Chris hated this city at night. The streetlights flickered like dying candles, the potholes swallowed his shoes, and every dark corner whispered the same question: How did you end up here?
He could hear his mother's voice in his head — her disappointed sigh echoing louder than the traffic that hissed past him on the highway. If he called her now, she'd pick up on the first ring. She'd ask if he'd eaten. If he still had money. If he'd come home before this city broke him in half.
But Chris didn't have a phone. Not anymore. His last one slipped out of his pocket on a bus three weeks ago — or maybe someone else's fingers had been quicker than his tired eyes. It didn't matter. It was gone, and with it went his last connection to home.
He crossed the road without looking and nearly got knocked flat by a keke weaving through the potholes. The driver shouted something rude. Chris didn't answer. He just kept walking.
He needed a phone. He needed it more than he needed a meal tonight. His classmates texted about assignments and deadlines and missed lectures — all the things that made a broke boy fall behind fast. And Dozie, his roommate, was no help. He'd lend Chris his phone but not his trust. Dozie's eyes always asked the same thing: When will you get your own life together?
Chris spotted the stall by chance — a rusty iron table propped against the old fence behind his hostel. A small plastic lamp glowed weakly over a scatter of secondhand phones, chargers, cracked screens stacked like broken dreams. An old man sat behind the table, chewing something dark that stained his teeth.
Chris cleared his throat. "How much?" he asked, pointing at the least battered phone.
The old man didn't look up. He just muttered, "Two-five."
Two thousand five hundred. Chris checked his pocket. He had three thousand — money meant for tomorrow's lunch and maybe noodles for Sunday night.
He pushed the naira notes across the table. The old man picked them up without counting, dropped the phone into a black nylon bag, and shoved it at Chris. No receipt. No charger. No guarantee.
"Does it work?" Chris asked, but the man was already packing up. He turned away, his plastic lamp flicking out. The table folded into the shadows. Within seconds, the stall was gone. Just the rust stain on the fence remained.
Chris stared at the phone in his hand. The screen was cracked at the corner but the power button still clicked under his thumb. He pressed it. The screen flickered, buzzed once, then glowed to life — a plain wallpaper. No SIM. No lock. No number saved.
He felt relief crawl over his chest like warm hands. He could message Dozie now. He could call his mother tomorrow. He could catch up on everything he'd missed.
The hostel gate creaked when he pushed it open. Most rooms were dark — students either at club nights or buried under assignments. His room was on the third floor, the last door at the end of the corridor. He unlocked it quietly. Dozie's bed was empty, his blanket folded neatly. Good. No explanations tonight.
Chris collapsed onto his own bed. He held the phone up to the faint light bulb, inspecting the scratches. He pressed every button. It buzzed in his hand like it was alive — maybe that was just the low battery. He'd get a charger tomorrow.
He almost drifted off with the phone resting on his chest. Half-dreaming, he thought he heard something — a soft tap on the wall. A rat, maybe. Or the wind.
Then the phone vibrated. Hard enough to wake him fully. He sat up, confused. He hadn't put in a SIM. Who could be calling?
The screen lit up with a single word: Incoming Call — Unknown Number
His throat tightened. He knew it was stupid to be scared — phones didn't just ring on their own. Maybe there was an old SIM stuck inside. Maybe…
He accepted the call. Static hissed through the tiny speaker, crackling like a radio tuned wrong. He pressed it closer to his ear, trying to make sense of it.
Then he heard it — a voice, distant and cracked like it was calling from under water.
"Chris…"
He jerked the phone away. "Who's this?" he whispered, but the line went dead.
The screen blinked once and went black.
He dropped the phone beside his pillow, telling himself it was nothing. An old contact. A glitch. The night pressed close around him, heavy and silent.
Just as his eyelids fell shut, the phone vibrated again. A message flashed on the cracked screen:
Unknown Number: Don't hang up on me.