Chapter 5: Micheal
Adana stirred from her restless sleep, curled against the massive roots of the ancient iroko. The night air felt heavier, charged with hunger.
A deep, rumbling voice rose from the trunk itself, vibrating through her back like distant thunder rolling across red earth.
"It is time for your stories, child. The forest demands it."
Adana rubbed her sleepy eyes and sat up slowly. She stared into the thick darkness beyond the clearing. The Egbere were still kept away, their high-pitched baby cries and desperate screams echoed faintly from far off in the bush, pleading and frustrated, as if some invisible force held them at bay.
The distant wails sent chills crawling across her skin.
She looked up at the towering iroko, then at the nearby palm whose fronds rustled softly though no wind stirred.
"I hear them," she whispered. "But I will tell a good one tonight."
Adana drew her knees close, took a steadying breath, and began in a small but clear voice that carried into the waiting darkness:
"Today I will tell you about the paintings that danced at night…"
In the Federal Science and Technical College , (FSTC),located in Yaba, Lagos, strange paintings were engraved into the old walls of the main school building.
They were not ordinary murals. One showed a naked woman being flogged mercilessly, her back arched in agony. Another depicted a mother carrying her crying child while several men sat atop cows, whips raised in cruel flogging gestures.
There was a man kneeling and begging on his knees. But the most unsettling of all was the trio of creatures covered head to toe in flowing white garments.
One beat a drum with silent fury. One danced in a wild, frenzied swirl. The third simply watched with cold patience.
The eyes in every painting felt alive, too sharp, too knowing. They seemed to follow you when you walked past, as if the figures were breathing, waiting, hungry for attention.
It all began on the night after visiting day, held every first Saturday of the month.
There was a boy named Michael who was never visited.
While other students laughed and ate with their families, Michael was left alone to beg scraps from friends.
He hid his deep sadness behind an uncertain smile, always telling himself his parents would come next time. Deep down, he knew they never would.
That Saturday, as usual, his family did not appear. Michael met his friend Daniel, who kindly said his own family was coming and Michael could join them for food.
For a brief moment, peace filled Michael's chest, at least he would eat his fill today.
He followed Daniel to the car, but when they arrived, Daniel's family demanded private time with their son.
Not wanting to be a bother, Michael slipped away quietly. He wandered the compound looking for anyone who might spare him food, but no one cared. He had few real friends, and the visiting day bustle swallowed him whole.
Soon the event ended. Michael had missed the school's dining time while begging. That night he returned to the boys' hostel with a stomach twisted by hunger.
His provisions were finished, the small packets of milk, Milo, coffee, and the last of his garri (that coarse, white, sand-like cassava grain that swells when soaked or mixed with hot water, a poor student's lifeline).
Michael's heart was heavy. He stood by the hostel window, gazing out into the darkness toward the main school building. Everyone had been warned never to stare too deeply into the night shadows around those walls, but Michael was hurting too much to care.
He wondered bitterly why his parents could never come see him.
Then he saw it.
The drawings on the wall began to move.
The naked woman twisted under invisible lashes. The men on cows raised and lowered their whips.
The kneeling man begged with fresh desperation. The three white-garmented creatures stirred, the drummer's hands moved, the dancer spun in a slow circle, and the watcher turned its head.
Michael blinked hard, refusing to believe his eyes. He called his roommates in a shaky voice, but when they looked, the paintings were still and ordinary again. They laughed at him, calling him weird, and climbed back into their bunks. It was only 9 p.m.
That night, Michael could not sleep. He kept watching. And somehow, the figures seemed to feel his presence too, their painted eyes gleaming with faint, unnatural life.
As the clock struck 11, Michael realized he could not find his key. At least let him have the last of his garri, he thought. He decided to retrace his steps outside.
He climbed the low fence of the hostel, dodging the patrolling night security by hiding in shadows so he would not get punished.
He did not know what truly waited for him in the dark.
Soon the deep of night fell, 12 midnight. Michael found himself at the far end of the school compound, too far to slip back easily into the hostel.
Almost immediately, the sound of drumming filled the air, steady, rhythmic beats that vibrated through his bones.
"Ahaha, what is that?" he whispered to himself, moving quietly.
Then came wails and the sharp flinging sound of whips cutting through air, like students being caught and punished.
Michael ran.
He ran until his chest burned, but suddenly he halted. He felt a presence, something dancing in a frantic swirl, whirling with a low, singing note that chilled his blood.
He tried to hide, but it was useless.
A cold hand landed on his shoulder from behind.
It was the painted woman who had been flogged. She now held a plate of steaming jollof rice, red, spicy, fragrant with tomatoes and spices, and offered it to him silently.
Michael screamed in fright. Hunger overpowered terror. He snatched the plate and ran in total horror toward the old timber shed at the edge of the compound.
He hid inside, breathing hard, staring at the tantalizing jollof rice. Hunger won completely. He jammed his hands together in quick prayer, covering the food, then dug in greedily, devouring the rice with both hands.
But when he reached for the meat, something was wrong.
His body was suddenly covered in warm, sticky blood.
Pain exploded through him, sharp, tearing agony in his chest and stomach. He gasped, clutching himself, collapsing to the side. He died in silence, eyes wide with shock.
The paintings came alive fully then. They reached out, pulling Michael's body into the cold concrete as if it were soft clay. When they finished, the murals returned to their usual stillness.
But the true horror was this: the food Michael had eaten with such desperate hunger was not rice at all. The "jollof" had been his own organs, his lungs, his intestines, his heart, served to him by the paintings as punishment for taking what did not belong to the living.
The next morning, classes were canceled. Teachers gathered in tears around the newest painting on the wall, a thin, sad-eyed boy with an uncertain smile, forever trapped among the flogged woman, the drumming creature, and the silent watcher.
Adana's voice faded into the night. She leaned back against the warm iroko trunk, exhaustion pulling her toward sleep.
From far away in the forest, the bush babies cried desperately: "Great iroko spirit, please allow us in…"
But the great iroko did not answer. It simply watched over the sleeping girl in silence, its ancient branches rustling like a guardian keeping every things at bay… for now.