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A sixteen-year-old boy named Chisum had already experienced hardship in the tiny, dusty town of Yumuakoro. He was tall and slender, with deep brown eyes that were constantly weary, not from sleep deprivation but from the weight of too much pain in too few years.

When he was ten, his mother passed away. Long before that, his father had left. He had since moved in with Zubie, his uncle, who treated him more like a houseboy than like family.

Chisum would go out on the road every morning, long before the sun rose, carrying a black bucket filled with cold sachet water and yelling, “Pure water! “Cold, pure water!” in the middle of the boisterous car park.

His tough skin was burnt by the heat, and the holes in his slippers were so large that sand slipped in with each step. Sweat, hunger, yelling, and the never-ending sense that the world had abandoned him were all part of his life.

A large black SUV drove through the mayhem on a sweltering day at the motor park while busses and keke honked and conductors shouted. It appeared to be from another planet; it was too smooth, too silent, and too clean for a city with so much noise. It came to a halt close to Chisum’s position. He noticed a woman he had never seen before when the back window rolled down.

Even from a distance, her beauty was remarkable despite the dark hues she wore. Her skin, which was smooth and chocolaty, shone. She had wine red paint on her lips.

She had long, glossy hair. Her powerful, muscular arms, which resembled those of a bodybuilder, were what truly drew his attention. She had a small waist and broad shoulders. She appeared to be able to smile while lifting a cow.

She gestured to him.

“You. Come.”

Confused, Chisum glanced about.

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” she said in a composed yet authoritative tone, sounding like a teacher who demanded obedience.

With his heart racing, he approached the SUV with trepidation. She took off her glasses as he approached. Her eyes were light brown, almost honey-like, and keen.

“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Chisum,” he answered quietly.

When she inquired about his parents, he informed her that he lived with his uncle and that his father had passed away. With unblinking eyes, she observed him intently. Then she took out a bundle of clean notes from her bag and gave it to him. He froze as he looked down. Ten thousand naira. More cash than he had ever held in one go.

“Madam, I didn’t do anything,” he stammered.

“I know,” she said with a small smile. “That’s why I’m giving you. Eat good food today and don’t sleep on the floor tonight.”

The SUV vanished into the traffic before he could say “thank you,” leaving him standing there with his heart pounding and his mind reeling from what had just transpired.

His uncle took the money that evening and insisted on knowing its source. His uncle was initially taken aback when Chisum described the woman, but he soon burst out laughing.

“Maybe your suffering face finally paid off,” Uncle Zubie scoffed. “Pray she comes back tomorrow.”

Yes, she did. The same black SUV reappeared two days later. The woman, whose name he would later discover was Madame Kimi, delivered him a nylon bag that contained cake, drinks, fried chicken, jollof rice, and a brand-new T-shirt. He had never before received such courteous treatment. He had not been treated as if he were important.

“I’ll come back again soon, don’t go anywhere” she told him.

Uncle Zubie quipped, “If she’s still this nice by next week, ask her if she wants to marry you,” after finishing the majority of the meal at home. Chisum’s uncle yelled at him, “A rich, beautiful woman who liked a poor boy was a blessing, not a question,” as he gulped in shock.

Madame Kimi didn’t waste time the next time she visited.

“Chisum,” she said, looking straight into his eyes. “Do you want to leave this kind of life?”

Without thinking, he nodded.

“Do you trust me?”

This time, her eyes were gentler, almost maternal. “Yes, madam,” he muttered after pausing.

“Then marry me,” she said.

He believed he had misheard. His mouth parted, but nothing came out.

“Marry me,” she said again, gently. “I will take care of you. You won’t suffer again.”

He glanced at his wet clothing, his empty stomach, and the dusty, boisterous park. His mind replayed what his uncle had said. The desire of a powerful, wealthy mother for a boy like him was illogical. But he had never had a choice in life. One was now directly in front of him.

She had already started planning the wedding by the time he gave his approval.

Uncle Zubie rejoiced as if he had won the jackpot. “You are now the husband of a queen,” he shouted.

That night, as he lay awake, anxious and perplexed, Chisum thought of his mother, all the times he had slept on benches, and how her rich voice and powerful arms made him feel both secure and uncomfortable.

