Shadow of Lagos( The echoer)

Lagos is a city that never sleeps. Even late at night, there is always noise. The sound of horns, shouts from danfo drivers, the crackling voice of hawkers selling gala and pure water, the beat of music from nightclubs, the steady hum of generators. People say this noise is energy, proof that Lagos is alive. But sometimes, I feel it is too much. It is like the city is breathing too fast, restless, never calm. My name is Ruth Ibrahim. I am twenty-seven years old, and I work as an architect. My life is full of drawings, deadlines, and construction sites. My friends think I am too serious, but I like order. Buildings follow rules. Numbers don’t lie. That night, I was at a construction site in Victoria Island. It was a tall building twenty floors when finished and I was proud to be part of the project. The workers had gone home hours ago. Only the security guard, Musa, was at the gate. I had stayed behind because I wanted to double-check some measurements before tomorrow’s meeting. My boss, Mr. Hassan, is the type of man who notices even a mistake of one centimeter. I climbed up to the top floor, carrying my roll of drawings. The night air was heavy with heat. Sweat stuck to my skin. But from the rooftop, Lagos looked beautiful. Traffic lights stretched across the bridge like a red and white snake. Neon signs glowed. From somewhere below, I could hear afrobeat music playing. For a moment, I forgot my tiredness. I felt like I was standing above the whole city. Then I heard it. A voice. Soft, stretched, like it was traveling from very far away. Ruth… I stopped moving. My heart beat fast. I turned quickly, thinking maybe Musa had followed me. But the rooftop was empty. Only steel rods, cement blocks, and the blinking light of the crane above. The sound of the city continued as normal cars honking, people laughing far below. But the voice I had heard was different. Too close. Too personal. I told myself it was nothing. Maybe I was tired. Maybe I was hearing the wind. I bent over my drawings again. But then it came again. Ruth… Ibrahim… This time, it felt like the sound was coming from under my feet. The concrete floor vibrated lightly, almost like it was carrying the voice up through the building. My hands grew cold. I wanted to tell myself it was stress, that I had been working too much. But my body didn’t believe it. The hair on my arms stood up. I quickly packed my things, rolled my drawings too tight, and walked toward the stairs. I told myself to walk normally, not to look like I was running. But every step felt heavy. On the fifth floor, I stopped suddenly. There was something on the wall. A handprint. It was dark, like a stain, almost black against the grey cement. But it wasn’t paint. It wasn’t dirt. It looked burned, as if fire had pressed into the wall and left a mark. I touched it with my finger. The wall was cool. Too cool, for such a hot night. The fingers of the handprint were long, longer than any human hand. The mark stretched down, leaving streaks like claws. I pulled back quickly. My heart was now beating so fast I could hear it in my ears. Then the sound came again. Not one voice. Many voices. Layered together, some deep, some sharp, all echoing like they were trapped in a tunnel. “You… are… not… safe…” That was enough. I dropped my drawings and ran down the stairs. My footsteps echoed loudly in the empty building. When I reached the ground floor, Musa jumped up from his chair. “Madam Ruth! Wetin happen? You dey run like thief!” His eyes were wide with surprise. I forced a laugh, but my throat was dry. Ah, Musa… nothing o. Just… too much work. I need rest. He frowned, but he didn’t ask more. In Lagos, people know better than to ask too many questions at night. I hurried to my car. My hands shook as I started the engine. I drove quickly out of the site and onto the The city stretched in front of me. Headlights flashed. Danfos swerved. The night was alive, loud, busy as always. But inside my car, I felt cold. I told myself I had left the sound behind, locked in that building. But as I crossed the bridge, I realized something terrible. The sound hadn’t stayed there. It had followed me. The voices were faint at first, mixing with the hum of my car. But they were there, inside the air around me, repeating my name in broken echoes. Ruth… Ibrahim… I gripped the steering wheel harder. My eyes filled with tears. I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew the truth. Something was inside this city. Something was calling me. And I was not safe.