Before the fire, before the bloodline awakened, before brothers became enemies…
there was a night Lagos itself refused to forget.
It began not with thunder, but with silence.
A silence so heavy that even the lagoon stopped moving, as if the water sensed something older than the city rising from the dark. In the floating streets of Makoko, generators hummed… and then died one by one. Bulbs blinked and went black. Radios cut to static. Phones drained to zero.
Every light across the shanties dimmed until the entire settlement faded into a ghost of itself.
Only the moon remained — swollen, pale, watching.
And deep in the heart of the settlement, in a small wooden hut barely held together by rusted nails and prayer, two infants cried at the same time.
Twins.
Brothers.
The beginning of a prophecy no one understood.
Their mother, Abeni, weak from the birth, held them close. Her breath came in shallow waves. Sweat glistened on her forehead. She whispered blessings in Yoruba under her breath, half-prayer, half-plea.
"Ọlọrun, protect them…
Orí wọn ó ni baje…
Let destiny be gentle."
But destiny was listening, and destiny was not gentle.
The floorboards shook. Not from footsteps, but from something beneath the hut. Something ancient. Something waking.
Abeni froze.
Outside, the night thickened. Voices murmured far away — neighbors confused by the blackout — but none dared to approach. Everyone in Makoko felt it: an invisible warning hanging in the air.
Then came the whisper.
It slithered through the cracks in the wood, through the gaps in the roof, through the humid air. A whisper like a hiss, but layered with many voices — past voices, future voices, the kind that didn't need ears to hear.
Abeni's eyes widened. She hugged her children tighter.
"No… not tonight…"
But it was too late.
The twins' cries suddenly split — one shrill and sharp, the other low and steady, almost unbothered by the world's distress. Their tiny hands glowed faintly under the moonlight. A soft green pulse traced itself along the left wrist of the calmer child.
A mark.
A serpent-shaped mark.
Alive.
Moving.
Abeni choked on air, fear slicing her chest. She had heard the stories — old tales whispered by grandmothers, tales that adults dismissed, tales forbidden by churches and mocked by schools.
The Serpent Returns When the Nation Shifts.
Two Shall Rise.
Only One Shall Carry the Dawn.
She looked at the glowing mark. Then at the other child whose wrist remained clean but whose eyes — newborn eyes — held a strange sharpness, almost… ancient.
"My children," she whispered, voice breaking. "Why you? Why now?"
Wind roared through the cracks of the hut, though outside the night remained still. Abeni felt pressure in her skull, like someone — or something — was trying to look through her memories.
Then came the second sign.
The water around Makoko… stopped.
Completely.
Not a ripple.
Not a wave.
Not a sound.
The lagoon lay frozen as glass.
Doors flew open across the settlement. Neighbors stepped out, confused, frightened. Some prayed. Some ran. Nobody understood why the world had paused.
Abeni tried to rise, but her legs failed her. She tightened her grip on the babies, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"I will not let you take them," she whispered to the shadows gathering in the corners of the hut.
A dark ripple shimmered at the doorway.
A figure stepped in.
Not quite human.
Not quite spirit.
Tall. Hooded. Wrapped in shimmering black cloth woven like smoke. Where its face should be, only swirling darkness glowed faintly like distant stars hiding in fog. Its presence pulled the warmth from the room.
Abeni gasped, though her voice was barely a whisper.
"The Watcher…"
The figure did not speak. It didn't need to. Its very presence carried a message.
The prophecy had awakened.
The bloodline had chosen.
But something unexpected happened — something not even the watchers foresaw:
The marked baby reached out a tiny hand…
…and the serpent mark brightened.
Abeni clutched him tighter. "No! You will not take him!"
The hooded figure hesitated. A faint tremor rippled through its form — the closest thing to surprise a spirit could express.
The baby's mark pulsed again.
Abeni felt the vibration travel through her arms like a heartbeat that wasn't hers.
The lagoon outside trembled.
The moon flickered.
And for a moment, the darkness itself stepped back.
The Watcher slowly lowered its hand — not in surrender, but in acknowledgment.
This child… this marked boy… was not ready to be claimed.
Not tonight.
Not yet.
It turned toward the other baby, the unmarked one. The one whose eyes had not cried since birth. The one who watched the darkness without fear.
The Watcher leaned close, studying him.
The baby stared back.
No tears.
No fear.
No sound.
Just silence.
Then…
The Watcher bowed its head — a gesture of recognition.
The air grew heavier.
Abeni felt it in her bones.
"One will bring order," she whispered through trembling lips. "The other… chaos."
A faint gust blew through the hut.
And then — the lights of Makoko suddenly surged back to life.
Generators roared. Bulbs flickered awake. The world returned.
But the Watcher was gone.
Abeni collapsed, exhausted. She looked down at her sons — one glowing, one watching — and felt a truth she wished she could unlearn:
Lagos had witnessed a beginning.
A beginning that would return for them.
A beginning that would divide them.
A beginning that would shake the nation.
She kissed both children, tears falling freely.
"My boys… my precious boys…
Forgive me, because the world will not forgive you."
Outside, the lagoon finally moved again, sending ripples acr
oss the settlement — the first heartbeat of a destiny that would one day drown the city in secrets.