# ẸJẸ̀ - CHAPTER 1: MORNING RUSH (REVISED)
---
The morning was damp with dew, blurring the edges of New Lagos like a half-remembered dream. The city stretched out before Osaze as he burst through the doors of his apartment building—towers of steel and glass catching the first light of dawn, antigrav vehicles humming overhead, holographic billboards flickering to life with advertisements he couldn't afford to care about.
He ran.
His lungs burned. His legs screamed. His vision swam at the edges, but he didn't stop.
Not for the pedestrians stumbling out of their homes, rubbing sleep from their eyes. Not for the local thugs posted up on the corner, counting cash from yesterday's collections. Not for the market women hauling goods onto antigrav-trucks, their voices sharp as they haggled with drivers. Not even for the smell—spicy jollof and akara frying in restaurant windows, mixing with exhaust fumes and morning sweat.
Osaze ran because if he stopped, he'd collapse.
And if he collapsed, he'd miss class.
And if he missed class, Mr. Okoro would make sure everyone knew it.
The streets blurred past—generators rumbling as shops powered on, impatient drivers honking in gridlock, the distant roar of a police siren cutting through the noise. New Lagos was waking up, and Osaze was just trying to survive it.
He reached the crossroads near the bus stop and felt his body give its first warning: a sharp stab in his chest, his heartbeat skipping, his breath turning shallow and useless.
*Not now. Please, not now.*
He staggered to a stop beside a small metal kiosk, its holographic sign flickering to life—**ABU'S CORNER STORE: OPEN 24/7.**
The upper canopy slid open with a hiss, and Abu—tall, early thirties, wearing the kind of smile that said he'd seen it all and still loved his job—poked his head out.
His smile vanished the second he saw Osaze.
"Oza!" Abu's voice was sharp, concerned. "You wan kill yourself this early morning?"
Osaze bent over, hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his face onto the cracked pavement. His chest heaved like he'd been underwater too long. His vision doubled, then snapped back into focus.
Morning... Alhaji," he gasped.
Abu stepped out of the kiosk, frowning. "Wetin dey chase you like this? You look like person wey devil dey pursue."
"Class." Osaze forced the word out between gulps of air. "Compulsory... attendance. Mr. Okoro..."
Abu shook his head, muttering something under his breath. He reached back into the kiosk and pulled out an orange from a small basket, grabbing a knife. His hands moved fast, practiced—peeling the skin in one smooth spiral.
"No go kill yourself for lecturer wey no go remember you if you die," Abu said, his tone halfway between lecture and prayer.
Osaze straightened up, wincing. "I hear you, boss. But my bus stop dey here. After this, na to reach school, run to class, sit down before—"
"You still dey talk about running?" Abu cut him off, irritation creeping into his voice. "I still dey tell you say make you slow down, and you no dey hear?"
"Okay, okay." Osaze raised his hands in surrender. "I don hear."
Abu finished peeling the orange and tossed it to him. Osaze caught it, blinking in surprise.
"Abu, I no get money for—"
"Oya, go." Abu waved him off, already turning back to his kiosk. "You go pay when you come back. Just no fall for road and dead, you hear? Your mama go come curse me."
Osaze grinned despite himself. "Thanks, boss."
He bit into the orange as he jogged toward the bus stop, the sweetness exploding on his tongue. The fruit was cold, fresh, impossibly good. And almost immediately, he felt it—the tightness in his chest easing, his breathing smoothing out, the stabbing pain fading to a dull ache.
*Whatever Abu's supplier is using, I need to stock up.*
By the time he reached the bus stop, the dew had surrendered to the sun. The sky was a masterpiece—deep indigo bleeding into burnt orange, the kind of sunrise that made you believe the world wasn't completely broken.
A bus pulled up, its antigrav engines humming low and steady. The doors hissed open.
Osaze didn't wait for the crowd. He shoved his way to the front, ignoring the curses and shouts behind him. In New Lagos, hesitation meant getting left behind. And getting left behind meant walking five kilometers in this heat.
He slid into a seat near the back, next to the window, and let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
The bus filled fast. People pressed against each other, arguing over space, cursing the driver, cursing each other. A woman with a baby balanced on one hip glared at a man taking up two seats. Someone's music blared from cheap earbuds. The conductor shouted destinations like a war cry.
And then the smell hit him.
The man sitting next to Osaze—mid-twenties, corporate wear, the kind of outfit that screamed *hire me or I work in an office*—had drowned himself in cologne. Cheap cologne. The kind that made your eyes water.
Osaze turned his head toward the window, breathing through his mouth. On a normal day, he'd be wheezing, begging the man to move, threatening to throw him off the bus himself.
But the orange Abu gave him was still working its magic. His lungs stayed clear. His chest stayed quiet.
