Adeola sells dreams on WhatsApp. Not love spells
or goatblood charms — she sells the illusion of
wealth: photos of fake designer bags,
screenshots of fake bank balances, videos of
“success testimonies” from men who never existed.
Her son, Tobi, wears secondhand uniform to St.
Theresa’s, and the headmaster’s last note said,
“No more delays.” The oil boom is dead, but the
hunger for its ghost lingers in every Lagos
compound.
The world changed when the ancestors stopped
speaking through dreams. In 1959, the Lagos
elders buried the Eko Spirit beneath the old
railway bridge — not to silence it, but to bind
its hunger. It was a pact: no one would call on
it, and in return, the city would not drown in
greed. But in 2012, the last priest who
remembered the oath died in a hospital without a
nameplate. Since then, the spirit walks in data.
It feeds on digital lies. And now, Adeola is
feeding it.
She took the last coin from her mother’s funeral
pot and paid a boy from Surulere to hack into a
pastor’s email. She sent 200 messages: “Blessing
from God — deposit ₦50,000 and receive ₦500,000.
” Three women paid. One died the next day from
heart failure — her last text: “I saw the man in
the mirror with no eyes.” Adeola didn’t know the
spirit was watching. She only knew the school
fee was paid.
Three nights later, Tobi wakes screaming. He
draws the same face over and over — a man with
hollow cheeks, wearing a 1970s suit, holding a
ledger. The school nurse says it’s stress. The
church deacon says it’s demonic. Adeola knows:
the spirit doesn’t take money. It takes what you
loved most. The first thing it stole was her
husband’s voice — the last thing he said before
the stroke, “Ego naeme.” You think you’re rich.
She goes to the old bridge. The concrete is
cracked. Underneath, the soil is warm. A child’s
shoe lies halfburied — not hers. She digs. Finds
a notebook. Names. Dates. Payments. 1983: Pastor
Eze. 1991: Lawyer Okoro. 2005: Dr. Nwachukwu.
All paid with lies. All now silent. The last
entry: “Adeola Nnadi. 2024. Paid in Tobi’s laugh.
”
She runs home. Tobi is gone. The window is open.
On the floor, his school cap. Inside, a slip of
paper: “The price is not money. It is the memory
of your joy.” The phone buzzes. A new message.
From her own number. “Mama, I am still here. But
I don’t remember your voice anymore.”
She screams. No one answers. The spirit does not
kill. It unmakes. And in Lagos, where the past
breathes through WiFi and the rich pray to both
Jesus and the market god, the only thing more
dangerous than a scam is the truth that someone
once paid for your child’s future — and forgot
to pay the price.
