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Forwarded as Received


Good morning, my people! Please beware! This company, Finest Textures Ltd, is selling FAKE products that will kill you!! One of my neighbours’ friends used these company’s bags of rice to make dinner for themselves and the next week they were complaining of serious stomach pain, awful diarrhoea and bad headache. It took them two weeks before they even went to the hospital, and by the time they arrived att the University of Benin Teaching Hospital, it was too late. When the doctors did an autopsy on the individual, they found that the rice had never digested in the friends’ stomach. Instead, it had turned into WORMS inside the man’s stomach, giant green ones that were eating the man’s intestines. Please share this to all your contacts before it’s too late. Do NOT break this chain. You never know who could be using a Finest Textures Ltd product as we speak!!!

Mama Ibeji formed the Greatness Women Whatsgood Groupchat on November 5th, 2014, with the sole aim of mobilizing women in her Oredo Local Government Area to go out and vote in the 2015 general elections. Hope you all have your voter’s card, great ladies, she would text, and four women would reply her with a tiny thumbs up, the only emoji on their keyboard that they all knew how to use properly.

The group chat was mostly successful in encouraging voter turnout in 2015, but it had been two years since then and she still hadn’t been deleted it. No woman had left the chat, but none of them ever really spoke with one another ever since the election ended. Mama Ibeji did try to encourage them to talk, but the only time the great women ever used the chat was when it was time to send ridiculous chain messages, like this one.

Send to five people right now or all your children will die unexpectedly the next morning; they will not wake up from sleep and their eyes will forever remain shut.

Mama Ibeji didn’t send that message, and yet the next day, her only son, Imasuen still knocked on the door of her house, asking if she get any Omo soup for him to use to wash his clothes at his estate down the road. It caught her surprise that he even asked; he had big eye and longer throat; he too dey take things without asking. She gave him two satchets of Omo soap and told him not to disturb her again, and he left the house happily.

Send this to all your contacts or you will receive bad news immediately you finish reading this message, and yet later that day, Mama Ibeji’s employer promoted her to head receptionist of Sweet Stayings Hotel. So when Mama Ibeji saw this particular message on the group chat, she finally had to scoff. She could not stand to see people spread all these yeye lies on her election group chat. The chain messages, they had filled up the entirety of all chats; when she scrolled up and up they were all she could see. Don’t do this or please do that, or: this is a cursed image, send to everyone you know, and she was quite fed up with all the nonsense.

“Mama Adesua,” she typed. “Which one be dis? Who dey forward this kind message to you? Or abi you saw the person wey done die? You know the person?”

“No mama,” Mama Adesua, one of the women on the group chat, typed back immediately. “I just had it forwarded to me, but I come say make I send it here so we can all stay informed.”

“This one no be information,” Mama Ibeji typed. “Na lie.”

Mama Adesua typed again, but Mama Ibeji quickly typed back on her phone to prevent the woman from getting in the last word. “Let us not be gullible o, fellow women. Na all these kind story wey dey they use catch fish from Ogba River. Please let us all endeavour to stop sending these types of useless messages to this platform. That is not the purpose of this group chat. Thank you.”

Mama Ibeji closed her phone and ignored any incoming messages.

Two days later, Mama Ibeji was walking back home after work when she saw Mama Adesua arguing in a market store just down Sapele road. Mama Ibeji thought it was a little shameful for a good woman to be found fighting for N100 carrots when the woman’s grandson was right next to her. It was not like any of the good women were affiliated with any organization or any church, it was just that Mama Ibeji expected better from all the women on her chat. But Mama Ibeji did know that the woman had a bad habit of picking fights with people she thought were beneath her.

“Imagine! A whole me! That’s who you people dey try cheat with these ridiculous prices? Una dey craze!” Mama Adesua screamed, her face hot as she jumped up and down. The woman had made her grandson scared in all her ranting, so much so that the little boy had run to the back to the store, hidden behind the products. Mama Ibeji could only shake her head when she saw the scene, Mama Adesua could be so dramatic. All the store women reigned curses on Iye Adesua in response.

“Na you dey craze mama!” the store woman screamed back at her. “Ashewo! It will not be well with you and your family.”

