[Hear the story in the author’s voice—audio reading included]

The girls watched as their grandmother fanned out the cash and examined the bills, searching for counterfeits, counting and recounting. Her bangles chattered like teeth on her arms.

Lagos is an immensely populated city. The population figure is so high that there is a running dispute between the National Population Commission and the Lagos government over how many people actually live here.

It ends with a jaded god. Ogbunabali. The god who kills at night. They say he grants a request in exchange for five souls. It is called the ritual of exchange. It is well known. But, like every tale, there are four parts to it. The part you tell. The part I tell. The part we agree not to tell. The part Wiwe tells.

The waiter at the counter watches them. Short-lived glances driven by questions. Questions about these two men, none older than twenty-eight, who walk into a near-empty restaurant on a quiet evening.

He waited for applause but seemed not to care when none came. The campaign was over. Sleek talk and sweet words had lost their necessity.

One afternoon, I found a note under my door. Scribbled in pencil on torn paper. No name. Just the words: You cannot lie to a city that knows your footsteps.

Your sight isn't playing tricks, 

I really do want to.