The package on my doorstep had my name on it, but I definitely didn’t order it.
You have to understand my life to appreciate how strange this was. I lived a monotonous existence, one drained of all color. My days were predictable down to the smallest detail. If you checked on me at 9 a.m. on any Monday, you’d find me at my desk, filling orders and analyzing the market. By 6 p.m. on Fridays, I’d be on my balcony, cigarette in hand, imagining the life I’d always been too scared to live.
As for friends, there were a few. Bola came to mind—we were in love once, way back in university. The relationship fell apart, as all good things in my life seemed to, ending suddenly and leaving me with little more than memories. We managed to salvage a friendship over the years, though we hadn’t spoken in months. So, I knew the package couldn’t have been from her.
I stared at the box, as if the intensity of my gaze might reveal its source. When that didn’t work, I sighed and decided there was no point in leaving it out there. I lifted it from the porch and carried it inside, shutting the door against the chill of the early morning harmattan wind.
In the kitchen, I placed the package on the counter. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, unremarkable save for my name and address scrawled in messy, hurried cursive. The handwriting was odd—it looked as though the writer had started with care but abandoned it halfway through.
Without wasting time, I tore open the paper, revealing a black box underneath. It was simple, smooth, and surprisingly light. When I shook it, it felt empty.
Curiosity rising, I shifted the lid and peered inside. At first glance, the box seemed empty. Then, nestled at the bottom, I spotted a single card.
I frowned, pulling it out. It wasn’t a card at all, but a photograph. The image was of a woman, probably in her late 20s, with soft, round features and bright, curious eyes. There was no other context, nothing to explain who she was or why she’d been sent to me. Beneath her picture, two initials—C.A.—were scribbled in the same messy handwriting that had marked the package.
It was confusing. Who was this woman? Why was her picture sent to me? These questions swirled in my head, but my 7:30 a.m. alarm snapped me out of my thoughts.
I tossed the photo and packaging into the bin by the kitchen door, chalking it up to a mistaken delivery. Grabbing my office bag, I rushed out to join the morning chaos on the streets of Lagos.
Two days passed, and I forgot about the package entirely. For all the downsides of a monotonous life, one thing it ensures is that you’re never idle. Squeezing into a bus headed for Marina, I ran through a mental checklist of clients I needed to attend to.
At the next stop, the bus emptied and filled again with new passengers. One of them caught my eye—a young woman with her hair tied up in a ponytail held by dark brown scrunchies. There was something about her piercing, lively eyes. They were so bright, so full of hope, and I envied them. Mine were dull, lifeless, like staring into a frosted mirror.
I couldn’t place where I’d seen her before. Before I could think on it further, she got off the bus, and my thoughts returned to work.
The day passed in its usual rhythm: clients called with stock inquiries, and Michael darted around the office, delivering coffee and files to the higher-ups. As the sun dipped below the skyline, I packed up my things and headed home, weary and eager for the comfort of my couch.
The moment I stepped into my apartment, I loosened my tie, grabbed a cold bottle of water, and collapsed onto my worn brown couch. It was the only thing I’d kept from my family home after my mother passed away, a bittersweet reminder of her.
I turned on the TV and flipped to a news channel, letting the droning voices wash over me. Then, her face filled the screen.
“…in other news, Chimamanda Amarachi, a 31-year-old woman, has been stabbed to death after an argument with her husband. The suspect has been arrested and is currently…”
The rest of the broadcast drowned under the roaring in my ears. It was her. The woman on the bus. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut.
I bolted upright, my heart racing, and ran to the kitchen bin. My hands trembled as I fished out the photograph. It was her. Chimamanda Amarachi. Her bright, curious eyes stared back at me.
Then, like a scene from a nightmare, I watched as red blotches began to seep from the edges of the photo. The stains crept inward, meeting in the center until they formed a blood-red X across her face.
I dropped the photo with a gasp and backed away, my pulse hammering in my ears. The room spun, and I collapsed onto the cold kitchen floor, unable to comprehend what I’d just seen.
I don’t remember how long I sat there, huddled in the corner, the faint sounds of the TV filtering through the haze. I don’t remember how long it took me to convince myself it was all some bizarre coincidence. But I do remember the nightmares that followed.
In them, Amarachi’s bright eyes filled with tears that spilled as blood, each drop staining the ground beneath her.