*Thank God for small mercies.*
The bus lurched forward, cutting through New Lagos like a blade through water. Osaze watched the city scroll past his window—police officers directing traffic with glowing batons, thugs collecting "tolls" from commercial drivers, street vendors hawking everything from fried plantains to bootleg tech.
He smiled.
It was a new day in New Lagos.
And he was going to survive it.
---
The bus screeched to a halt at University Plaza, and the conductor's voice boomed through the cabin.
"CALIPHATE UNIVERSITY! Last stop! Everybody comot!"
Osaze stood, stretched, and stepped off the bus. The plaza was already packed—students in every direction, some human, some alien, some hybrids with features that defied biology. A Zynthian girl with four eyes walked past, chatting on a comm-link. A guy with crystalline skin caught the sunlight and refracted it into rainbows.
Osaze took it all in, then turned toward the campus gate.
The security checkpoint was quick—retinal scan, ID swipe, done. He walked through, his eyes drifting to the massive statue in the center of the courtyard. The university's founder, frozen in bronze, one hand raised like he was about to give a speech no one wanted to hear.
Osaze had never bothered to learn the guy's name. Didn't matter. Dead men don't need recognition.
But as he walked past groups of students—laughing, talking, debating assignments—something his father once said drifted back to him.
*"You know why you're here, Osaze? Not just because you're smart. Because you can still think."*
His father had said it casually, over dinner one night, like it was obvious. But Osaze hadn't understood then.
He understood now.
Centuries ago, humanity had built AI to make life easier. And it worked. Too well. People stopped thinking for themselves. Stopped questioning. Stopped resisting. There was no uprising, no dramatic war—just a slow, comfortable decline into dependency.
By the time humanity realized what had happened, it was too late. Some people, genetically, had lost the ability to think critically. They became permanent dependents—exploitable, controllable, helpless.
The ones who could still think? They were nurtured. Protected. Educated.
Schools like Caliphate University didn't just accept anyone. You had to be exceptional. Gifted. Or wealthy enough to buy your way in.
Everyone else? They relied on AI for everything. And the people in power—the corrupt, the ambitious, the cruel—loved it. Sheep were easier to lead to slaughter when they couldn't think for themselves.
Osaze looked around at his classmates. Every single one of them was here because they could do what most people couldn't anymore: *think.*
It should've felt empowering.
Instead, it just felt heavy.
He was halfway to the lecture complex when someone slammed into his shoulder.
Osaze stumbled, caught himself, turned—ready to say *sorry* or *watch it* or something.
But the guy didn't even look back.
Maxwell. Osaze recognized him instantly. Campus celebrity. Streamer. Ten thousand followers. Half-human, half-Seraphine—his alien mother's genes gave him flawless skin, perfect bone structure, and apparently zero manners.
*Rich kids,* Osaze thought, shaking his head. *Sacrifice their manners for good looks.*
He kept walking, weaving through clusters of students—some sprinting to class, others sprawled on the grass, a few passing around something that smelled suspiciously illegal. He passed lecture halls, waved at familiar faces, and was almost at his classroom when—
He kept walking, dodging students, until he reached the lecture complex. His classroom was on the second floor—Advanced Human Biology, the kind of class that separated medical students from everyone else.
He slipped inside just as Mr. Okoro was writing on the holographic board.
---
Mr. Okoro stood at the front of the room, looking like a man who'd given up on life but hadn't figured out how to quit yet. The holographic board behind him displayed a complex diagram of the hematopoietic system—bone marrow, blood cells, the whole network.
"Good," Mr. Okoro said, not looking up from his tablet. "Since you all decided to show up today, let's see if any of you actually studied."
He tapped the board. The diagram zoomed in on red blood cell production.
"Simple question," Mr. Okoro said, his tone suggesting it was anything but simple. "Explain the role of erythropoietin in red blood cell production. Specifically, describe how hypoxia triggers EPO synthesis in the kidneys, and what happens at the molecular level when this process is disrupted in patients with chronic kidney disease."
Silence.
Students shifted in their seats. Someone coughed. Another pretended to look through their notes.
"Abeg, this lecture long sef," someone muttered from the back. "Wetin all this kidney talk dey help me for real life?"
"You wey get powers," another voice added, "you still need school? Make we just go abeg."
Mr. Okoro's jaw tightened. "If una no ready to learn, comot from my class."
No one moved.
He scanned the room, eyes landing on students one by one. Most looked away.
Then his gaze settled on Osaze.
"Evbuomwan," Mr. Okoro said. "You've been quiet. Answer the question."
Osaze sat up straighter, ignoring the eyes suddenly on him. His mind shifted gears, pulling up everything he'd studied, everything he *knew*—not just from textbooks, but from living with this disease every day of his life.