Mama Ibeji managed to calm down Mama Adesua and the quarrelling market woman (they settled on N650 last price, to each other’s grumbling), and then afterwards she looked at the stall of the market. She had never visited this place before. The women were selling so many provisions, so many goods, half of which Mama Ibeji had never seen in her life. All the brands there were knockoffs—she could see in the milk aisle that they were selling Peam Milk instead of Peak. Even at the back of the store shelves, next to two packets of Whenever pampers and Just Fine tissue paper, Mama Ibeji could still notice some words written on some of the products. The lettering glinted in the sunlight. Mama Ibeji angled her head just so, squinted her eyes, and then she could see the name quite clearly.

Finest Textures Ltd.

Her mind was immediately caught with attention. This was the bag of rice that had killed the neighbours’ friend in the group chat? This old thing? The packaging looked so ancient, tear-tear at the bag, like nobody had touched it in forever. Mama Ibeji was now sure that chain message had been pedalled across Whatsgood group chats since Abacha’s death; this bag looked so dusty. Nobody was probably eating it. The business must not have had a lot of customers as a result of this controversy.

Mama Adesua, however, immediately screamed when she saw the logo on the bag.

“No no no, Ma,” the woman said, pushing away the rice like the devil was inside it. “This kind product is cursed o. Haven’t you seen the messages about the man who chowed this rice and died?”

The market woman took offense to that statement. “Mama, I no know wetin be your problem. I’ve told you I no sell fake product. This one is very popular. Very sweet. Me I chop am myself and nothing do me.”

Mama Ibeji’s ears perked up at that statement. This was exactly what she was talking about. Nothing happen when she didn’t forward any of these stupid messages; they were all lies. If the market woman was still living and breathing after eating this rice, then how could Mama Adesua come and say the product was cursed? She had had enough of these conspiracies.

“Iye Adesua, I have told you to stop feeding into these fake fake messages, but you don’t want to hear word,” Mama Ibeji said. The woman looked taken aback, like she wanted to say something, but the woman bit her tongue. Iye Adesua was always more reserved when she talked to her fellow mamas, less inclined to shout. The woman said “okay oh,” and stood by the corner of the shop without a word, texting on her small nokia phone and humming the verse to the last parts of a Sinache gospel song.

Mama Ibeji looked around the store and gazed at all of the items. She had never been one to buy unknown products, but this case was something else. If she could prove to the ladies that she had used these products firsthand and nothing do her, then she could finally stop them from spreading all sort of lies to the great women group chat. Great women no suppose to be superstitious, she thought to herself. They were supposed to be sharp.

She bought three bags of Finest Textures rice and split a taxi with Mama Adesua and her granchild back to their area. The whole time on the drive, Mama Ibeji noticed that Adesua was staring at her with a look that resembled caution, as though the woman thought that she had suddenly dug her own grave.

Mama Ibeji used the Finest Textures Ltd rice to make smoky jollof first. Two weeks after she bought it, a day after she had come back from work at the Hotel, she decided that she had spent enough time inspecting the rice, gazing at it every morning before she went to her job, as though it might attack her. She opened the raffia bag and peeped inside; there was nothing wrong with the individual rice grains. In fact, they were perfect. There were no stones or bits of sticks, no dead weevils or infected spots that had stuck to any of the rice pieces. She got exactly what she paid for, and it was pleasing.

Thirty minutes later, the food was cooked, and it was sweet die. The rice was finely polished and smooth on her tongue; she could have mistaken it for basmati. The food was so rich and earthy and flavourful that if Mama Ibeji hadn’t made it herself she might have thought it was cooked over a stick of firewood. But there was something pure about the meal, so addictive. It was the best dish that Mama Ibeji had made in a long, long time.

She used two more cups of the rice to make white rice and vegetable sauce for dinner. It seemed to work with everything. And to think she wouldn’t have bought it because of superstition. The fried rice she made three days later was fantastic. The coconut rice she made one week from then was out of this world, she couldn’t eat it alone. She planned to share some with Imasuen when he came to visit her from his estate, but by the time she came out of the bathroom and into the kitchen one day he was already a taking a pack home for himself.

“Ah ah,” she said, but he blew her a kiss and drew her into a hug. She hated that this was what he used his spare key for—to stroll in and take whatever he liked.

“What’s ah ah about it?” He laughed, throwing another chunk of beef in his mouth. Mama Ibeji eyed him as he chewed the food like he was biting into the soft clouds of heaven; she despised his forwardness. “This is so so good, mama. You know I love you.”

