The streets of Lagos pulsed like a living heart, neon signs bleeding into the night, music thumping from Makoko's floating shacks to the crowded stalls of Ajegunle.
Kemi, a 25-year-old tech-whiz with a passion for forgotten things, navigated the chaos on her modified e-bike, the Lagos traffic swirling around her like a storm.
She loved the grit, the way the city and the streets never slept-just like her.
Her bike's handlebars sported a tattered patch of _adire_-patterned tape, a tiny nod to her grandmother's weaving.
She was a bit late.
Her client, Mr. Adewale, had been clear: fix the glitch in the street's AI hub by midnight.
The hubs controlled everything-traffic lights, water taxis, even the augmented reality overlays that turned every wall into a canvas of ads and warnings it was magical .
Rumor had it they whispered deals to the government, too.
But tonight, whispers had spread of something wried and off Shadows moved where they shouldn't.
People said the streets were "talking," like the old tales of Orunmila's messages in the palm nuts.
As Kemi parked near the hub in Old-Town, a holo-ad floated above the entrance: *"Lagos Streets: Safe. Smart. Yours."*
She snorted.
Nothing was that safe.
Hackers called the hubs "the street Veins," and everyone knew the government's AI, EkoBot, had secrets.
It was said EkoBot could predict outages, traffic, even crimes-but at what cost? Kemi slipped on her AR glasses, connecting to the hub.
The interface flickered-static, then an eerie chant in Yoruba, _"Igbá keje, ìwọ ni ó pa..."_ (The seventh calabash, you will break...).
The hub's logs showed a looped anomaly, like someone was calling in an old debt.
Her skin pricked.
This wasn't a slight glitch.
This was a message.
Suddenly, the neon around her dimmed, as if the very lights were holding their breath.
The chant grew louder, overlapping with footsteps.
Heavy, syncopated.
Not human.
Kemi's heart kicked into a faster rhythm.
She reached for her backup tool, a worn metal pipe tucked in her jacket, her mind racing through escape routes.
A figure emerged from the alley-tall, eyes like shattered glass, wearing a patchwork suit of Lagos streetwear, like scraps of night had been stitched together.
He didn't walk, he _flowed_, as if the shadows themselves had gained form.
The air seemed to thicken around him.
"You're here for the covenant," he said, voice like the hum of a thousand phones, a vibration that went straight into her bones.
"You don't leave." Kemi's breath caught.
_What covenant?_ The streets of Lagos had deals, whispers of sacrifices for progress, but this felt... older.
Deeper.
The chant in her glasses grew louder, drowning out thought.
She took a step back, hand tightening on the pipe.
"Who are you?" she asked, trying to sound firm.
The figure tilted its head, glass eyes flashing. "I am a messenger.
The streets have called you, Kemi. The seventh calabash is empty.
You will fill it.
" A jolt ran through her.
_The seventh calabash._
A phrase from stories her grandmother used to tell, about ancient pacts and powers hidden in plain sight.
Kemi's thoughts spun-was this a hack, a prank, or something in between? The messenger leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper.
"The streets hunger.
EkoBot's promises come with a great price.
Will you pay?" Kemi's grip on the pipe tightened.
She didn't believe in covenant She fixed things.
Survived through it .
But the chant wouldn't stop, the shadows seemed to be strong.