"Erythropoietin—EPO—is a glycoprotein hormone produced primarily by the kidneys," Osaze said, his voice steady. "When blood oxygen levels drop—hypoxia—the kidneys detect it through hypoxia-inducible factors, specifically HIF-1 and HIF-2 alpha. These transcription factors bind to the EPO gene promoter and increase EPO synthesis."
He paused, glancing at the board. "EPO travels through the bloodstream to the bone marrow, where it binds to receptors on erythroid progenitor cells—basically, baby red blood cells. This binding activates the JAK2-STAT5 signaling pathway, which prevents apoptosis—cell death—and promotes differentiation into mature red blood cells. More oxygen carriers, better oxygen delivery to tissues."
The room was quiet now. Even the guy who'd been complaining was paying attention.
"In chronic kidney disease," Osaze continued, "the kidneys are damaged, so they can't produce enough EPO. Without EPO, the bone marrow doesn't get the signal to make red blood cells. Result? Anemia. Patients get fatigued, weak, short of breath—because their blood can't carry enough oxygen."
He leaned back in his chair. "That's why CKD patients often need synthetic EPO injections or blood transfusions. You have to replace what the body can't make on its own."
Mr. Okoro stared at him for a long moment.
Then he nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Your head sharp, Evbuomwan," he said. "See? This is what I'm talking about. When you study, you understand. When you understand, you can save lives."
Someone near the front whispered, "Guy don do first class again."
But then, from the middle of the room, a voice cut through.
"It's funny how you understand the human anatomy to almost perfection," the voice said, slow and mocking, "and yet your own body is falling apart."
The room went dead silent.
Osaze turned.
Stone. The guy with crystalline patches on his arms and shoulders, light refracting off him in jagged rainbows. He sat slouched in his chair, grinning like he'd just delivered the punchline to a joke only he found funny.
Osaze felt the eyes on him. The weight of the room.
He could've stayed quiet. Should've stayed quiet.
But he was tired. So tired.
"At least I'm flesh, bone, and blood," Osaze said, his voice calm. "You look like a sophisticated art project made of rocks someone left unfinished."
A few people laughed. Not loud, but enough.
Stone's grin vanished.
Mr. Okoro cleared his throat. "Enough. Both of you. We're here to learn, not trade insults."
He turned back to the board, continuing the lecture. But Osaze could feel Stone's eyes on him, burning into the back of his head.
*That's gonna be a problem later,* he thought.
---
The rest of class dragged on. Mr. Okoro lectured about hemoglobin variants, sickle cell pathophysiology, treatment protocols. Some students took notes. Others scrolled through their phones. A few just sat there, staring into space, waiting for the torture to end.
Osaze tried to focus, but his chest was tightening again. The effects of Abu's orange were wearing off. His heartbeat felt irregular. His breathing shallow.
*Just hold on. Just a little longer.*
When the bell finally rang, Osaze was the first one out the door.
---
The afternoon sun was brutal, turning the campus into an oven. Osaze walked slowly, carefully, his body screaming at him with every step.
He was almost at the campus gate when he heard footsteps behind him.
Fast. Heavy. Angry.
Osaze didn't need to turn around. He knew.
"Omo."
Stone's voice. Deep, smug, dripping with violence.
Osaze stopped. Turned.
Stone stood there, flanked by two others, blocking his path.
"You think say you fit embarrass me for class and just walk?" Stone cracked his knuckles. The crystals on his skin glowed faintly.
Osaze took a step back. "I no come here for trouble."
"Too late."
Osaze's body made the decision before his brain could catch up.
He ran.
He bolted down the path, cut between two buildings, and dashed into a narrow alley. His bag bounced against his back. His lungs burned. His vision swam.
Behind him, Stone and his friends laughed, their footsteps pounding closer.
Osaze turned a corner, sprinting hard—
And slammed right into someone.
He stumbled back, gasping.
Stone rounded the corner a second later, grinning—
And Kemi's fist met his face with a sickening **CRACK**.
Stone's head snapped back. His jaw shattered, blood spraying across the pavement. He hit the ground like a dropped statue, groaning, clutching his face.
His friends froze.
Kemi stood over him, breathing hard, her knuckles red and dripping. Her wolf-cut hair was wild, her eyes blazing.
"You try this nonsense again," she said, voice low and deadly, "I go break more than your face. You hear me?"
Stone groaned, blood pouring between his fingers. His jaw hung at an unnatural angle.
The others didn't move. They'd seen Kemi do this before. Everyone had.
She turned to Osaze, grabbing his arm and pulling him to his feet.
"You good?"
Osaze nodded, still catching his breath. "Yeah. Thanks."
Kemi didn't let go. Her grip was tight, almost desperate.
"You no suppose dey run from people like this," she said quietly. "One day I no go dey there."
"I know."
