4:30 PM
ZOMBIE IN LAGOS
CHAPTER 1: 4:30 PM
4:30 PM in Lagos.
You could hear Lagos before you saw it.
Faji FM was blasting a new street banger so loudly the windows of the danfos were vibrating.
“Turn am up! Turn am up!”
Between the cars, women in Ankara wrappers weaved through traffic with trays balanced on their heads.
“Gala! Cold pure water! Drinks! Coca-Cola! Fanta!”
Agberos in face caps stood around the bus stops, grabbing conductors by their shirts.
“Owo park! Bring the money! No gree for anybody!”
The conductors cursed back, ducking away and running between buses.
Every danfo was at war.
Horns blared.
Side mirrors nearly kissed.
A driver leaned out of his window.
“Ko si danu fun mi na! Get out of the way!”
Another driver shouted back.
“Your papa!”
Lagos carried on as usual.
Nobody noticed anything strange.
Not yet.
⸻
Segun wiped the sweat from his forehead and tightened his grip on the steering wheel of his yellow danfo.
Bus 14. Oshodi to Yaba.
It was supposed to be another ordinary trip.
The bus was packed.
Market women squeezed around their Ghana-Must-Go bags.
Students in UNILAG shirts argued quietly in the back.
A tired banker in a wrinkled suit stared through the window, already looking like he had given up on life.
Eleven passengers.
Eleven people trying to get home before the traffic became worse.
Before the rain.
Before NEPA took the light.
It was Lagos.
Normal.
Loud.
Stressful.
Alive.
Then the music stopped.
Faji FM cut to static.
Mid-song.
Mid-beat.
Every radio around them seemed to do the same thing.
For one strange second, there was nothing but horns and shouting.
Then the static cleared.
A reporter’s voice came through.
Young.
Shaky.
“Erm… this is a breaking news bulletin from the Lagos State Ministry of Health. We are confirming reports of a deadly virus outbreak at LUTH, Idi-Araba. Five people have been infected and have been moved into quarantine. Citizens are advised to remain calm. Avoid crowded areas. Stay vigilant. Further updates will—”
The radio crackled.
Then died.
Silence.
For about two seconds.
Then everyone started talking at once.
“This yeye government don start again!”
A man in the back shook his head.
“They just want to find another way to chop money.”
Another passenger laughed nervously.
“Na them sabi. Na lie.”
A woman holding two children sighed.
“My own na make NEPA bring light first. I get frozen fish for freezer.”
A few people laughed.
Segun smiled.
“Abeg, change station. Na fake news. LUTH people dey always—”
A scream cut through the traffic.
Sharp.
Wet.
Animal.
Segun froze.
The scream came from the danfo directly in front of him.
People turned.
Then the windshield filled with blood.
A woman in a green hijab was on top of the driver.
She had been sitting quietly only moments earlier, fanning herself with a folded newspaper.
Now her teeth were buried in his throat.
The driver kicked and fought beneath her.
She didn’t stop.
Blood sprayed across the windshield.
Someone screamed.
The woman slowly lifted her head.
Her mouth was covered in blood.
Her eyes were completely white.
No pupils.
No fear.
And then—
she smiled.
“Jesus!”
“Jesu!”
“Èje Jesu!”
Panic exploded through the traffic.
Passengers jumped out of cars.
People climbed over seats.
Someone abandoned a motorcycle in the middle of the road.
A woman fell while trying to run and immediately disappeared beneath a wave of people.
Then came another scream.
A young boy—maybe twelve years old—came sprinting from the sidewalk.
People shouted for him to move.
He didn’t.
He launched himself through the open window of another danfo.
A man inside barely had time to turn.
The boy slammed into him.
Then bit into his face.
The man’s scream became a gurgle.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Lagos lost its mind.
The horns changed.
They were no longer impatient.
They were terrified.
“DRIVE!”
“CLOSE YOUR DOOR!”
“NA WA O!”
“WETIN DEY HAPPEN?!”
“RUN!”
Segun’s hands tightened around the steering wheel.
His heart hammered against his chest.
Outside, people were running in every direction.
The woman in the green hijab had climbed out of the other danfo.
Blood dripped from her chin.
She looked around.
Searching.
For another victim.
Then Segun’s phone vibrated in his pocket.
He pulled it out.
WhatsApp — Adunni
BRO DON’T COME TO YABA.
Another message appeared.
PEOPLE DEY MAD FOR ROAD.
Then another.
THEY DEY BITE PEOPLE!!!
Segun’s stomach tightened.
Before he could reply, another message arrived.
I’M AT LUTH.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then:
IT’S BAD HERE. PLEASE COME.
Segun stared at the screen.
LUTH. Idi-Araba.
The place the radio had just mentioned.
The place where this had supposedly started.
He looked up.
Eleven passengers were staring at him.
Scared.
Waiting.
Looking at him as though the man behind the steering wheel was supposed to know what to do.
Segun didn’t.
Not anymore.
Outside, the infected woman suddenly turned toward them.
She started walking.
Slowly.
Then faster.
Segun looked ahead.
Traffic.
Cars everywhere.
People running.
A bus burning several lanes away.
The entire road was becoming a parking lot.
And the evening rush had barely begun.
His original destination was Yaba.
But Yaba wasn’t his destination anymore.
His sister was at LUTH.
Segun put the phone away.
He grabbed the gear stick.
“Hold tight.”
Nobody spoke.
Segun looked into the rear-view mirror.
“If we want to live…”
He slammed the danfo into gear.
“…we’re not staying here.”
He turned the wheel sharply.
The yellow danfo jumped the median.
Passengers screamed as the bus bounced over the concrete.
Segun hit the accelerator.
He was no longer driving toward Yaba.
He was heading toward Idi-Araba.
Toward LUTH.
Toward his sister.
Behind them, the traffic was disappearing beneath a wave of screaming people.
Ahead—
Lagos was waiting.
And somewhere inside that city, his sister was trapped.
⸻
END OF CHAPTER 1
