CHAPTER ONE

I've always been the kind of person who finds comfort in routine, in the predictable rhythm of a well-ordered life. My name is Abèbì, and I am, by all accounts, an introvert. Each morning, my day starts the same way: I wake up at 6:30 AM, offer a prayer of gratitude, and then meticulously brush my teeth. Up and down, eight times; side to side, seven times. The sequence is a dance I've mastered over the years. I brush my tongue, rinse with water, followed by mouthwash, and then I spit it out. I finish this ritual with a smile in the mirror and a self-assuring wink. Then, it's time for a shower. The warm cascade in the shower is my thinking space, a place where the steam carries away the remnants of sleep and ushers in the day's clarity. As water envelops me, so does the familiar voice from my favourite podcast, 'DevTalk Daily'. The host's discussion on the latest trends in software development merges with the rhythm of water droplets, creating a backdrop for inspiration.

Post-shower, wrapped in the comfort of a well-worn robe, I sit down for breakfast. Breakfast is a quiet affair: just me and my thoughts, and I love it. After breakfast, it's time to dress. My clothes, chosen the night before, always await me, a daily ensemble premeditated to avoid the morning rush and the mental clutter of choice. I dress with a mind unburdened by the day’s trivial decisions—what to wear is a question I answer when the day is at its end, not at its beginning. This sequence, this ritual of preparation, grounds me in reality and is what I do every single day, without fail.

But today was different. Today, the delicate balance of my world was tipped. Instead of the usual 6:30 AM, I woke up at 7:05. That's 35 minutes of my day, my routine, irretrievably lost. The unease sets in immediately, a gnawing disorientation. I rush through my morning rituals, but they feel hollow, rushed, out of sync.

As I scramble to make up for lost time, something else adds to the growing sense of unease. I live alone and have always been meticulous about security – my door is double-locked every night; a habit so ingrained that not even the foggiest evening after drinks can make me forget. But today, as I hurry to leave, I pause. The door. It's slightly ajar.

For a moment, I stand there, staring at the door, my mind racing with possibilities. Did I forget to lock it last night? No, that couldn't be. The thought of someone entering while I slept sends a shiver through me. But there's no sign of intrusion, nothing else out of place, just this unsettling detail.

With a deep breath, I try to shrug it off. Maybe I did forget, just this once. Or perhaps the door didn't catch properly. I lock the door now, ensuring it's secure, and step into the street. I tell myself that the day will normalize, that this unsettling start is just a minor deviation from my routine. The world outside seems the same, but I can't shake off the feeling that something has shifted, however slightly. As I blend into the morning crowd, I hold onto the hope that my day will readjust itself, that the rhythm of my life will fall back into its familiar, comforting pattern.

The trek to my workplace has always unfolded the same way. Typically, just seven steps from the front door of my apartment building, I'd pass by Kúnlé, our neighbourhood hotdog vendor. Despite never developing a taste for hotdogs myself, there's something admirable about Kúnlé's unwavering presence. Rain or shine, he's there, his voice ringing out in playful persuasion, "Get your hotdogs here, o! So you can have enough strength for your office meetings. Don't go collapsing in your first meeting of the day." His unique sales pitch never fails to draw a crowd, a testament to the power of persistence.

Another ten paces down, on the left sidewalk, I often encounter Aunty Chichi, the beloved "bole" seller. Tragedy struck her life about three years ago, just months after I moved into the area. Her husband, the neighbourhood drunk who had the misfortune of arguing with armed robbers, was shot dead. I had only met him once, in an awkward exchange where he made untoward advances. Since then, Aunty Chichi has been the sole provider for her family, her quiet strength visible as she tends to her stall and her two young children. The youngest must be around three by now; she was still in the womb when the tragedy hit. Unlike Kúnlé's boisterous antics, Aunty Chichi's demeanour is soft-spoken and gentle. Her tranquillity resonates with me, and although I've never been one for small talk or knowing my neighbours intimately, I find myself drawn to her stall for a serving of "bole" on occasion.

