THE LAST ORACLE OF LAGOS

Chapter One

The Dream

At 3:17 in the morning, Amara woke up drowning.

She sat upright so quickly that her bedsheet fell to the floor.

For several seconds, she couldn't breathe.

Her hands clawed at her throat.

Water.

She could still feel it.

Cold water filling her lungs, forcing its way through her nose and mouth. She could hear something beneath her—a deep, distant sound, like thousands of voices whispering from the bottom of the ocean.

Then the room came back.

The ceiling fan.

The faint hum of the generator outside.

A mosquito whining somewhere near her ear.

The smell of rain coming through the half-open window.

Lagos.

Amara pressed both hands against her chest.

"I'm fine," she whispered.

Her voice sounded ridiculous in the darkness.

She reached for her phone.

3:17 a.m.

Again.

Her eyes narrowed.

She had seen the same time three nights in a row 3:17.

She didn't believe in signs.

Her grandmother did.

That was one of the many things about Mama Nkem that Amara had learned to ignore.

She threw the bedsheet back over herself and tried to lie down.

Then she heard the bell.

Dong.

Amara froze.

Dong.

Her eyes opened.

There was no church nearby that rang bells at three in the morning.

Dong.

Three times.

Then silence.

She slowly turned toward the window.

Something was standing outside.

Amara stopped breathing.

The curtains moved gently in the night breeze.

Behind them was the silhouette of a woman.

Tall.

Motionless.

Watching her.

Amara's first thought was that someone had broken into the compound.

Her second was that she was still dreaming.

She grabbed her phone and switched on the flashlight.

The silhouette disappeared.

Amara stared at the curtains.

Nothing.

She climbed out of bed.

The floor was cold beneath her feet.

"Hello?"

No answer.

She crossed the room and pulled the curtain aside.

The compound below was empty.

The security light flickered over the old concrete wall.

Rainwater dripped from the roof.

Beyond the wall, Lagos continued breathing.

A distant generator.

A car passing on the wet road.

Someone shouting.

A dog barking.

Normal.

Everything was normal.

Amara exhaled.

Then she saw the mark.

It was drawn on the outside of her window.

A circle.

Inside the circle was a shape resembling an eye.

And beneath it were three small vertical lines.

Amara touched the glass.

The mark wasn't painted.

It looked as if someone had drawn it into the condensation with a finger.

She stepped backward.

Her phone slipped from her hand.

It hit the floor.

The screen went black.

And from somewhere behind her came a woman's voice.

Not loud.

Not threatening.

Almost tender.

"Amara."

She spun around.

Nobody.

Her bedroom door was still closed.

Her heart hammered.

"Who's there?"

The voice came again.

This time from the window.

"Amara."

She ran to the door.

Before she could open it, the entire house shook.

A violent gust of wind slammed against the windows.

The lights went out.

Darkness swallowed the room.

And then-

A bell.

Dong.

Amara screamed.

"Wake up!"

Someone slapped her cheek.

Amara opened her eyes.

Morning sunlight filled the room.

Her grandmother stood over her.

Mama Nkem was wearing a faded blue wrapper and a white blouse. Her silver hair was tied tightly behind her head.

She looked angry.

Not frightened.

Angry.

"Grandma?"

"Wake up."

"I am awake."

Mama Nkem stared at her.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then the old woman looked toward the window.

Amara followed her gaze.

The glass was clean.

No mark.

No circle.

Nothing.

"You were screaming," Mama Nkem said.

"I had a nightmare."

"What did you see?"

Amara hesitated.

"Nothing."

Her grandmother's expression changed.

Only slightly.

But Amara noticed.

"Don't lie to me."

"I said it was nothing."

"What did you see?"

Amara sat up.

"A woman."

Mama Nkem went completely still.

"Where?"

"In my room."

"What woman?"

"I don't know."

"What did she look like?"

"I couldn't see her face."

"What did she say?"

Amara swallowed.

"She called my name."

Her grandmother turned away.

"Grandma?"

Mama Nkem walked toward the window.

Her fingers trembled when she touched the curtain.

Amara had never seen that before.

Her grandmother was not easily frightened.

