Urban Myth Architect

P9 Jennifer’s apartment was quiet that night. Too quiet. She liked music playing. There was none. She opened the door smiling. No suspicion. No tension. She thought I had finally accepted my place. “I knew you’d come” she said. I nodded. Kept my breathing steady. Slow. The gun was inside my jacket. Not shaking. Not heavy. Just present. Like a decision already made. She turned to pour a drink. Talking casually. Telling me my mother would be fine. That I worried too much. Then it happened. Mid-sentence. She froze. Not physically at first. Internally. Like something invisible had brushed against her. Her head tilted slightly. Listening. Her smile disappeared. Slowly. Her eyes moved to me. Not romantically. Not playfully. Assessing. “You feel different,” she said quietly. That was the first time she had ever sounded unsure. She stepped backward. Just one step. Like someone adjusting to bad weather. “You shouldn’t be here like this,” she said. Not angry. Not afraid. Just alert. I didn’t respond. I stepped forward instead. For the first time since I met her… Jennifer looked scared. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t screaming. It was instinct. Sudden. Pure. Animal. “You don’t understand,” she said quickly. “Nothing changes if you do this.” Her voice had lost its rhythm. “We’re tied, Idris.” She took another step back. Her control was gone now. I raised the gun. She felt it before she saw it. Her breath hitched. Too late. She opened her mouth to say something else. I didn’t let her finish. I pulled the trigger.

P8 If I was going to do this, it couldn’t look emotional. It had to look inevitable. Like something that was always going to happen. Bomber made that easy. He already had a reputation. Fights at the club. Threats over small money. A temper everyone whispered about. I had seen him put a bottle through someone’s face once. No hesitation. No apology. Just action. Jennifer liked men like that. Men who reacted. I don’t react. I prepare. Bomber drank heavily. Often. He kept a gun. Illegal. Unregistered. Careless men love visible power. It wasn’t hard to get close to it. Drunk people trust too easily. Especially around someone they think is harmless. I never touched it long enough to leave evidence. Just long enough to understand its weight. Its balance. Its safety. I memorized his routines. When he left the club. When Jennifer stayed behind. When the cameras glitched during generator switches. People underestimate how often systems fail in predictable patterns. Meanwhile, my mother’s breathing was getting weaker. Doctors started preparing me for “possibilities.” I didn’t have time for possibilities. The woman’s words replayed in my head. “The one who made the promise must take her place.” I stopped asking if it was real. I started asking if it would work. That night, Jennifer texted me first. We talked on the phone. She sounded happy. Certain. I visited my mother before I left. She was barely conscious. Machines doing most of the work. I looked at the time. 9:18PM. Everything from that moment forward was measured.

P6 Her house wasn’t hidden. That’s what surprised me. No shrine. Just a quiet street I had driven past before. She unlocked the gate before I knocked. The house was ordinary. Clean. Quiet. No charms. No incense. No performance. That somehow made it worse. She offered me water. I didn’t drink it. She noticed. She didn’t comment. “I can’t help you,” she said gently. I hadn’t explained anything yet. “My mother is sick,” I replied. She nodded slowly. “I know.” I waited for her to say it was an infection, a curse, something dramatic. She didn’t. Instead she asked, “You tried to leave her?” I didn’t pretend not to understand who she meant. “Yes.” The woman looked at me for a long time. Not judging. Just measuring something. “A life has already being promised,” she said finally. “And one has already been given.” I felt cold. I asked her if my mother would die. She didn’t answer immediately. That silence was the loudest thing in the room. “A life has already been taken,” she said. “It can't be given back unless another takes it's place.” I felt colder. “What does that mean?” She stood up slowly. "...and a promise is a lifetime ordeal. It only ends when the one who made it ceases to exist" “If you want your mother to live,” she said, “the one who made the promise must take her place.” She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t dramatize it. She just said it like she was explaining gravity. “I’m not a killer,” I told her. She didn’t argue. She didn’t persuade. She just looked at me and said, “Neither were you, when the other one was taken”