The following day was the wedding. There were only two motionless men in black standing guard, no music, and no companions. She was dressed in a beautiful golden gown that flaunted her strong shoulders. He was dressed in a grey suit that she had purchased; it was a little too big, but it was still the best outfit he had ever worn. He paused for a moment before answering “yes” when the registry officer asked if he considered her to be his legal wife.

Then she gave him a gentle smile.

“You belong to me now,” she murmured.

They drove to her “house,” which was a massive white estate with long driveways, big gates, and floors so polished he was afraid to walk on them. She gave him his own room, complete with a huge bed, a TV, a food refrigerator, and a brand-new phone. She advised him to eat, relax, and never worry about getting beaten again.

She said softly, “You don’t have to sleep in my room yet.” You’re still very young. I’ll wait.

It sounded ideal, but he felt chilled inside. He was unsure if he was in a cage or paradise.

He started to see more of her world in the days that followed. Rich food was always spread out on the dining table. She worked out in a packed gym, lifting big weights as if they were insignificant. She exuded strength and self-control. She updated his ID and opened a bank account in both of their names. Everywhere they went, people gawked at them: a teenage lad strolling next to a powerful, affluent woman who referred to him as “my husband.”

But he was uncomfortable about more than simply her wealth and power. The secrets were the cause.

He couldn’t sleep one night and imagined her walking slowly down the corridor in a long black robe while barefoot.

At the end, she opened a black door with odd carvings of birds and snakes on it. A faint red glow seeped beneath the door as she stepped inside. His heart would not stop beatingafter that.

He made an effort to discover what was inside the room. Every time, the door was locked. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” the cook, Madam Martina, discreetly cautioned him. Consume your food, get some rest, and avoid going out at night.

However, he was unable to let it go. Back in the village, he confided in Oena, his only companion. Oena pleaded with him over the phone to exercise caution.

“One rich woman doesn’t just marry a boy from the street for nothing,” his friend warned. “If anything feels wrong, leave.”

Rather than settling down, everything became more bizarre. Madame Kimi caught him one day when he touched the black door. “This part of the house is private,” she warned him, her eyes icy. Please don’t return unless I specifically ask you to.

He heard her again that evening at precisely one in the morning. The door parted. She walked down the hall in her bare feet. She stepped into the dimly lit space. Beneath the door, a dim red light emerged. There was an unusual activity taking place there.

At last, fear overcame his reluctance. He intended to learn the facts with Oena’s phone assistance and his own urgency.

When she went to the red room the following night, he broke into her bedroom, took her keys, and opened the black door.

The air was dense and hot inside. The walls were covered with red cloth. The floor was covered in chalk symbols. Everywhere, candles flickered. Hundreds of pictures of boys his age, some happy, some scared, were arranged on a table in the center. A candle was burning in front of his own picture, which was positioned in the middle. Charms, feathers, a clay figurine of a youngster bound with crimson thread, and vials of an odd dark liquid were all present.

He sensed someone behind him before he could move. He looked over and spotted her. Kimi, Madame. Her eyes blazed crimson this time, though.

His heart was racing as he froze.

“You opened the door,” she said quietly.

He told her what he had seen, his voice trembling with fear. Now, she asked him what he thought of her. Did he think she was a monster? He claimed he had no idea what to think.

Then she started talking instead of attacking him.

She informed him that this was not the life she had chosen. Her impoverished parents had traded her for wealth when she was a little child. She was taken, changed, and endowed with longevity, beauty, and strength. However, there was a curse: she had to marry a lad with a pure heart every few years and use his youth to prevent herself from deteriorating.

Without it, her bones would shatter, her skin would rot, and she would die in agony.

He came to the horrified and heartbroken realization that she had picked him because he had nothing. Nobody would come looking for him, not even his parents. Calmly, she acknowledged it.

He said, “You lied to me.”

“Yes,” she answered. “But when I said you were special, I also meant it.”

The ritual had already started. The altar already had his soul. If she finished it in two nights, he would just go to sleep and never wake up. He would just go without experiencing any pain, and she would continue as she had for over a century.

He hurried to Mama Agatha, a strong herbalist in the area, who appeared to already be aware of what had transpired. She referred to Madame Kimi by a different name and claimed that she was not really human and older than everyone else.

Mama Agatha handed Chisum a crimson stone to use in the last ceremony and a charm to lessen Kimi’s power. In order to survive, he would need to come back before the seventh night, claim to be trustworthy and forgiving, and then, at the crucial moment, break the altar with his own hands.