“Abeg ee,” she pushed him way, rushing him out the door. The boy was always staying in her house way too long. “I love you too. Now get out.”

Mama Ibeji wanted to invite Mama Adesua to eat some of the rice with her, but the woman had become irritating. They were never really good friends, but after that day at the supermarket, Mama Adesua had called Mama Ibeji more than seven times, each time asking her if she had eaten the rice. The answer was always no, and after a few days, Mama Adesua calmed down with the calls. But then soon after, the woman started texting.

 Koyor, just making sure that you’re safe and well o, Mama Adesua typed to her, in the middle of the night. Mama Ibeji knew the woman was probably just concerned, but it was still annoying. The only way for the good women to beat this superstition that had plagued their Whatsgood group chat was if they debunked rumours like these, was if they went out of their way and proved these useless messages to be untrue.

Mama Ibeji texted Mama Adesua privately on Whatsgood.

I’m eating the rice now o, come and beat me.

The woman immediately called.

“Koyor, mama,” the woman’s voice sounded high-pitched and warm, caked with fear. “Hello, Mama Ibeji?”

“Mama Adesua, good afternoon—” Mama Ibeji laughed, but before she could get in another word the woman had already started to speak.

“Mama please, I no like this. I don’t like what you’re doing. I’m just trying to calm my body down, trying to speak to you softly because you are my agemate, but lawowo now, you have to stop this.”

Mama Ibeji burst into a tiny chuckle on the phone. She couldn’t help herself, the whole conversation was really entertaining her. “I’ve told you it is all a lie. All these messages you people are broadcasting everywhere, e no be true, me I am fine. This rice sef is even so sweet.”

The woman humphed to herself in a quiet sigh, as though in reserved defeat. “Ah, Mama, okay o, if that’s how you like it. Me I can’t try it sha. You know this is still Nigeria, anything can happen.”

“Anything cannot happen, please,” Mama Ibeji spat, biting into her spoon more forcefully this time. This conversation was starting to get irritating now. “Please, I have told you and advised you, let’s not be gullible—”

“But let’s not take unnecessary—”

“Ehen,” Mama Ibeji spoke the words with final declaration, as though to calm herself down. “Uwese o, Iye Adesua. Goodbye.”

She clicked off the phone call before the woman could get in another word.

Mama Ibeji slept fitfully in her bed at night, she tossed and turned. She didn’t know whether if it was the heat (NEPA took the light at some point in the evening; she felt it immediately the cold from the ceiling fan left her body), or the fact that she could feel mosquitoes crawling all over her (she had sprayed the room with insecticide before she went to work, but it hadn’t done much to rid of her of her bug problem), but something was off. Her dreams were very lucid, very strange. A child with dainty footsteps kept running away from her, laughing as he escaped her grasp. The child’s voice was a tiny mockery; he said: “Why’d you break the chain na? Why’d you break it?” as he ran into a market stall and evaded Mama Ibeji’s capture once again.

“Why you eat am? Why’d you eat it?” he said, as he climbed up all the shelves of the tiny supermarket. Mama Ibeji jumped to get the boy, he laughed and crawled past her. She tried to talk him down, tried to get at him but he laughed and laughed.

“Why’d you do it? Why’d you do it?” he said, as he entered a hole behind one of the shelves, as he disappeared into the darkness. Mama Ibeji could see his eyes and his laugh as he went further and further into the hiding spot.

And then the child stared at her, looked at her with those mocking eyes. “Now someone has to suffer.”


Please o, my people, make una hear word!! Avoid this product, Finest Textures Ltd! Na so so scam they dey operate; all the products they dey sell are fake!! Dats how one of my uncle’s uncles wey stay for Bayelsa state come chop this product—he say he wan buy supah-getti for him and his family. The next week dey found ’im wife dead inside the bathroom of her government job; her colleagues say she just collapse suddenly. Doctors say there must have been something way dey for the woman’s stomach, maybe one kind tapeworm, but it done leave the woman’s stomach by the time they open her body. They say they never see this kind tin before; intestines chopped, stomach wall torn. My people, let us learn to be vigilant! Avoid stories that touch! No dey break this chain—send dis one to all your contacts right now or you will receive bad news in the next few weeks.

