07/04/2025
I was late for the 6:45 bus, again. The harmattan breeze bit through my jacket as I hurried down the road, dust swirling around my feet. I passed the old bench near the abandoned petrol station — the one people always said was “cursed.” Superstitions, I used to think. Until that morning.
She was sitting there — a woman in a faded pink dress, barefoot, her hair wild and matted. Her eyes, though, were sharp. Too sharp. They followed me like she had been waiting.
“You forgot your name,” she said calmly as I walked past.
I stopped.
“What?”
She smiled. “You left it in your dream last night. Along with your hubby's watch.”
Chills.
“How do you know about the watch?” I asked, heart racing. That watch had been missing for weeks. My hubhy's favourite wristwatch. Lost in a dream, I once said jokingly.
She stood slowly. “They took it. The ones who whisper through the cracks.”
I didn’t know whether to run or cry. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it felt like it echoed inside my chest. I took a step back.
“They’ll come for you at dusk,” she said, already sitting again, humming a song I hadn't heard in years — a lullaby my mother used to sing.
I missed the bus. I stood there, frozen, staring at her until a keke honked past and broke the spell.
By dusk, I was inside, doors locked, curtains drawn.
That night, I dreamt again. Same dream. Same shadowy figures. But this time… the watch was on my wrist.
And from outside my window, far down the road, I swear I heard her humming.
Pov!!!!!! Pic unrelated