About five minutes away from my workplace, I often cross paths with Sùwé, the security guard at the nearby primary school. We've never exchanged words, just mutual nods of recognition — a silent greeting that has become a staple of my daily passage. There's a neatness about him, an elegance that seems out of place in his profession, especially when compared to the dishevelled security guard at my office building.

These individuals have become the landmarks of my daily journey, their presence as reassuring as the steady ticking of a clock. For three years, they've been constants in my life, save for the rare occasion, like when Aunty Chichi's niece Deborah took over the stall when illness struck. Curiosity had gotten the better of me that day, prompting a rare inquiry on my part.

But today, something was amiss. In fact, the events that transpired were so bizarre, one might scoff at their telling.

My morning walk to the office started out as usual, but today an unusual pang of hunger broke the rhythm. In the flurry of an atypical rush, breakfast had slipped my mind entirely. Resigned to amend this oversight, I made a beeline for Aunty Chichi's stall for some "bole". I scolded myself silently, vowing to never let such a lapse in routine occur again.

As I neared Kúnlé's stand, I noticed he wasn't bellowing his usual sales chants. Instead, he was engrossed in searching through his cart. This silence wasn't particularly odd; perhaps he was simply preoccupied. My interactions with Kúnlé varied day by day – a greeting here, a nod there, or sometimes a feigned phone conversation to avoid any potential awkwardness.

Passing by, intent on my mission for "bole", Kúnlé's head suddenly popped up from behind his cart, fixing his gaze on me. I intended to just walk past as usual, but he halted me with a few unexpected words.

“Won’t you buy a hotdog today, young lady?" he called out. "Especially when you missed breakfast in all your hurry." I stopped dead in my tracks, a chill creeping up my spine.

What the fuck?

How could Kúnlé possibly know that? "What did you just say?" I asked, my voice steady, but inside, my mind was racing. Could he have been behind the mystery of my front door standing open? No, that isn’t possible. After all, if he had been involved, he wouldn't be stationed at his usual spot as if nothing had happened.

He chuckled, reverting to his usual refrain. "Get your hotdogs here, o! So you can have enough strength for your office meeting. Don't go collapsing on your first meeting of the day." He then playfully prodded, "Ha, Aunty Abèbì, this one that you are stopping here today, are you planning on buying a hotdog? I’m surprised, o! It’s so unlike you. Okay nau, how many do you want?" His normalcy did little to quell the disquiet in my thoughts. Had I imagined his earlier words? No, that couldn't be. The precision of his comment about my morning hiccup was too accurate to be a product of my imagination.

"No, I... I don't want one. I'm actually in a hurry. Maybe some other time," I stammered, hastily continuing on my way. My heart pounded as I walked away. Glancing back, the sight of Kúnlé unnerved me further – he stood motionless, his head cocked to the side with an eerie smile plastered on his face.

The odd encounter with Kúnlé clung to my thoughts like a stubborn vine. It was so real, so precise, yet so impossible. My rational mind battled with the surreal, but the lingering question persisted: was my routine so transparent, or had today's disruptions begun to fracture my perception of reality?

Drawing nearer to Aunty Chichi's stall, the familiarity of the sight began to soothe my frazzled nerves. There she was, the picture of tranquillity, attending to her "bole" with a care that always seemed to transcend the hustle of our bustling street. "Whew," I exhaled silently, the tension easing from my shoulders. Perhaps the morning's rush had indeed conjured up phantoms from the steam of my hurried shower.

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Determined to keep my delay to a minimum, I started rummaging through my bag to look for some change for the "bole", my fingers fishing for money. The feel of the 200 naira note between my fingers brought a small victory smile to my lips. "Yes!" I celebrated inwardly. There’s nothing better than finding the exact money you need to purchase something without having to wait around for change. My day was finally looking up.

I emerged from the depths of my bag, ready to greet Aunty Chichi, only to be met with a sight that was even more bizarre than the first one. There, among the usual tableau of Chichi and her children, was an addition that defied belief — her husband. The very same man whose life had been claimed by a tragic altercation, stood there as if plucked from the past, laughing, and chatting with his family as though the threads of their story had never been severed.

