The hush left behind by Adeshewa was palpable. It stuck to the small dining room, fat and heavy, settling on Elian so he felt squashed, as if his own body was being pressed down. He scowled at the cold, congealed stew on his plate, the bright sheen of the red oil now only a stain. Zola sniffled opposite him, a tiny, gut-wrenching sound in the crushing silence. "Don't cry, baby," Elian whispered softly, his own voice breaking with unshed tears. He reached out across the table, but she flinched back a little, a movement so slight and habitual it struck like a blow. She smacked her eyes with the back of her hand, pushed back her chair, and scurried silently into the room she shared with Tobe, slamming the door behind her with a loud click. Elian was alone. The burden of the day—Bello's disdain, the forfeited bonus, Adeshewa's last, violent insult—fell on him at once. He pressed his face into his hands, fingers pinching over closed eyes until stars exploded behind them.A scream, raw and

The written warning itself by Bello sat on Elian's kitchen table, a single sheet of paper that radiated a cold, toxic energy.It was the final, official proof of his failure, a stamp of bureaucracy on his ruin. He hadn't meant to leave it behind; he had been so exhausted physically and mentally after arriving back that he'd simply dropped his bag and sat down in a chair, the paper spilling out onto the scarred wooden table. He watched Adeshewa's eyes find it. She was at the stove with her back to him, stirring beans in a pot. Her shoulders, usually held in a stubborn, weary pride, seemed to bow a little further. She did not question it. The room was heavy with a thick, oppressive cloth of silence that smothered all attempts at words. The house, where once there were shared dreams, had become a pressure cooker of pent-up rage. The walls, bright yellow a lifetime earlier, seemed to lean inward, absorbing the tension so that the air itself became heavy and hard to breathe. Every creak of

The Victoria Island party laughter of Uche was ringing, only to be succeeded by a more deadly, nearer silence at Elian's home. The social humiliation had been an open, psychological wound, but the ensuing days had with them a threat that was physical, material, and ultimate. It began with a sheet of paper.It was a Tuesday morning, sunny and taunting. The sun was shining with a nasty cheer, highlighting the dust motes whirling in the air and the cracks in the walls of the Bariga bungalow. Elian, his frame moving through the motions of despair, was strolling out for yet another day of torment at Bello & Associates when he saw it. A neat, canary-yellow piece of paper, stapled to his front door. It flowed in the soft wind, a garish banner of defeat.EVICTION NOTICE.The words yelled at him, black and unrelenting. He stood like a statue, his battered leather briefcase like a boulder on his shoulders. The notice stated "non-payment of rent for four consecutive months" and ordered him to ei

The ember of rage that had flashed on the Third Mainland Bridge did not burn him up into a flame overnight. It smoldered, a slow, constant warmth in his gut that kept at bay the freezing clutch of despair. It gave his rambling a new, sinister purpose. He was no longer just a ghost drifting towards dissolution; he was a spy in a strange land, reconnoitering the boundaries of his own destruction.His days settled into a bleak routine. He discovered the relative safety of a concealed space behind a screaming generator near the Obalende motor park, where the perpetual, pounding noise deterred most and the waste heat from the generator gave some semblance of heat in the damp nights. His world had contracted to a few square kilometers of relentless city wilderness, a circuit of pavements, under-bridges, and bazaar alleys where he was as much of a fixture as the mounds of discarded plastic and the ubiquitous potholes.It was on a scorching afternoon in the demented whirlpool of Ojuelegga tha

The golden command—[AWAKEN.]—had been a spark in nothing, but nothing was ravenous and vast. It had devoured him not, but illuminated the gulf of his descent before he continued to fall. The days after the laughter of children blended together in a grayscale smear of agony. Starvation was a constant, grinding stone in his stomach, but it had become the normal, almost mundane, suffering, like the persistent hum of the generator. The real wound was to his soul, which was hollowed and left empty, a vacancy where a man used to be.The sky, which had been so hot, brassy blue, began bruising later in the afternoon. Dark grey-bottomed clouds piled up on the horizon, and the air thickened, swollen with the threat of a storm. The city held its breath. To the house and the safe, it was a minor inconvenience. To Elian, it was a death sentence in action.He had been walking in a daze, his body a zombie marionette whose strings were cut. He was drawn to the underground area beneath the Third Mainl