l.
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**Chapter 2: The Evasive Fire
The world dissolved into a panicked, screaming stampede. I shoved through the dense crowd, Kemi's wrist locked in my vice-like grip. The metallic, foul scent of the unnatural fire clung to the air, seeping into my clothes, my braids. The image of those jerky, rotting figures was burned onto the back of my eyelids.
"Go! Go!" a frantic voice barked behind us.
I didn't need prompting. I was already at the fire escape, but the rusted metal staircase was a choked artery of fleeing bodies. Someone elbowed me hard in the ribs; I stumbled, the railing biting into my palm. Below, the alley swam in shifting shadows cast by the eerie, greenish light spilling from above. "Don't look back!" I screamed at Kemi, half-dragging her down the trembling steps. The screams from the rooftop took on a new, wetter, more gargling quality that I knew, in my bones, meant people were not just fleeing—they were being caught. A hot, acrid wind, carrying the distinct smell of ozone and decay, billowed down after us. It felt like the breath of the thing that was hunting.
Kemi, sobbing hysterically, lost her footing on the final flight and tumbled onto the trash-strewn street. I jumped the last four steps, landing beside her, my own knees screaming in protest. "Get up! Now!" I hauled her to her feet, my eyes darting wildly. The street was chaos. I scanned the faces, a frantic, desperate search for the boy with amber eyes. For a heart-stopping second, I thought I saw him across the crowd, but then he was gone, swallowed by the pandemonium, a ghost of the night.
"Oh my God, oh my God! We have to go!" Kemi shrieked, clawing at my arm, pointing to her cousin's idling car a block away, its doors hanging open. "Did you see those crazy guys? They were probably cultists! This is what happens when you go to rich-people parties!"
I couldn't respond. My throat felt tight with unshed tears and the crushing weight of what I'd witnessed. I let myself be pulled into the car, collapsing into the backseat. As we screeched away, I pressed my face to the window. At the very top of the building, a sickly yellow glow pulsed once, twice, like a dying heartbeat, and then went dark.
---
The car ride was a silent, tense vacuum. Kemi's cousin drove with a white-knuckled grip, muttering about "foolishness." Kemi had dissolved into a stream of whispered gossip about rival gangs and bad drugs. I sat in the back, saying nothing, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The metallic stench seemed to have woven itself into my very braids.
Instead of going straight home, I had him drop us at a 24-hour pharmacy a few blocks away. "Headache," I mumbled to Kemi, who was too rattled to question it. I waited until the taillights vanished, then turned and began the long, shadowed walk home, my heels clicking a frantic, guilty rhythm on the pavement.
Sneaking into the compound was a practiced art. I kicked off my ruined heels, hiked my dress, and climbed the ancient iroko tree, the bark scraping my palms. I dropped softly into the hydrangea bushes, wincing as a twig snapped. The house was dark except for the soft, perpetual glow from the family shrine room at the back. She's still awake, I thought, my stomach clenching. My mother, Alaba, slept little and saw much.
I slid the back door open with infinite care, stepped out of my dress in the laundry room, and padded in my underwear towards the staircase, a shadow in the belly of the silent house.
"Stop."
The voice was low, calm, and absolute. It froze my foot on the bottom stair.
The light in the sitting room flicked on. My mother stood in the doorway, a formidable silhouette in an indigo wrapper and head-tie, her arms crossed. She was not dressed for sleep. She had been waiting.
"Where have you been?" Her voice was deceptively quiet. "You smell of smoke. And fear. And something else… something foul."
I turned, wrapping my arms around myself. "I was with Kemi. A study group. It ran late."
"Do not lie to me in this house." She took a step forward, her eyes—eyes that could see the shifting currents of the spirit world—scanning me. "Your aura is torn. It is agitated. It reeks of a profane heat. You were somewhere you should not have been."
The last of my fear curdled into a hot, reckless defiance. The night's terror, the confusion, the weight of the life I never chose—it all boiled over. "So what if I was? What if I just wanted to be somewhere normal? For one night! Not in a shrine, not carrying a pot, not being your perfect little Arugba!"
Her expression tightened, a flinch of profound disappointment. "Watch your tone, Omotara."