My heart caught in my throat. This couldn't be. The impossibility of the scene before me was as stark as the sun in the clear sky. Was this another trick of the mind? A mirage conjured by my own inner turmoil? Or had my reality truly begun to unravel?

I blinked. Once. Twice. Surely my eyes were betraying me. A trick of light, a shadow cast in just the right way, something, anything more plausible than the reality I appeared to be witnessing.

Yet there he was, undeniably present, standing among them. Chichi's husband, whose days had previously been wasted in a drunken haze on street corners, was now clad in a suit, looking like he had a board meeting to attend. It was a scene so absurd it bordered on farce. I cleared my throat, a polite attempt to announce myself, but it was as if I hadn't made a sound. Again, I coughed, louder this time. No response. "Aunty Chichi," I finally called out. That's when everything stopped. The laughter, the chatter, all of it ceased, and four sets of eyes, previously averted, lifted to meet mine in an eerie, synchronized motion. Their faces were blank slates, void of any recognition or emotion.

"Nah, fuck this, I'm out," I muttered under my breath. My feet carried me away from the stall with an urgency I didn't know I possessed. I could feel their eyes on me, piercing through the back of my head, but I resisted the urge to look back. After the unsettling encounter with Kúnlé, I wasn't eager for a repeat performance.

A wave of dizziness washed over me, my heart hammering against my chest as a cold sweat broke across my skin. What the hell was going on?! The world around me felt disjointed, as if I had stumbled onto a stage where everyone else knew their lines but me. A world where Chichi's husband was inexplicably alive and well-dressed, and Kúnle's usual antics were replaced with cryptic behaviour.

Now, just a ten-minute stretch separated me from the safety of my office. The thought of retreating home crossed my mind, but the path I'd have to retrace was not one I was willing to tread again. "Just keep moving, Abèbì," I coached myself. "Only ten more minutes."

Those minutes passed uneventfully, a brief respite from the morning's strangeness. But as the primary school where Sùwé worked came into view, my apprehension returned. With the way things had been going, I couldn't bear the thought of another anomaly shattering the fragile remnants of my routine.

Halting, inspiration struck—a different route. Yes, it would add time to my commute, but the alternative, the potential of facing another distortion in my reality, was far less appealing. I'd arrive a bit late, sure, but I was hardly the last to reach the office on most days. A wave of relief washed over me, a rare feeling on this most unusual morning.

"God, you're a genius, Abèbì," I congratulated myself silently. I could almost see the light at the end of this bizarre tunnel. I turned onto the new path, just a few extra steps away. This day, this nightmare, would soon be behind me.

I quickened my pace, the unfamiliar route unfolding before me. With Google Maps as my guide, the alien streets aren't intimidating. The extra ten minutes on this detour should merge seamlessly into my journey, transforming my commute into a manageable fifteen-minute stretch. I watched as the digital countdown on my screen ticked away the minutes—fifteen to ten, ten to seven. A small triumph curled up in the corners of my mouth; it felt like I'd outsmarted the odd forces at play today.

With work almost within reach, my mind shifted to the tasks awaiting me—yesterday's assignment from my team lead, a straightforward job I anticipated completing before lunch. Then there's the new project, a more formidable challenge requiring a different IDE. No matter, I had spent the previous evening brushing up on it. A little rough around the edges, perhaps, but I'm confident in my ability to tackle it. There’s time yet; the deadline isn't looming until next week.

But my train of thought derails abruptly as my eyes catch the latest update from Google Maps. "One minute remaining," it claims. Relief washes over me, and I lift my gaze, expecting to see the familiar outline of my office building. Instead, a wave of confusion crashes into me. There's no office building in sight. And then, with a jolt of dismay, I realize where I am. I've circled back to the beginning, with Sùwé's primary school standing before me.

My frustration boils over. "Fuck!!" The word slices through the air, a contrast to my usual composure. I stand, rooted to the spot, my mind a tempest of disbelief and confusion. How can I process an occurrence that defies every law of reality I've known?

