Night settled over Lagos like a thick blanket of heat and street noise. The Christmas charity event had ended hours earlier, but its glittering lights still flickered faintly across the neighborhood — the last traces of sweetness in a day that had carried a strange, bitter aftertaste.
Ayo, Banji, Emmanuel, and Adeoluwa were still wide awake, sitting outside Ayo's small house, replaying everything that happened.
"Those people wey wear white… you sure say you no imagine am?" Banji asked, tapping his foot nervously.
"I no imagine anything," Ayo replied. "Three figures. Same place. Same time. Same mask. And Madam Sugar act like she see something we no suppose see."
"E fit be security," Adeoluwa offered weakly.
"Security no dey disappear inside two seconds," Emmanuel muttered.
Silence fell between them — heavy, uncomfortable, and too full of truths none of them wanted to say out loud.
Inside the house, Ayo's mother hummed softly as she arranged the gift items Madam Sugar had given her. She was happy. She was proud. She believed Madam Sugar was the answer to the neighbourhood's prayers.
But Ayo couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching them… even now.
---
Somewhere else in Lagos, Madam Sugar sat alone in her mansion's upstairs living room, the glow of Christmas lights dancing across her pale, tired face.
Her body still looked perfect — her smile still angelic — but her hands trembled as she poured herself a glass of water. She kept glancing at her phone like she was waiting for something she didn't want to receive.
Then… the phone rang.
A soft, sweet ringtone she usually loved — now sounding like a threat.
She froze. The name on the screen made her blood run cold.
WHITE SUGAR.
Her husband.
Her secret.
Her fear.
She answered with a shaky breath.
"Michael… please… this is not a good time."
His voice came through the phone smooth like honey, but cold like stone.
"You held the charity today," White Sugar said. "And you invited those boys."
"They're innocent children," she whispered, eyes darting around like the walls were listening. "Don't start this tonight."
"You know what Adun requires," he continued. "You know the cycle. You know the sweet blood we owe."
Madam Sugar pressed a trembling hand to her forehead. "Not this Christmas. Please, not this one. I'm tired. I'm—"
"You don't get tired of a god," White Sugar snapped softly. "You serve. You pay. You obey."
Her eyes filled with tears she quickly wiped away — she couldn't afford to look weak, even alone.
"I won't give them up," she finally whispered. "The boys are kind. They have families. They're not—"
"They are exactly what Adun wants," he cut in. "Strong… poor… unnoticed… sweet-blooded."
Madam Sugar swallowed a sob. "You promised we were almost free."
"I lied."
Her breath hitched.
On the other end of the line, something thumped — the sound of someone closing a ceremonial chest… or unlocking a shrine.
"The White Mask cult will move soon," White Sugar said. "Prepare them. Invite them again tomorrow. Make everything sweet. Make them comfortable. It must happen before Christmas morning."
Madam Sugar shook her head violently. "No. I won't. I can't do this anymore."
For a few seconds, the line was silent.
Then he spoke again… slower… colder… deadlier.
"You forgot who you married. You forgot who made you Sugar. You forgot the sweet blood that keeps you alive."
She closed her eyes. A tear slipped out.
"I will not fail Adun," she said finally, voice breaking. "But don't hurt those children."
White Sugar chuckled — low and chilling.
"I don't hurt children," he said. "I harvest them."
The line went dead.
Madam Sugar covered her mouth with both hands to stop the scream rising in her chest. Her angelic smile was gone. Her perfect glow faded. The fear she hid from the world now consumed her whole.
She knew what was coming.
She knew the White Mask cult had already chosen.
She knew she had brought those boys into danger.
Outside the mansion, in the dark corner under a tree, three White Mask members stood silently like ghosts — watching her window… waiting.
The sweet call had been made.
And the suspicion had only just begun.