A week had passed since I received the package with Amarachi’s picture. It wasn’t long enough to forget, but it was just enough time to convince myself it had been a strange coincidence. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to throw the photograph away. I kept it hidden in the lowest drawer of my bedside table, out of sight but never fully out of mind.
It was Monday again. As I tied my tie and grabbed my office bag, a sharp knock interrupted the quiet. I froze, listening. The knock came again.
I glanced at the clock—6:48 a.m. Too early for visitors. A chill ran down my spine as I tiptoed into the kitchen and grabbed a wooden turning stick, gripping it tightly as I edged toward the door. Cracking it open, I peered outside. No one was there.
But on the porch, just like before, was a package.
My stomach twisted into knots as I set down the turning stick and stepped outside. The package bore the same hurried handwriting, my name scrawled across the top in a script that seemed both familiar and alien.
Inside, my anxiety churned as I opened the package with trembling hands. It was the same black box. This time, when I lifted the lid, the photograph inside made my breath catch.
It was Michael.
Michael, the young man who darted around the office, delivering coffee and files. Michael, who worked tirelessly for everyone. His round face, always beaming with energy, stared back at me from the photograph. The picture felt heavier than it should have, as though it carried an unbearable truth I wasn’t ready to face.
I didn’t want to think about what it meant.
Slamming the box shut, I stuffed it into my bag and forced myself to focus on getting to work.
At the office, I drowned myself in tasks, staring intently at the blue light of my computer screen until the buzzing fluorescent lights above became background noise. The office bustled as usual, and Michael moved with his usual speed, placing a cup of coffee on my desk before heading toward the elevator with a stack of files.
I barely looked up.
The sharp sound of grinding metal ripped through the office, startling me out of my trance. Everyone froze, heads snapping toward the elevator shaft. The sound grew louder—a scraping, grating noise that seemed to reverberate in my chest.
Then came the snap.
The cables screamed as they tore free, and the elevator plunged.
The impact echoed through the building, and for a heartbeat, there was silence. Then came the screams.
I shot up from my desk, joining the chaos as my coworkers rushed toward the elevator. The metallic scent of blood filled the air. Someone vomited. Others sobbed or shouted, frantic to reach Michael.
I didn’t move.
I already knew.
My breath came in shallow gasps as I imagined what I’d see if I opened the package again. I could already picture the red “X” spreading across Michael’s photograph, vivid and damning. My pulse thundered in my ears, drowning out the commotion around me.
Michael was gone. Just like Amarachi.
And it was my fault.
The walls of the office seemed to close in on me, the space too hot, too suffocating. My mind raced with the impossible, trying to piece together a logic that didn’t exist. The box, the photographs, the deaths—they weren’t coincidences. They were warnings.
Warnings I had ignored.
The events of the day replayed in my mind as I sat in the now-not-so-comfortable brown couch, each detail sharper and more haunting than the last. Guilt clawed at me as I imagined all the ways I might have prevented Michael’s death. If I’d taken the package seriously. If I’d warned him. If I’d done something.
But no answers came, only questions that felt heavier with every passing second.
Who was sending these packages?
And why had they chosen me?.
None of it mattered anymore. The fear, the guilt, the unanswered questions—they all fell away beneath a singular, unrelenting desire: to end this nightmare. To stop it before it consumed anyone else I cared about.
As if the universe were reading my thoughts, a knock ended the silence.
My heart leapt into my throat, and adrenaline coursed through me. I bolted to the door, determined to catch whoever—or whatever—was behind this. Flinging the door open, I was greeted only by the stillness of the night. The streetlamp flickered, casting long, eerie shadows over the empty road.
Too late.
But there it was, sitting on the porch—the package. That cursed, dreadful package.
I snatched it up with trembling hands and slammed the door shut. Back on the couch, I tore into the wrapping like I was possessed, shredding the paper until the black box lay before me. I hesitated, dread pooling in my stomach.
When I finally lifted the lid, I went numb.
It was Bola.
Her face smiled up at me from the photograph, frozen in time, beautiful and radiant. I remembered this picture. I had taken it back when I thought photography was my calling. She was wearing that silly hat she adored, the one she said made her look like she belonged in a museum
Panic hit me like a tidal wave. My hands fumbled for my phone as I ran to my room, dialing her number with shaking fingers. She picked up on the second ring.