After a few moments of aimless panic, I draw in a deep breath, trying to corral my racing thoughts. "Breathe, Abèbì," I whisper to myself, my voice a lifeline amidst the chaos. "You can't control what's happening, but you can control how you respond. Focus." It's a testament to my adaptability, the way I can take charge of a situation. Today will be no exception; it can't be.

"Let's try this again," I say with tentative determination. Steering my feet once more along the longer route, I resolve to outpace the peculiar loop that has trapped me. But as the primary school comes into view yet again, a chilling realization grips me. It's as though the world itself is a maze, and all paths lead back to this singular point.

On my third attempt, the truth finally settles in, cold and inescapable. There is no fleeing this uncanny trap. The day, with its strange and implacable logic, demands that I confront whatever mystery lies ahead on this path. I steel myself with the thought that whatever odd encounter awaits me with Sùwé will be the last barrier before work. Naturally, my supervisor would frown upon tardiness, but this aberration is a one-off. I'll just claim the traffic was a nightmare, a plausible excuse in this city.

Nearing the primary school, I expect to see Sùwé's familiar form. But today, he's absent. Instead, a stranger occupies his post, indifferent to my approach. "Ah, thank goodness," I murmur, relieved. On any other day, Sùwé's absence would have annoyed me. However, given the morning I’ve had, it was a relief.

I lament inwardly—if only I'd braved this route earlier, I might already be immersed in the day's tasks at work.

But as I'm about to bypass the school, a sudden tug at my hand halts me. Turning, I find a young girl, no older than five, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. I call for the guard's attention, but he's as still as a statue, gaze fixed downwards. Undeterred, I resolve to escort her inside myself—after all, someone must uphold some sense of responsibility.

"Let's get you inside," I tell her, offering a reassuring smile. Yet, as we start towards the building, her grip becomes unnervingly firm, anchoring me in place. Her worried expression then shifts to something unsettling—a grin far too wide, eerily reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat. "Perfect," I think. "Nothing scarier than a creepy child."

Then, her words slice through the silence, "Isn't it fun to just have a day you can’t predict? When you never know… what’s… coming next." The force of her hold paralyzes me, my body rigid with shock.

Then, an indignant voice in my head protests. "Really, Abèbì, overpowered by a child? Get a grip!" With a burst of resolve, I wrench my hand back, stumbling backward.

Suddenly, I collide with a solid figure. I spin around to see Sùwé, not as the composed guard I know, but frantic, his hands gripping my shoulders. "You have to wake up, Abèbì," he urges, shaking me with urgency. "You cannot be here right now. WAKE UP!"

His words echo, a crescendo of sound and fear, and then...

I'm catapulted into consciousness. My skin is clammy, my sheets drenched with the evidence of my terror. The morning light creeps timidly through my curtains, a stark contrast to the darkness of my dream.

I glance at the clock; it reads 6:30 AM. There's a message waiting on my phone from Tola, my colleague at work. He's struggling with the new IDE we're supposed to start using, eagerly anticipating our collaboration. A wave of relief washes over me. With a heavy sigh, I swing my legs out of bed. "Damn," I murmur, still catching my breath from the remnants of the dream.

Rising to my feet, I begin my morning routine: prayer, teeth brushing, showering, and the comforting drone of my favourite podcast. Stepping out from the shower, I reach for my phone instinctively. Usually, by this point, 35 minutes have passed, leaving ample time for breakfast and dressing. But the time on my phone makes my heart skip a beat—7:40 AM. "Huh?" The confusion sets in deep. It was definitely 6:30 AM when I woke up. My laptop confirms the time—7:40 AM. "No," I whisper, a chill running down my spine. "This can't be happening, not again."

I steal a wary look at my bedroom door, my movements hesitant. I open the door and walk quietly towards the front door of my apartment. The silence is deafening, and I do not know what to expect. I probably just got carried away in the shower, right? Yeah, that has to be it. Yet, there's this unsettling feeling coiling in my gut, a dread that I can't quite dismiss. As I get closer, what I see confirms my horror.

The door. It is slightly ajar.

“Fuck,” I curse under my breath.