P8 If I was going to do this, it couldn’t look emotional. It had to look inevitable. Like something that was always going to happen. Bomber made that easy. He already had a reputation. Fights at the club. Threats over small money. A temper everyone whispered about. I had seen him put a bottle through someone’s face once. No hesitation. No apology. Just action. Jennifer liked men like that. Men who reacted. I don’t react. I prepare. Bomber drank heavily. Often. He kept a gun. Illegal. Unregistered. Careless men love visible power. It wasn’t hard to get close to it. Drunk people trust too easily. Especially around someone they think is harmless. I never touched it long enough to leave evidence. Just long enough to understand its weight. Its balance. Its safety. I memorized his routines. When he left the club. When Jennifer stayed behind. When the cameras glitched during generator switches. People underestimate how often systems fail in predictable patterns. Meanwhile, my mother’s breathing was getting weaker. Doctors started preparing me for “possibilities.” I didn’t have time for possibilities. The woman’s words replayed in my head. “The one who made the promise must take her place.” I stopped asking if it was real. I started asking if it would work. That night, Jennifer texted me first. We talked on the phone. She sounded happy. Certain. I visited my mother before I left. She was barely conscious. Machines doing most of the work. I looked at the time. 9:18PM. Everything from that moment forward was measured.

P7 I didn’t confront Jennifer. That would have been emotional. And emotions are visible. Jennifer could always see through me. I'm not an open book. No one sees through me. No one except Jennifer. Fear would warn her. Suspicion would warn her. So I gave her nothing. I called her that night. My voice steady. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was grieving.” She didn’t hesitate. “I know.” Of course she did. I told her we should try again. There was a pause. Not doubt. Assessment. Then she said, “Come over.” My mother’s condition worsened that night. The rash had spread to her chest. Doctors still had no explanation. They were guessing now. Just like the first time. I sat beside her hospital bed and held her hand. I watched her breathing. I calculated timelines. If the woman was right, if the pattern is going to play out the same, then my mother didn't have a lot of time. I didn’t believe in spirits. But I believed in patterns. Jennifer texted me while I was in the hospital. “I told you I would never let you lose anyone again.” That was the moment something in me went quiet. I realized something important. If she believed I was coming back, She would stop pushing. She would feel secure. Security makes people careless. Even predators. I began constructing an alibi that night. Not loosely. Not emotionally. Mathematically. Hospitals are perfect. Cameras. Logs. Nurses. Timestamps. A dying mother creates witnesses. Sympathy creates memory. I stayed overnight. Visible. Helpful. Concerned. Jennifer called around 11:42PM. I answered on speaker. Made sure the nurse heard my voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I told her. She sounded pleased. For the first time since this started… She didn’t sound in control. She sounded relaxed. That was her mistake.

Most products of teenage pregnancies,are called “last born”. These kids grow up to assume that their grandparents are their Parents. Teenage Mums battle with trauma too That girl will definitely have emotional issues,even if she’s physically ok

Twitter didn't see X coming. Boomplay didn't see Audiomack coming. Audiomack didn't see Spotify coming. Jumia didn't see Temu coming. PDP didn't see APC coming. G-Wagon didn't see the Cybertruck coming. Android didn't see iPhone coming. 2go didn't see WhatsApp coming. Blackberry didn't see Android coming. Yahoo mail didn't see Google coming. What's next? Above all, love God.

