CHAPTER ONE
As a boy, Dotun dreamed with a stubborn kind of hope — the type that made you believe your future would be nothing like your present.
He would lie on the bare mattress in their single-room apartment, eyes tracing cracks in the ceiling and wall, imagining himself in a skyscraper office, giving motivational speeches on how he made it out.
He was the kind of child teachers bragged about during staff meetings — bright, curious, first in class almost every term, the unofficial tutor to his classmates, even the ones older than him. His school uniform might have been patched and rough, but his mind was sharp, his dreams even sharper.
Dotun always wondered why families struggled, why poverty always seemed to wear a familiar face. Even people with degrees still couldn't pay rent on time. Still, Dotun believed he would be different. That he would break the chain of hardship like it was made of dry biscuit.
He would become rich — not just rich, but "they can't start family meetings without me" rich.
But life, as Dotun would later learn, had a wicked sense of humour.
As Dotun grew older, his dreams began to shrink, slowly deflating like a birthday balloon forgotten under the table. His friends — some of whom could barely pass exams without borrowing his notes or asking him to put them through — started making money.
Small money at first, then big money later. Phones changed. Shoes changed. Their stories changed.
And Dotun? Dotun stayed the same, waiting for a miracle like a man waiting for rain in dry season.
At first, it didn't bother him. He told himself, "My time will come. Delay is not denial." He even posted it on his status once — maybe to ask for help or pity, or maybe to reassure himself.
But deep down, a quiet panic began to grow.
Dotun didn't know the future would show up dressed like a messy, stressed, and hungry masquerade — ready to frustrate him even more.
In life, when you're struggling, people often think it's your fault. They say you're lazy, that you lack ambition, that maybe you're not trying hard enough.
But Dotun had tried. He had tried until there was almost nothing left of him.
As a student, he juggled lectures and side jobs like a man walking a tightrope blindfolded. He did assignments for less-bright classmates, even helped run errands for lecturers just to scrape by.
All the while, his struggling mother would still find a way to send him small money — most times from borrowed hands.
Dotun lost his father when he was still a child, too young to even remember the man's voice. So it had always been just him and his mother — his biggest cheerleader, even when the world stayed silent.
But just after graduation, life delivered its cruelest blow yet. His mother fell sick.
It wasn't one of those dramatic, fast, noisy illnesses. It was slow and quiet — the kind that eats a person away in whispers.
By the time she passed, Dotun was truly alone. No siblings. No backup plan. Just himself, his grief, and the weight of a future that kept failing to show up.
Still, he kept going.
He applied for hundreds of jobs. He learned tech skills online. He tried small businesses, even offered free services at one point just to stay visible. But every door felt like it had his name on a blacklist. Every opportunity slipped through his fingers like smoke.
It was as if something unseen was always a step ahead, ready to scatter his efforts just before they could bear fruit.
At one point, he even went spiritual with it — fasting, deliverance services, night vigils, altar calls.
He laid his hands on TVs while watching deliverance programs, laid his hands on his CV, and prayed in tongues too. But nothing changed. It was like heaven had him on "DND — Do Not Disturb."
As for love? He didn't even bother. Not because no one was interested — he was a decent-looking guy with depth and good conversation — but Dotun couldn't bring himself to drag an innocent woman into his private hell called life.
He didn't want his bad luck to transfer like a virus. And besides, most relationships were about money and sex.
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Present Day
Dotun had seen bad days. In fact, bad days were the only thing his calendar never forgot to deliver.
But today? Today said, "Watch this."
He was halfway to work when he remembered — the files. The exact files his boss specifically told him to bring. Important files. The kind that make or break your already fragile job.
He cursed under his breath and turned back.
He got to his door — no keys. He checked his bag, his pockets, his soul — couldn't find them.
He couldn't risk being even a second late, so with the last strength of dignity, he broke the door open.
It took three seconds for him to see the key sitting quietly in his back pocket — like it had paid rent.
He stood there, shaking his head. A long, slow shake that said, "God, are you playing with me?" or "I must be a very stupid kind of stupid."
He picked up the files and sighed.
"Abeg e, I'll buy a new lock when I get back. Nothing for anyone to steal here," he muttered.
In a last-minute act of sharp-man energy, he arranged the broken door to make it look locked. Not secure — just convincing enough.
He got to work late. His boss didn't shout — he just smiled. The kind of smile that smells like bad news.
As punishment, Dotun was handed a brown envelope.
"Take this to the bank," the boss said.
Bank duty? Not his job. But it was December — banks were like war zones. This envelope was a death sentence wrapped in fake trust.
Dotun went. Of course, he did. Because when you're broke, you can't afford pride.
And just like a Nollywood plot twist, he got robbed. Beaten. Stripped of the envelope and the little self-worth he had left.
He returned empty-handed, bloody-lipped, shirt torn.
His boss didn't believe a word.
"Robbed?" he laughed. "You think I'm stupid? You stole the money. This little staged drama won't save you."
He was sacked on the spot.
Dotun stood there — silent, numb. Four months' salary gone. Just like that.
What he didn't know was that his boss had set him up — planned the robbery, used it as an excuse to fire him and dodge paying him.
Dotun staggered out of the office like a ghost. There was no dramatic scene, just quiet. That dangerous kind of quiet that settles in a man's bones when he's too tired to cry.
His last stop of the day was the pharmacy. He didn't walk in — he dragged himself.
"How much for sleeping pills?" he asked the woman behind the counter.
She told him.
"Even to die peacefully, person go still price," he mumbled to himself in Pidgin.
He walked home. No lock on his door. No job. No money. No reason.
Dotun sat on his broken mattress, looked at the pills, and for the first time in his life, he didn't want to fight sleep — he wanted it to take him.
Dotun stared at the small pack in his hand. The label was blurred from the sweat on his palm. He didn't bother reading it again; he already knew what it was for.
He poured the pills into his mouth. No water. Just swallowed.
Then he lay down, eyes on the cracked ceiling, waiting for silence to carry him away.
No tears. No prayers. Just stillness.
And then...
Something was off.
His eyes snapped open. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, or if he had even slept at all, but the room felt different. He sat up slowly, blinking into the cold darkness — the kind of cold that didn't belong in his one-room heat box.
Then came the feeling — not fear, presence.
He turned his head, slowly, stiffly — and there it was.
A tall, shadowy figure stood at the end of the room. Faceless. Shapeless. But unmistakably watching him.
Like darkness had learned how to stand.
Before Dotun could react, before he could speak or scream, the thing moved — fast.
It was suddenly behind him.
An arm — no, a shadow — wrapped around his throat with the weight of death. Tight. Cold. Strong.
He gasped, tried to fight. Nothing came out.
His fingers clawed at the darkness, but it was like grabbing smoke wrapped around iron.
His vision blurred. His legs kicked weakly.
He was dying — again.
And this time, death had come with hands.