“Hiiii! Oh my God, Sola!” Her voice was as warm and lively as I remembered, and for a moment, I was transported to another time. A time when life was simpler, when her laughter was a soundtrack to my days.
I tried to speak, but my throat closed up. Memories flooded my mind—her dipping bread into tea, giggling as crumbs floated in the cup, her falling asleep to sitcoms she’d seen a hundred times. My vision blurred as tears spilled freely down my face.
“Sola?” she said, her tone shifting to concern. “Are you... are you crying? What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t tell her about the package, about the photograph, about the death sentence I felt hanging over her. She’d think I was insane. I didn’t know what to say. The words caught in my throat.
“I’ve missed you, Bola,” I finally managed to choke out. “I’ve missed you so much.”
There was a pause, and then I heard her exhale—a mix of surprise and relief. “Sola, don’t scare me like that! Of course you miss me, I’m so sweet!” She giggled, and for a fleeting moment, the sound was a balm to my frayed nerves.
“Don’t worry. I’ve missed you too,” she continued. “How about we catch up? Maybe Thursday? I can come to your place after work.”
Thursday? That felt like a lifetime away. Anything could happen in those days. I couldn’t bear the thought of her being out of my sight for so long.
“Can we meet tomorrow instead?” I asked, the desperation in my voice impossible to hide. “It’s... it’s important. Please.”
She paused, considering. “Tomorrow? Hmm. Okay, fine. But it’ll have to be after work. I’ll come straight to your place. Deal?”
Relief washed over me. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than waiting until Thursday. “Deal,” I said, my voice steadier now. “Thank you, Bola.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said, her voice softening. “You’re scaring me a little, though. Is everything okay?”
“I’ll explain everything when you get here,” I promised.
For the next hour, we spoke about lighter things, our conversation dipping into the past, weaving memories of laughter and shared dreams. By the time we hung up, it felt like I had grasped a small piece of normalcy.
But as the call ended and the silence of my apartment closed in, the unease returned.
The photograph burned in my mind, an ominous reminder of the forces at play. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. Whatever was happening, I was determined to protect her—no matter what it cost me.
I don’t remember when I fell asleep. My dreams were chaotic—a maelstrom of faces, Amarachi and Michael among them, haunting me with vacant stares. Each time I jolted awake, drenched in sweat, I would eventually drift off again, only for the nightmares to return.
When morning came, I woke with a knot of anxiety in my stomach so tight it felt like a physical weight. I tried everything to ease the tension—deep breaths, pacing, distraction—but it was no use. My mind kept circling back to Bola.
I called in sick to work. There was no way I could focus on anything else today. Instead, I busied myself cleaning my apartment, trying to channel my restlessness into something productive. The monotony of folding clothes and scrubbing surfaces gave me fleeting moments of peace, but they were always interrupted by flashes of memory.
There was a time when I had wished for anything but my predictable life. I had longed for excitement, for a break in the dull, repetitive cycle of my days. The thought made me pause mid-swipe with a rag. I shook my head bitterly. How foolish I had been, to think monotony was the worst thing life could offer.
The hours blurred together. I practiced how I would tell Bola everything when she arrived. I imagined her reactions—shock, disbelief, maybe anger—and prayed that whatever I said would be enough to save her.
The call came at 5:32 p.m.
“Sola! Hi! I’m done with work now, and I’m almost at your place,” she chirped. “I’m sooo hungry. Hope you’ve got food?”
Her voice had the same magical effect it always did, washing over me like a soothing balm. For a moment, I almost forgot the dark cloud hanging over us. “Of course, Bola. I made spaghetti,” I replied, a faint smile tugging at my lips. It was her favorite; we’d fallen in love with pasta together during our university days.
“Yaaay! I’ll be there soon. Wait for me outside!” she said before hanging up.
I quickly threw on a shirt and checked myself in the cracked mirror on my bedroom wall. My reflection was a mess of disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes, but it didn’t matter. I had one goal: to protect Bola.
Descending the stairs, I reached the ground floor just as her car pulled up across the road. My heart swelled at the sight of her stepping out. Bola. Radiant, lively, perfect. The setting sun cast a warm glow on her smooth skin, and her smile was so wide it seemed to brighten the entire street.
