The night market

The First Trade

The glow grew stronger with every step.

By the time Chike reached the end of the alley, the world had changed.

The ground pulsed faintly beneath his shoes, and paper lanterns floated overhead, tied to ropes which appeared to move on their own.

And the air buzzed heavily with whispers.

A market stretched out before him. Dozens of stalls lined both sides, but none sold normal goods.

No yams, second-hand jeans or even pepper were in sight.

Here, people sold.....things that shouldn't exist.

"Fresh laughter! Only three coins!"

"Memories of first love! Still warm!"

Chike's hand trembled as he lifted his recorder. The red light blinked as it started recording. He needed proof.

He needed something real to show people—and himself — that he wasn't losing his mind.

A young woman brushed past him, clutching a tiny glass vial filled with glowing mist. Her eyes were empty, her face slack.

"Excuse me!" he called. "What did you just buy?"

She turned, dazed.

"Peace," she whispered. "I don't want to remember anymore."

Before he could ask more, she vanished into the night.

"First time here?"

The voice came from a small stall on his right.

A wrinkled woman sat behind a table covered in jars, each one holding a faint light that pulsed like trapped hearts.

Chike swallowed. "You could say that."

"Everyone says that," she smiled. "Until they trade."

He glanced at the jars. "What do you sell?"

"Truth," she said simply. "But it costs a lie."

He almost laughed. "You sound like a philosopher."

"No," she said. "I'm a vendor. And I know what you're looking for, Chike Nwosu."

His blood froze. "How do you know my name?"

The woman's smile deepened. "You came for your sister." She reached under the table and brought out a black vial.

Inside, a faint image shimmered—Ifeoma's face. Smiling and crying at the same time.

Chike stumbled back, breath catching in his throat. "What is that?"

"Her last memory before she traded."

"Traded what?"

The woman leaned forward. "Her name. Her life. Maybe both."

He gripped the recorder tighter. "I want that vial."

"Of course," she said sweetly. "But everything here has a price."

He hesitated. "How much?"

The woman tilted her head. "Not money. I want a truth you've been hiding."

Chike's chest tightened. He didn't know what she meant — but the way she looked at him made it feel like she already knew.

Behind him, the market murmured-haggling voices, quiet laughter, distant cries. The glow dimmed for a second, as if the market itself was waiting for his answer.

"What truth?" he asked quietly.

The woman smiled. "The one you buried with your sister."

And before he could respond, his recorder flickered — then died.