P2 When Amara said it was just a rash, I believed her. That was mistake number two. It started on her forearm. Small. Red. Uneven. She sent me a picture and laughed about it. I zoomed in. I wish I hadn’t. It didn’t look like an allergic reaction. It looked… patterned. Like something intentional. I told myself I was overthinking. The hospital said her bloodwork was normal. No infection. No virus. Nothing. The doctor looked more confused than concerned. That should have scared me. That night she said it was burning. Not itching. Burning. Like heat under her skin. I didn’t call Jennifer. I don’t know why I didn’t. Maybe I didn’t want to hear her voice. Maybe I was afraid she would sound calm. The rash spread to her neck the next day. Darker, almost purple around the edges. The doctors started using words like “unusual presentation.” I started using Google. There is something terrifying about watching professionals run out of explanations. You can see the moment they stop knowing. I saw it. Jennifer texted me that evening. “I hope she’s feeling better.” I hadn’t told her Amara was sick. I stared at that message for a long time. Then I typed: “What do you mean?” She didn’t respond. Amara’s breathing changed that night. Short. Uneven. Like her body was tired of fighting something invisible. At 2:14AM, the monitor started screaming. I remember the exact time. I always will. The doctors tried. I think they tried. But they were fighting something they couldn’t see. You can’t win a battle you don’t understand. She died before sunrise. No diagnosis. No explanation. Just… gone. Jennifer called me that morning. I didn’t answer. She left a voicenote. “I told you your head would clear.”

I killed my girlfriend. Before you decide who I am, let me explain. Her name was Jennifer. If I had known what she really was, I would have left the first week we met. I didn’t. Jennifer had this way of looking at you like she was reading something written behind your eyes. It felt intense at first. Romantic, even. I mistook it for depth. We were at a club in Lagos the night I realized I was tired. Tired of feeling observed. Tired of feeling studied. She leaned into my ear and said, “You’re thinking again.” She always knew when my mind drifted. Even when I didn’t speak. There was a guy at the club. They called him Bomber. He watched her like she belonged to him. She looked back at him. I pretended not to notice. That was my first mistake. A week later, I met Amara. Soft voice. Quiet smile. She didn’t feel dangerous. She felt normal. I didn’t realize how much I needed normal. I never told Jennifer about Amara. I didn’t post anything. I didn’t slip. I never slip. I was careful. Or at least, I thought I was. One night Jennifer said, casually, “She laughs too loud when she’s nervous.” I stopped breathing. I had never mentioned the café. “How do you know that?” I asked. She smiled at me like I was slow. “You think I need to follow you?” I broke up with her that night. I expected anger. Instead she looked… amused. She stepped close and whispered, “Nothing will ever break us apart.” I almost laughed. Then she said something else. Something I keep hearing in my head even now. “Don’t worry. Your head will clear… when she’s out of the way.” That night, Amara called me. She said she had a strange rash on her arm. If I had taken that seriously… Maybe none of this would have happened.

P6 Her house wasn’t hidden. That’s what surprised me. No shrine. Just a quiet street I had driven past before. She unlocked the gate before I knocked. The house was ordinary. Clean. Quiet. No charms. No incense. No performance. That somehow made it worse. She offered me water. I didn’t drink it. She noticed. She didn’t comment. “I can’t help you,” she said gently. I hadn’t explained anything yet. “My mother is sick,” I replied. She nodded slowly. “I know.” I waited for her to say it was an infection, a curse, something dramatic. She didn’t. Instead she asked, “You tried to leave her?” I didn’t pretend not to understand who she meant. “Yes.” The woman looked at me for a long time. Not judging. Just measuring something. “A life has already being promised,” she said finally. “And one has already been given.” I felt cold. I asked her if my mother would die. She didn’t answer immediately. That silence was the loudest thing in the room. “A life has already been taken,” she said. “It can't be given back unless another takes it's place.” I felt colder. “What does that mean?” She stood up slowly. "...and a promise is a lifetime ordeal. It only ends when the one who made it ceases to exist" “If you want your mother to live,” she said, “the one who made the promise must take her place.” She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t dramatize it. She just said it like she was explaining gravity. “I’m not a killer,” I told her. She didn’t argue. She didn’t persuade. She just looked at me and said, “Neither were you, when the other one was taken”