"Why? So I can be quiet and dutiful and just accept everything? This isn't my life, it's yours! You chose this, I didn't! I didn't ask to be your vessel, to have everyone staring at me, to have my whole existence be about a river!" The words tumbled out, sharp and bitter.
Her stillness was more frightening than any shout. When she spoke again, her voice was like smoothed stone, each word heavy with intent. "You think this is a choice? You think I chose for my daughter to carry this weight? It is not a choice. It is a call. And the river called you."
She stepped closer, and the air in the room seemed to grow dense, humid, like the air before a storm over the lagoon. "You carry the Igba not for me, but for the community. You balance not for yourself, but for the world around you. When you were born, the water in the calabash in the shrine turned sweet. The priestess knew. I knew. This is not a burden of my making, Omotara. It is the burden of your destiny. To deny it is to make yourself an enemy to the very essence that sustains you—and us."
The words, spoken with such unwavering certainty, felt like chains snapping shut. I wanted to scream that I didn't care about destiny, about sweet water. I wanted the terrifying boy with amber eyes, the dizzying freedom of a dance floor, a life that was mine alone.
But under her gaze, the rebellion withered, leaving only a hollow, shaking exhaustion. The image of the rotting figures and the cold fire rushed back in, making me feel like a child caught in a storm.
"Go and bathe," she said finally, her tone softening into a weary command. "Use the herbs in the blue bowl. Cleanse yourself of that place. We will speak no more of it tonight. But remember, daughter. The world you wish to play in is not as simple as it seems. And you are not as invisible as you hope."
I climbed the stairs, her words echoing in the silent house, feeling more trapped than ever.
---
The weekend passed in a fog of fear and stifled resentment, a quiet war raging inside me. Kemi insisted it was a drug-fueled riot, constructing elaborate, rational explanations to wallpaper over the cracks in reality. I had no proof, no witnesses, and no way to contact the only person who had seen the danger and hadn't run—who had acted. Tayo was a memory, a handsome, confusing lie in a frightening night.
Monday morning at Lagos Metropolitan High was a miserable return to routine. I was tense, jumpy, and severely sleep-deprived, the shadows under my eyes like smudges of charcoal. I walked into my History class, expecting the familiar, droning boredom of Mrs. Adewale, but the air in the room felt suddenly, electrically charged.
"Ah, Omotara, you're late," Mrs. Adewale said, her voice stern. "Please find your seat. Class, as you can see, we have a new student joining us today."
My head snapped up. My breath hitched, freezing in my chest.
Sitting in the empty desk directly beside mine was Tayo.
He was wearing the school's crisp uniform, looking entirely too normal, too composed, and too handsome. He smiled at me, a charming, casual flash of teeth that made the terror of the party feel distant and unreal.
"Hi there," he murmured, his amber eyes sparkling. "Omotara, right? Looks like I lucked out on the seating. So glad to see a familiar face."
I slid into my seat, unable to look away. "What are you doing here?" I hissed, my voice low and tight. "And don't you dare act like you don't remember me."
Tayo leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially, yet maintaining that irritatingly casual air. "Of course, I remember you. We met at that crazy party. And I'm a student. Just moved to the area. Simple, right?"
"No, it's not simple!" I pressed, my nails digging into my palm. "That was not a simple party! There was fire, Tayo, that wasn't normal! It was cold and it smelled like rust and death! And those people—those figures—who were they? They weren't human!"
Tayo listened, his head cocked, his expression shifting just enough to show polite concern, but never recognition, never guilt. He expertly parried every specific question, his answers smooth and devoid of detail. "Look," he said softly, putting down his pen as if humoring me. "I saw you were pretty shaken up. Sometimes, those big parties can get out of hand, especially with special effects gone wrong. Maybe we should talk about something less stressful. I've been craving one of those ice cream cones from the place by the market. I'll buy you one, and we can walk home. You can tell me all about what classes to avoid."
The offer was the perfect, maddening distraction. He was offering normalcy, romance, an escape from the truth I couldn't handle alone. Against my better judgment, I agreed.
---
The following weeks were a dizzying blur of stolen moments and intentional ignorance. Tayo was a wonderful distraction, his charm a balm that smoothed away the raw edges of my anxiety. We ate ice cream, walked the bustling streets, and I almost, almost, managed to bury the memory of