When Amara was six, a gas cylinder had exploded in the kitchen. Mama Nkem had walked through the smoke and carried her out.

When Amara was twelve, armed men had broken into the neighborhood. Mama Nkem had locked the doors and calmly sat beside her until morning.

When Amara was seventeen, her father died.

Her grandmother hadn't cried.

Not in front of her.

But now her hands were shaking.

"Grandma?"

Mama Nkem closed the curtain.

"You must not dream about her again."

Amara frowned.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I don't control my dreams."

"Then you must learn."

A strange silence filled the room.

Amara laughed nervously.

"You sound crazy."

Mama Nkem looked at her.

"Perhaps."

Then she walked toward the door.

"Get dressed. We are going to the market."

"Today?"

"Now."

"Grandma, I have work."

"You will miss one morning."

"I have customers."

"You have one grandmother."

Amara rolled her eyes.

"That's emotional blackmail."

"Yes."

For the first time that morning, Mama Nkem smiled.

But when she left the room, the smile disappeared.

By eight o'clock, Lagos had become itself again.

Noisy.

Hot.

Impatient.

Alive.

Amara sat beside her grandmother in the back of a danfo, watching the city slide past through the dusty window.

She loved Lagos.

She hated Lagos.

Sometimes she wasn't sure which feeling came first.

The city moved like it had somewhere to be and no intention of explaining itself.

Yellow buses squeezed between cars.

Motorcycles appeared where motorcycles had no business appearing.

Street vendors moved between traffic.

A woman balanced a tray of oranges on her head while arguing with a taxi driver.

A billboard advertised a luxury apartment complex overlooking the ocean.

Another promised spiritual deliverance for people suffering from "DEMONIC DELAYS."

Amara almost laughed.

Then she remembered the dream.

She looked away.

Her grandmother noticed.

"You are thinking about it."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"Grandma."

"Hmm?"

"Do you believe dreams can predict the future?"

Mama Nkem didn't answer immediately.

Instead, she looked through the window.

"When you were a child," she said, "your mother used to have dreams."

Amara frowned.

"My mother?"

"Yes."

"You never told me that."

"There are many things I never told you."

"Why?"

"Because you were not ready."

"Ready for what?"

Mama Nkem looked directly at her.

"To know who you are."

Amara stared at her.

"What does that mean?"

The bus stopped suddenly.

A conductor shouted at another driver.

Someone outside cursed.

Mama Nkem stood.

"We're here."

"Grandma"

"Come."

Amara followed her into the crowded market.

They walked past fabric stalls, food sellers and shops stacked with colorful merchandise.

Finally, Mama Nkem stopped in front of a small wooden door.

It looked like an ordinary shop.

Inside were old fabrics.

Baskets.

Beads.

Carved wooden figures.

And dozens of sealed wooden boxes.

Amara had spent her entire childhood around those boxes.

She had never been allowed to open them.

Her grandmother unlocked the door.

"Today," she said, "you will."

Amara stared at her.

"Open what?"

Mama Nkem pointed toward the largest box.

"The one your mother left behind."

Amara's heart stopped.

"My mother?"

Her grandmother nodded.

"She wanted you to have it when you turned twenty-five."

Amara looked at the box.

She was twenty-four.

"What happens when I turn twenty-five?"

Mama Nkem's face became unreadable.

"That is when they will come looking for you."

"Who?"

The old woman didn't answer.

Outside, somewhere beyond the market, a bell rang.

Once.

Amara turned toward the sound.

Her grandmother whispered:

"Too late."

Amara looked back.

"What?"

Mama Nkem was staring at the shop entrance.

A man stood outside.

Tall.

Dark suit.

Completely out of place among the market stalls.

He wasn't looking at Mama Nkem.

He was looking directly at Amara.

And although they had never met—

Amara knew him.

Not from this life.

From the dream.

The man slowly raised his hand.

In his palm was the same symbol she had seen on her window.

The eye.

The circle.

Three lines.

Then he smiled.

And Mama Nkem whispered the words Amara would remember for the rest of her life:

"Your mother was wrong."

Amara turned toward her.

"Wrong about what?"

Her grandmother's eyes filled with tears.

"You were never supposed to survive."

End of Chapter One