P4 Before my mother got sick, there was a woman I kept noticing. I didn’t think she mattered. I was wrong. I first saw her outside the club months ago. Not dressed like the others. No makeup. No effort to belong. She wasn’t there for the music. She was watching people. Specifically, she was watching Jennifer. But she never looked at her directly. It was strange. Like she was careful not to make eye contact. The second time I saw her was at a supermarket. Jennifer was with me. The woman turned into another aisle the moment she saw her. Jennifer noticed. Her jaw tightened. Just slightly. “Who is that?” I asked. Jennifer didn’t look back. “No one,” she said. But her tone changed. Cold. I forgot about the woman after that. Until the morning my mother sent me a picture of her arm. The rash looked the same.Same uneven edges. Same dark center. My stomach dropped. I still told myself it was coincidence. Stress can cause skin reactions. Allergies happen. Patterns don’t mean anything. By evening, my mother’s voice sounded weak. By night, she was in the hospital. Same confusion from doctors. Same normal test results. Jennifer texted me. “Hey.” with a smiley emoji. That was all. I went outside the hospital to breathe. That’s when I saw her again. The woman. Standing across the street. Watching me. This time, she didn’t look away. She looked at me like she had been expecting this moment.

P5 I did not walk to the woman that night. I wish I could say I did. I didn’t. I went somewhere more predictable first. A native doctor someone at the hospital recommended. Desperation makes you flexible. Not stupid. Just… flexible. His place was loud. Charms everywhere. Bones. Feathers. Red cloth. Theatrics. He didn’t ask many questions. That was my first red flag. He just closed his eyes and started “seeing.” I watched him closely. “There is a spiritual attack,” he said. That’s vague enough to always be right. I said nothing. He asked for my mother’s name. Her birth date. Then he paused dramatically. Too dramatically. He was fishing. I changed her birth year when I told him. He didn’t notice. He continued confidently. That’s when I knew. “You must bring a white goat,” he said. “And money.” Of course. I stood up to leave. He grabbed my wrist suddenly. His grip tightened. “For protection,” he added. He was afraid I wouldn’t pay. Not afraid of spirits. Afraid of losing business. If something supernatural was happening… He didn’t know about it. He was guessing. And guessing wrong. When I stepped back outside, I felt something worse than fear. Clarity. The kind that comes when your last logical option collapses. That’s when I saw her again. Across the street. The woman. Not watching Jennifer this time. Watching me. She didn’t look surprised. She looked… disappointed. Like she had expected me to come sooner. I crossed the road slowly. For the first time since this started… I wasn’t looking for a medical explanation. I was looking for the truth. She spoke before I could. “He couldn’t see anything, could he?” I didn’t ask who she meant. I just shook my head.

P3 I did not think Jennifer killed Amara. Let me say that clearly. I did not. People die. Bodies fail. Doctors miss things. It happens. That’s what I told myself. Grief makes you irrational. It makes you look for someone to blame. I refused to become that person. Jennifer came to see me three days after the funeral. I almost didn’t let her in. Almost. She didn’t look guilty. She didn’t look nervous. She looked… patient. Like someone waiting for something inevitable. “I’m sorry about Amara,” she said. Her voice was steady. Too steady. I asked her how she knew Amara was sick before I told her. She tilted her head slightly. “You talk in your sleep sometimes.” I don’t. I should have pressed harder. I didn’t. Because pressing harder would mean admitting what I was thinking. And I wasn’t ready for that. I told her we were done. Completely done. No coming back. She stepped closer. Not angry. Not emotional. Just certain. “If everyone else around you disappears,” she said softly, “and I’m the only one left…” She smiled. “Maybe that will help you decide.” I laughed. Actually laughed. Because what kind of person says something like that? The next morning, my mother called me. She said she wasn’t feeling well. There was something on her arm. A rash.

Most times when they tell you they know their Worth, it means their price is fixed. They don't take anything less.

Oga, get out of here, fuul. Been on this app long enough to know the rubbish game you lowlifes are playing🤭😂. You toothless Dogs will cook up agenda in your WhatsApp groups, come online tHEN run it, EXPECTING Me to take yall seriously?? Hahaha Not in this LIFE/Next NA ME BE TACHA!!! The BIGGEST NAME OUT OF AFRICA!!! you will NEVER HUMBLE ME! I PIN 📌