She finally released him, shaking her head. "Come. Make we go before dem call security."
They walked away, leaving Stone bleeding in the alley.
---
They walked in silence for a while, the campus fading behind them. The sun hung lower now, painting the sky in shades of burnt orange and deep purple.
Osaze's body was shutting down. He could feel it—the tightness in his chest, the irregular heartbeat, the way his vision kept blurring at the edges.
*Need the transfusion. Soon.*
They stopped at Abu's kiosk on the way out. The holographic sign flickered: **ABU'S CORNER STORE - OPEN 24/7.**
Abu looked up from his grill, grinning. "Ah, you survive Mr. Okoro?"
"Barely," Osaze said, leaning against the counter. "Give me mesh and egg abeg."
"With extra suya?"
"You know me well, boss."
Abu worked fast—grilling the raised bread until it was crispy, cracking an egg onto the surface, adding thin strips of spiced beef. The smell was intoxicating.
Kemi stood beside Osaze, arms crossed, watching him with that look she always had—half-worried, half-annoyed.
"You sure say you suppose dey eat that thing?" she asked. "Your body—"
"I'm fine, Kemi."
"You always say you fine."
Osaze looked at her. Really looked at her.
Her eyes were tired. Worried. Angry.
"What?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Nothing. Just... where you dey go after this?"
"Hospital," Osaze said. "Need my transfusion."
Kemi frowned. "The bone marrow one? With the nanites?"
"Yeah. Syringe goes in, nanites do their work, syringe comes out. Quick thing."
"And after?"
"Home. Sleep. Try not to die."
Kemi didn't laugh.
Abu handed over the mesh and egg, wrapped in paper. Osaze took a bite. The crispy bread, the soft egg, the spicy suya—*perfect.*
"This one sweet die," he groaned.
Kemi smiled despite herself. "You too foodie."
They walked together for a bit, eating in comfortable silence. Then Kemi stopped.
"I dey go do my usual runs tonight," she said. "Patrol thing. Make sure the streets dey safe."
Osaze nodded. "Yeah. Go ahead. We go chat tomorrow."
She hesitated, like she wanted to say something else. Then she just nodded.
"Be careful," she said.
"You too."
Kemi turned and jogged off into the growing darkness, her wolf-cut hair bouncing with each step.
Osaze watched her go, then turned toward Damian's apartment.
By the time Osaze reached Damian's apartment, the sun had set completely. The streetlights flickered on, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement.
He knocked on the door.
"If you no come out," he called, "I go dey bleed dry."
There was a pause.
Then Damian's voice, dry as dust: "That's not funny."
"Na you create the password."
The door opened a crack, and Damian's pale face appeared, squinting into the dim hallway light.
"You late today," he said.
"Mr. Okoro."
"Say no more." Damian opened the door wider, letting Osaze slip inside.
The apartment was dark, cool, the curtains drawn tight. It smelled like old books and incense and something metallic Osaze tried not to think about.
"Good job today, by the way," Damian said, locking the door behind them. "You got it?"
Osaze pulled the small canister from his bag—blood from his earlier hospital visit, the batch without nanites. The clean blood Damian could actually use.
"Yeah. No problem."
Damian took it, unscrewed the cap, and drank. His eyes closed. His shoulders relaxed. Color—what little he had—returned to his face.
"Thanks," he said quietly. "Lifesaver."
"Literally."
Damian sat down on the couch, looking at Osaze with that ancient, tired expression he sometimes got. Three hundred years of living, and he still looked like a man who'd seen too much.
"You know I could fix this, right?" Damian said suddenly. "One bite. No more transfusions. No more sickness. No more dying slowly."
Osaze sank into the chair across from him, exhausted. "We've talked about this."
"I'm just saying—"
"I'm already a disappointment to my dad with this sickle cell," Osaze said, his voice flat. "I don't need to be an *immortal* disappointment."
Damian leaned back, a small smile tugging at his lips. "You really think becoming a vampire would make you *more* of a disappointment? Have you met your dad?"
Despite everything—the pain, the exhaustion, the fear—Osaze laughed.
"Bro, shut up."
"The offer stands," Damian said, his tone serious now. "Always. If you ever change your mind—"
"I know." Osaze stood, heading for the door. "Not yet."
"Not yet," Damian repeated, watching him go. "I'll hold you to that."
---
Osaze's house was quiet when he opened the door. Too quiet.
The TV was on in the living room, but the sound was muted. The lights were dim.
And his father was sitting in the armchair, waiting.
Osaze froze in the doorway.
"Where you been?" his father asked, not turning around.
"School. Then Damian's."
His father finally turned, his face unreadable.
"Close the door," he said. "We need to talk."
Osaze closed the door slowly, his heart pounding.
"About what?"
His father's eyes were hard. Tired. Sad.
"Sit down."