She waved enthusiastically, slinging her bag over one shoulder and locking the car. Then she started toward me, her eyes locked on mine.
It happened so fast.
The blaring horn.
The scream of tires on asphalt.
Her smile dissolving into a look of horror.
“No!” The word tore from my throat as if it could somehow stop what was about to happen.
The car hit her at full speed, the driver ignoring the speed limit and her existence. The impact sent her body tumbling like a rag-doll before she hit the ground with a sickening thud. Her bag flew out of her hand, landing several feet away, its contents spilling into the street.
I stood frozen, the air ripped from my lungs, as the world slowed to a crawl.
Her lifeless form lay beneath the car. Her head twisted at an unnatural angle, her beautiful face now bloodied and broken. Red pooled around her, dark and viscous, seeping into the cracks of the pavement.
Blood trickled from her nose and ears, and bubbled grotesquely from her mouth with each shallow gasp.
I didn’t realize I was screaming until my throat burned. The sound was primal, raw, as if it came from the deepest recesses of my soul. I stumbled forward, my hands clawing at my shirt, my mind refusing to accept the scene before me.
The edges of my vision darkened, the world closing in. My legs buckled, and I crumpled to the ground. The last thing I remembered before the blackness consumed me was the sound of my own cries, echoing into the uncaring night.
I awoke to the antiseptic stench of a hospital room, the sharp smell of bleach cutting through my senses. For a moment, I was disoriented, unsure of where I was or why my body ached so terribly. But then, like a tidal wave, the memories crashed over me.
Bola. The car. The blood. Her lifeless body.
Tears spilled from my eyes before I could stop them, hot and bitter, searing a path down my cheeks. The ache in my chest was unbearable, a hollow that seemed to consume everything inside me. I wept openly, ignoring the nurse who peeked in and then quietly shut the door.
What was the point of going on? My life, once monotonous and safe, now felt like an endless spiral of grief and suffering.
When I was discharged, the trip home felt like an eternity. The taxi ride was silent, save for the occasional hum of traffic. I stared out the window, my mind replaying every moment that had led me here.
I thought of the good times—Fridays on the balcony with a cigarette, the life I had before the packages began to arrive. I thought of Bola, her laugh, her warmth, how she could make the world seem brighter even when it was cloaked in shadow.
I thought of my mother, who had sacrificed everything to give me a chance at life. Of my sister, who still depended on me to finish her education. Of the dreams I had once nursed fresh out of university, brimming with hope and ambition. All of it now seemed so far away, like a story that belonged to someone else.
As I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I knew—before I even saw it—that there would be a package waiting for me.
And there it was.
The sight of it no longer sent chills down my spine. I wasn’t scared or even angry anymore. I felt nothing. Numbness had settled into my bones, and the world around me seemed muted and distant, like I was walking through a dream.
I picked it up and carried it inside, placing it on the kitchen counter. When I tore open the wrapping and lifted the lid, I felt no surprise at what I found inside.
It was my face.
A photograph of me stared back, the same hurried handwriting marking the edges. This time, I laughed—a deep, humorless sound that scraped against the walls of my sore throat.
Bitterness seeped through me, spreading like a poison. I left the package on the counter and climbed the stairs to my bedroom.
There, beneath my dressing table, I found the last cigarette from an old pack. I lit it, the small flame casting shadows across the room, and settled into the chair by my desk.
I inhaled deeply, the acrid smoke filling my lungs as I reflected on the life I had lived. I thought of the eulogies that might be spoken at my funeral. Would they remember me as kind? Distant? A man who had lost himself long before his time?
And then, with the last drag of my cigarette, I imagined Bola.
Her bright smile, her warm laugh.
The thought of her brought a strange kind of peace. If there was anything after this life, I hoped I would find her there.
I stood, crossing the room to open the window. The harmattan wind rushed in, cool and biting against my skin. It carried the scent of dry earth and distant fires, a reminder that Christmas was near.
The thought made me chuckle darkly. “My true love,” I muttered to no one, “sent me death for Christmas.”
I sighed, a long and final exhale, as I climbed onto the window ledge. The world below stretched out in muted grays and shadows, the city lights twinkling like scattered stars.
When I stepped off the ledge, I thought, for a moment, that I might feel free. That I might know what it was like to fly.
But the fall was nothing like I had imagined.