Mama Ibeji received this message from Mama Adesua on a boiling Sunday morning, when she was still tossing in her hot bed rather than tying a scarf and going to church. The message was sent to Mama Ibeji’s private messages on Whatsgood. It was nice that Mama Adesua wasn’t spamming the Greatness Women group chat anymore (it had become silent now, as deserted as Third Cemetery at midnight), but it still irritated Mama Ibeji to see these kinds of posts. Where was Mama Adesua finding all these kind messages from? Mama Ibeji didn’t want to see any of these useless chain messages on any platform. At all.

She had been spooked by her dreams a few weeks ago, but she was fine. Her work was still going well; her employer called her an expert receptionist, a master of her job. Imasuen called her days later asking for more food, but Mama Ibeji told him to get his own. He responded by sending her multiple frowny face emojis at every hour, pictures of him begging on the floor, until she was finally worn down enough to send him three extra packs of rice. She sighed when he came to collect it; she was becoming more and more irritated by her son’s forwardness. It wasn’t that he couldn’t get any of these products himself, it was just that it was easier to leech off her, to take her things and her food and never pay her back. Imasuen had a good government job, he was doing fairly well on his own, but Mama Ibeji knew more than anyone how stingy he was with his profits.

“And lawowo abeg,” Mama Ibeji told him as he was scurrying out the door, packs of food in hand. “Don’t ask me for this rice again o! If you need the address of the store, I’ll happily give you.”

“Mama the mama, you’re too funny,” the man laughed, pushing her into another forced hug. “I love you.”

Mama Ibeji grumbled as her son walked out the door.

She ignored the chain message that Mama Adesua sent, and the one that the woman sent three days later, and the one after that. The woman called her and said, ah ah now, were they not sisters, what was all this snubbing for, and Mama Ibeji put it to her simply.

“Mama Adesua, you are stressing me out. You are stressing me out. I done beg you tire to stop spamming me with all these kind chain messages, and yet you refuse to listen to me. Two and a half weeks have passed now; I don’t even have a headache—aren’t you tired of being deceived? At least you know me—you don’t know any of those people in these messages, and yet you’re believing it? Ah now, you dey disappoint me.”

The woman went silent, pensive in thought. Then two minutes later, on the phone call: “You’re right. Mama, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

Mama Ibeji couldn’t believe she’d talked some sense into Mama Adesua; it almost stunned her. The woman sounded much less sure of herself as she spoke on the phone call, more doubtful. Mama Ibeji tried to feed into this doubt at the woman’s every sentence.

“Think about it: all these people wey done die from using this product: why we no find a single picture of them? We that we live in this same Benin where the first incident occurred in, you see on the news that somebody died out of eating worms found in rice?”

“No sha,” Mama Adesua said, and the woman’s voice was more resigned, final.

“Then what’s the problem?” Mama Ibeji shouted. Something creaked on the wall; one of the baby pictures of Imasuen she’d put up had fallen lopsided. She quickly adjusted it—the nail she used to hang it with couldn’t ever stay still. “Come o, let me tell you something, this is how they spoil people’s business. You don’t remember how bad it was for this Mako Corned beef company when everyone was saying that they used human meat to make it? We all now found it was one edited picture created to cause wahala? Frankly speaking, these kinds of things upset me.”

“I know, mama,” Mama Adesua replied, sofly sighed as she spoke. “I know. I was just trying to share what I’ve seen, but I think you dey talk true, actually. These kind of fake fake stories—they spread so easily. Maybe I should buy some of that rice to eat for myself.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Mama Ibeji said, but the laugh afterwards felt somewhat forced. For the first time, she wasn’t absolutely sure of herself when she spoke. “Enjoy o! The food is sweet die.”

Mama Adesua shuffled on the phone call, as though she was tending to other things. “Ah mama, I’m sure it is! Let me go now, abeg. My grandchild is seriously hungry, and I need to feed him.” and Mama Adesua clicked off the call.

Mama Ibeji sighed a deep breath of relief before putting her head down on the dining room table. She was so so tired. Her stomach was starting to feel hot, but that could have been caused by anything. The palm oil rice she ate was spicy. The house was already boiling since there had been no light all day—sometimes one feeling of heat translated into another feeling of stress. Bile rose up in her throat, and her stomach churned and slushed. She couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Mama Ibeji threw up in the sink.

