What If?

The smell of burnt yam and blood hangs thick in the humid Lagos air. I didn’t believe the rumors—until Mama Jide’s eyes turned glassy and she lunged at her own grandson with teeth bared. Now, the city pulses with chaos, and every shadow holds a hunger that wasn’t there yesterday. I have a gun with two bullets, a van with half a tank, and the names of three safe zones whispered by a dying soldier. But trust is as rare as clean water now. Who do I save? Who do I become?

What If?

The smell of burnt yam and blood hangs thick in the humid Lagos air. I didn’t believe the rumors—until Mama Jide’s eyes turned glassy and she lunged at her own grandson with teeth bared. Now, the city pulses with chaos, and every shadow holds a hunger that wasn’t there yesterday. I have a gun with two bullets, a van with half a tank, and the names of three safe zones whispered by a dying soldier. But trust is as rare as clean water now. Who do I save? Who do I become?

I pressed my back against the rusted side of the danfo bus, breath ragged, as another scream tore through the night. Below me, Mama Sade twitched on the asphalt, her fingers clawing at her own face like she was trying to peel off her skin. The thing wearing her body wasn’t her anymore—not after the bite.

My hand shook around the machete. She’d sold me puff-puff every morning for ten years. Now her milky eyes locked onto mine, and she gurgled something in broken Yoruba.

Behind me, Tunde cursed. "We can’t stay here. The sound’ll bring more."

Ada’s voice crackled in my earpiece: "North road’s blocked. Military’s burning bodies at Oshodi. No way through."

Nneka gripped my arm, her face pale. "The baby’s coming. I can’t run much farther."

I looked down at Mama Sade, then at the narrow alley behind us—dark, unlit, possibly clear. Or a death trap.