She cautioned him not to stop even though Kimi would scream, beg, and possibly even cry.

Fearful but unwavering, he made his way back to the mansion. Madam Kimi sensed the charm’s existence and realized he had asked for assistance. She revealed to him that she was actually over 160 years old and that she was both scared of death and fed up with life.

She loved him in a weird, depressing way. She granted him one last day “to do whatever he wanted” in order to bid him farewell and make amends, anticipating his return for the last ceremony.

The house was ready on the seventh night. The hallway was lined with candles. The altar was entirely erected, his picture was in the middle of the glowing crimson room.

She took him to the altar with gentleness after dressing him in a ritual cloth made of white silk with gold edging. His allure was concealed near his flesh. He held the crimson stone in his hand.

With a knife in hand, prepared to seal his doom, she started chanting.

He hurled the ruby stone onto the altar at the last second.

The room erupted violently. The candles flared madly. Pains ripped through her, causing her to scream. He dashed forward, grabbed his picture, and repeatedly tore it apart, severing the spiritual connection.

The altar broke apart in the center. Her voice started to fade, her skin started to crack, and her hair turned white. She pleaded with him to stop, to assist her, to save her.

He continued to cry as he stood there, divided between survival and sympathy.

Her body fell to ashes and gold ash with one last cry. There was silence in the room. The candles extinguished. Broken chalk, strewn charms, and a ripped picture of a young girl and her happy younger brother in a modest village, long before she turned into a monster, were all that remained.

Shaking, Chisum left the room. The mansion was no longer the same. The light dimmed. The air became ancient and heavy. The flowers withered. The strength waned. The home itself seemed to have aged a hundred years in a single night.

Before his friend Oena unexpectedly showed up after sneaking in via the back fence during the night, he believed he was alone. Oena came to see how he was doing, fearing the worst. Oena was astonished but relieved when Chisum told him what had transpired. They quickly discovered that the house and everything associated with it were spiritually dissolving in the absence of Kimi’s power.

Men in black came to the house the following day and demanded to see her. With a black staff and luminous eyes, one of them implied that Kimi was a member of a greater supernatural circle and that her passing had “started something.” Then he departed, subtly letting them know that the tale wasn’t finished.

Oena and Chisum didn’t linger. They fled the house by climbing the fence and running to the bus park. They later learned that the white mansion had entirely disappeared, leaving the area as barren sand, as if nothing had ever been constructed there.

Broken, jittery, and plagued by nightmares, Chisum spent days in Oena’s family’s house. Oena’s mom didn’t ask for specifics. She just informed him that guys who survive are stronger than they realize and that God had kept him alive for a purpose. His heart steadied slowly.

He had a ripped fragment of the picture of Kimi and her brother when they were little. He had no idea why.

Perhaps because she was more than a monster. She had also been a child once, sold into darkness by desperate parents. As Mama Agatha put it, “evil that could still cry.” Darkness with a smile.

Chisum eventually came to the conclusion that his survival could not just end with his leaving. He hoped that all he had witnessed would lead to something positive. He went back to the hamlet, confronted Uncle Zubie, but instead of punishing him, he walked by him and went to Mama Agatha to express gratitude and seek her blessing. He told her that he wants to assist youngsters just like him—poor, overlooked, and easily exploited guys.

A few months later, he joined a community school and launched a little project called Heart of the Forgotten with the assistance of a nearby church and generous people who believed in his story. The initiative provided food, shelter, and hope to homeless youths. Gradually, lads began to show up one by one—youth with the same weary eyes and ravenous spirits as before.

Every time he glanced at them, he saw the youngster with the holes in his slippers who had once yelled, “Pure water!” in the sweltering sun. He saw the boy that a strong woman had picked because he would not be missed. And he saw the youngster who had decided to smash the altar while standing in a red chamber, divided between survival and sympathy.

He occasionally opened a small box in his tiny chamber at night to reveal the final faded fragment of Kimi’s picture. “I hope you’re at peace now,” he would whisper as he gazed at the happy girl she used to be.

After that, he would shut the box and get back to work. Regardless of how sinister her tale had been, it had inspired him to pursue his goals. He was no longer just Yumuakoro’s forgotten boy. He was someone who had ventured to the brink of darkness and returned with a calm, unwavering light, and he was resolved to spread that light to those who had been left in the dark.

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