Her dreams were fitful again, as usual now. She tossed and turned. She barely a slept a wink, just closed her eyes. The child taunted her. He came out of his hiding spot out on the top shelf of the market store, rushing towards Mama Ibeji with a gift in hand. He wasn’t trying to evade capture this time, he came up to her excited and sure.

“I have something for you, Mama,” the boy chuckled, and Mama Ibeji shook her head, to reject his offer. She didn’t want anything this boy had to give her, he was strange and somehow. He looked innocent, but Mama Ibeji could see that the innocence was a mask, a tightly drawn shield.

The boy placed a bag of Finest Textures rice into her hand and Mama Ibeji recoiled upon receiving it. She didn’t have a problem with the rice, just the fact that the boy was giving it to her, was forcing it into her hands. She tried to give it back to him, but he laughed and pushed it right into her arms. She stumbled when she received the bag once more; it felt like it was filled with stones.

“Go on,” the boy pressured her. His eyes were as wide as candle flames. “Eat more now. Make my belle full.”

“No,” Mama Ibeji shouted. She tried to throw the bag back to him, but it didn’t move from her hand. The bag was fused to her palms, grafted to skin. “Just leave me alone, small pikin. Leave me be.”

The boy smiled and laughed, then he started skipping around her. His eyes grew wider and brighter. Greener. Sharper. “Then why’d you do it? Whyyy’d you do it? Why’d you eat it, eh?”

“I’ve told you to leave me alone, small boy! Ah! Where’s your mother?”

Mother?” the boy said, his eyes growing with more laughter. More grins. “There’s no Mummy, Mama. She died so long ago. But grandma,” He giggled, and in his eyes she saw Iye Adesua’s face.

Mama Ibeji’s stomach churned. Her stomach acid rose up in her chest—she could feel her body screaming. She couldn’t believe this. She tried to back away from the boy, but he kept on following her, kept skipping around.

Mama Ibeji tripped on the ground, crashed to the floor. She looked at the boy from his position standing up—his face looked like something monstrous. His smile looked wider, more curved and pointier, and his features looked different. Stranger, his skin was beginning to change. His body was becoming greener, more flexible, like all his bones were turning to something else. Something softer, watery akamu, slimier and warmer and more malleable.

“Why’d you do it,” the boy said, as extra pairs of legs spat out from the soft lines of his stomach. “Why’d you do it, eh, Mama? Now someone has to suffer.”

The boy’s original features were all non-existent now, all wormlike. He crawled around Mama Ibeji with his mocking voice. “And now I’m coming.”

Mama Ibeji threw up three more times in the morning: in the early hours of the day, when she was just waking up (or opening her eyes, rather—her sleep was equivalent to nothing), and two more times in the bathroom at work when she just clocked in.

“Are you alright, you’re moving kind of sluggishly today,” one of her co-workers said, and Mama Ibeji waved them off. She couldn’t believe this—what was happening, how she had fallen so sick.

The boy’s voice roared in her brain: And now I’m coming.

She looked at her vomit every time she threw up—no worms. But her panic had set in, deep and loud and maniacally. This sickness was affecting her work—her employers looked at her like she was anomaly, not the master of her craft like before. She heard whispers as she walked, buzzing in her ears, adding to the daze in her mind. Finally, a hand on her shoulder: one of her colleagues.

“Oga has said you should go hospital—you’re upsetting the customers.”

Her entire ride in the danfo was scatter-shot. Her head was aching, fire was pouring down her temples. She arrived at the hospital and had to exaggerate her illness to something resembling death so they could push her to the front of the emergency waiting room. Mothers were clutching their babies who had gangrene on their feet, men were sitting down on the plastic chair with sticks torn through their shoulder blades. She attempted to call Mama Adesua as she waited, but the woman did not pick up.

Ah mama, the woman texted her back immediately after. Hope no problem. What is it?

Who do you think you are? Mama Ibeji quickly texted, but the words felt hollow and without weight.

The woman took forever to text her back. All Mama Ibeji saw was worms—worms on people’s faces, crawling out of their teeth and gums, worms spilling out of their throats. If they did an x-ray on her, what would they find? Would her intestines be gone as well, destroyed and torn apart?

Ah mama. I did try and warn you. But na you know pass me. Anything you see now, that’s your problem.

Jesus, Mama Ibeji managed to type, before her phone immediately went off. One of the nurses called her inside.

