dust motes danced in the air, and the portraits of stern-faced ancestors seemed to stare down with a judgmental air. "Yewande!" A voice cut through the silence, startling her. It was Imani, her once vibrant energy now a manic flutter of movements. She rushed forward, engulfing Yewande in a hug that was too tight, too desperate. "Oh my God, you actually came!" Yewande returned the embrace, her eyes scanning Imani's face. Her friend had alwa

The late afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Yewande's Lagos apartment, painting the stark white walls with a warm, buttery glow. The room, a testament to her hard-earned success as a marketing executive, was a sanctuary of sleek lines, minimalist furniture, and carefully curated art pieces. Vibrant Ankara throw pillows adorned the plush sofa, a subtle nod to her cultural heritage amidst the modern aesthetic. The air hummed with the rhythmic pulse of Burna Boy's On The Low, a vibrant soundtrack that usually filled Yewande with a sense of energy and optimism. Today, however, the infectious rhythm did little to dispel the gnawing unease in her gut. The scent of frying dodo, a familiar comfort food, mingled with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Normally, these scents would have brought a smile to Yewande's face, but today, they twisted into something unsettling, a reminder of a past she had tried so desperately to bury. A framed photograph on