The Toll Gate Girl:A LAGOS MIDNIGHT TALE
I didn't believe the stories until my bike stalled right in front of her. She wasn't holding a ticket. She was holding a grudge.
The silence was heavy, like a wet blanket. I tapped my starter, but the engine just wheezed. I didn't look up, but I could feel her eyes—cold and sharp like a razor blade.
"Oga... you forgot something," her voice whispered. It didn't sound like it came from her mouth; it sounded like it was coming from inside my own head.
I finally looked. She was closer now. Her dress was shredded, stained with the red dust of a thousand Lagos harmattans. But it was her hands that made my blood freeze. She wasn't holding a toll ticket. She was holding a rusted iron chain, and the other end was wrapped tightly around my back tire.
"I... I don't have change, abeg," I stammered, my heart hammering against my ribs.
She leaned in, the smell of damp earth and old copper filling my nose. A hollow grin spread across her face, showing teeth that looked like broken glass.
"I don't want your money, tunde," she hissed, using my name even though I’d never seen her before. "I want the time you stole."
Suddenly, the streetlights flickered and died. The only thing I could see were her glowing, milky eyes. The chain began to rattle, pulling my bike—and me—backward into the darkness of the abandoned toll booth.
[TO BE CONTINUED...]