“The doctor will be with you shortly,” the woman said, and Mama Ibeji couldn’t stop shaking. Her throat was slick with slime. Her entire body was itchy. Her head was coated with awful fire, she couldn’t stop blacking out and waking up, all until the doctor came through the door.

“So, I’ve gone over your file and all your symptoms,” the doctor told her, two hours later, dropping their notepad by the side of their desk decisively. “And it looks like you have been affected with malaria. That is what is causing your problem, ma.”

Mama Ibeji sat up on the long green chair of the patient’s seat of the doctor’s office. She didn’t understand the message that was being delivered to her. It all seemed so fake, like the diagnosis was the unlikeliest of any possible options. She immediately was shaken out of her trance.

“But my stomach—”

“Have you eaten anything recently? Not to mention that you can barely keep anything down because of the virus. Your blood work is normal, nothing showed up except for malaria.”

Mama Ibeji sat silently upright, trying to catch her breath. She couldn’t stop thinking. The mosquitoes in the house had dealt with her so badly that she almost thought she was dying. It was funny, to think about. The way superstition got to her head, after all her posturing that she was above it. It was so easy to get sucked into paranoia, to feel the full weight of worry.

But then she remembered Imasuen on her way out of the doctor’s office, and her stomach started to twitch again. Her eyes widened. In her ear, she could hear Mama Adesua’s grandson laughing once more.

Why’d you do it? Now I’m coming. Now someone has to suffer.

She ran to her son’s house first, but he wasn’t there. His entire estate was empty—everyone was still at work. She called him on his phone. No text back—nothing. Mama Ibeji ran back to her house, and when she opened the door Imasuen was helping himself to the rest of the palm-oil rice. He had let himself in through with the spare key, and he was halfway done with his meal. Mama Ibeji looked at him with a bulge in her eyes, a crackle of steam in her throat.

“Are you alright?” she said, taking the plate from him and throwing it into the sink as if it was cursed. He looked at her so strangely, as though she was overreacting and over-mothering and just being weird, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care. She had her son.

“Mummy, I am fine—rela—” he choked on his words. He coughed so hard that blood escaped out from his lips, his nostrils. Mama Ibeji tried to grab him, tried to hold him, tried to comfort him and keep him tight and say I love you, but he resisted her grasp. He walked to the living room and dropped into one of the couch chairs, falling into an awful sigh.

“Ah mama,” a voice managed to sputter out of his throat, a dull word. “Why’d you do it?”

A worm the size of Goliath tore from his stomach, out of his upper intestine, with full force. The green beast wriggled like it was a small child, crawling out of the hollow opening of Imasuen’s stomach like an earthworm swimming through a rain. It ran with its many legged body out of Imasuen and out of the living room and right into the heart of the kitchen. It crawled straight up to the face of Mama Ibeji, up her neck and past her screaming mouth and right up to her wide, tear-streamed, disbelieving eyes, and grinned.

A voice whispered in Mama Ibeji’s ear, and she couldn’t prevent herself from hearing it. The worm slithered down her face and crawled right back to the nest of the living room, helping itself to the remainder of the intestinal tract that had snaked out of Imasuen’s body. It was like a wall-gecko devouring the last remains of a baby-cockroach, a vulture gobbling on a corpse’s eyes, a rat at the skin of baby toes. Mama Imasuen couldn’t help but vomit at the sight of the scene. The boy’s voice was still at it in her ear: a cackle of laughter, an unholy screech, a final taunt that only horrified her more and more with each sentence: eat more now. Eat. Eat. I’m still hungry.

5:34pm/Monday, 5th of June 2017/The Greatness Women’s Group Chat


My people, good evening o. Please beware abeg, avoid Finest Textures Ltd rice immediately. This is how my best friend’s son in Benin just ate the rice and he was found dead in her apartment estate, worms forcing their way out of his skin. The sight sef even shock me, the worms had crawled out of the pikin’s small intestine, and they had eaten all the organs inside ’im stomach. Please o, I take God beg una o, let us learn to be vigilant in this time of insecurity. Avoid stories that touch.

Don’t be shy now—send this to at least one other person on your contact list. Do not break this chain. You never really know what could happen if you disobey this one this time around.

About the Author

Osahon Ize-Iyamu is a Nigerian writer of speculative fiction. He is a graduate of the Alpha Writers Workshop and has been published (or has work forthcoming) in Fantasy, Clarkesworld, and Strange Horizons. You can find him online @osahon4545.