Late Night Cries

Chapter Two: Dead Air

The morning light crept into Rogo timidly, as if afraid to disturb the silence that had settled overnight. The mist hung low over the red earth, curling around the mud houses and dry wells. Birds sang cautiously, their chirps sharp and uncertain.

the entire village was buzzing. Word spread fast through the small cluster of houses and stalls that Chika — the cheerful woman who ran the buka — had been found dead near the roadside.

No one knew what happened. No wounds. No struggle. Just… gone.

Jamila’s mug slipped from her hand when she heard it, shattering on the floor.

Her aunt, Mama Fadima, who had been visiting, rushed in. “Jamila! What’s wrong?”

But Jamila couldn’t answer. The only thing running through her mind was the song.

The song she’d played.

‘Six Feet Away.’

Her stomach turned to ice.

The news spread like wildfire. By afternoon, Rogo had dissolved into frightened whispers. Women clustered at the well, trading half-formed theories and crossing themselves as if to ward off evil. Men shook their heads, muttering that strange things had begun since the Chief’s daughter took over the radio.

Jamila stayed indoors. She couldn’t bear to see their faces — the unspoken suspicion in their eyes. She sat by the window, staring at the distant tower that loomed over the fields like a monument to something she didn’t yet understand.

Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Chika’s smiling face from her last visit to the buka — bright, teasing, alive. And then the headline from that morning replayed in her head like a chant:

Local Woman Found Dead — No Visible Cause.

She hadn’t eaten. The air in the house felt too still, too heavy. The silence, once her comfort, now pressed against her skin.

And somewhere beneath it all, the guilt festered.

She had played that song. She had chosen it. And now Chika was gone.

The logical part of her mind told her it was coincidence — that songs don’t kill people. But the rest of her, the part that remembered the flickering lights and the whisper that said her name, wasn’t so sure.

By noon, she could no longer stay in the house. She wrapped her scarf tightly around her head and stepped out. The heat slapped her face, but it couldn’t melt the cold lodged in her chest. The streets were alive with murmurs and watchful eyes.

Someone she passed muttered, “That’s her — the radio girl.”

Another voice whispered, “Her father was into strange things.”

She quickened her pace, keeping her gaze low, wishing she could vanish into the dust.

Her feet carried her without thought — down the winding road past the old mosque, past the shuttered market stalls, until she stood before a small compound with faded blue walls. Aisha’s house.

She hesitated for a moment, palms clammy, heart pounding. Then she knocked.

A familiar voice called out, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” Jamila said softly.

The door creaked open, and Aisha Bello appeared — tall, slender, with warm brown eyes that could see straight through pretenses. She wore her hijab loose, and a flour-dusted apron clung to her waist. The smell of freshly baked masa wafted from inside.

“Jamila?” she said, eyebrows raised. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Jamila tried to smile, but her lips trembled. “Can I come in?”

Inside, the small parlor was filled with the comforting hum of life — the ticking wall clock, the distant laughter of Aisha’s younger siblings, the clink of utensils from the kitchen. For a moment, Jamila wanted to collapse into that normalcy, to pretend everything was fine.

But her friend’s gaze was sharp, steady. “Talk to me. What happened?”

Jamila hesitated. Her voice felt like glass — fragile, ready to c***k. “It’s… it’s about Chika.”

Aisha’s expression softened. “I heard. Terrible thing.”

Jamila nodded, staring at her trembling hands. “I think… I think it’s my fault.”

Aisha blinked. “Your fault? Jamila, what are you saying?”

Jamila told her everything — about the message from Tolu, the strange song requests, the whispering static, and finally, the text from last night. She spoke in a low, shaking voice, afraid the walls might be listening.

When she finished, Aisha was silent for a long time.

“Please say something,” Jamila whispered.

Aisha leaned back, folding her arms. “Jamila, do you hear yourself? Texts from a dead man? Voices in the radio?”

“I know how it sounds.”

“Babe, you’ve been overworking yourself. That station is draining you. Maybe it’s just stress. You need sleep.”

Jamila shook her head violently. “You didn’t see what I saw, Aisha. You didn’t hear it. The lights flickered, the mic hissed — and then the next morning, Chika—” Her voice broke. “—Chika was gone.”

Aisha reached across the table and took her hand. “Okay. Let’s slow down. You’re saying someone texted you pretending to be Tolu, and after that, people started dying?”

Jamila nodded.

“Could be someone playing mind games,” Aisha said carefully. “You know this place — superstitions run deep. Maybe it’s someone from the village trying to scare you off your father’s land.”

Jamila wanted to believe her. She really did. But something deep inside whispered otherwise.

“What if it’s not a prank?” she asked softly. “What if it’s real?”

Aisha sighed, releasing her hand. “And what do you think is real, Jamila? That ghosts are using your father’s radio?”

The words stung, but Jamila didn’t argue. Instead, she stood and walked to the window. Outside, the afternoon sun glared down on the empty road, making the air shimmer. The radio tower in the distance glinted like an eye — always watching.

“My father used to say the dead could speak through sound,” Jamila murmured. “He said everything in this world — every soul, every memory — leaves behind a frequency. Maybe he was right.”

Aisha gave her a look halfway between worry and pity. “He also said the tower was haunted by the spirits of unpaid engineers. You know he loved to exaggerate.”

Despite herself, Jamila smiled weakly. “Maybe.”

Aisha stood and walked over to her. “Listen. You’re my best friend. I believe something strange might be happening — but I don’t believe it’s supernatural. Let’s figure it out. Together.”

Jamila turned to her, eyes glistening. “You’d help me?”

“Of course. But promise me one thing — don’t go back there tonight. Not alone.”

Jamila hesitated, then nodded.

That evening, the air grew heavy again, thick with the scent of rain that refused to fall. The entire village seemed to shrink into itself. Candles flickered behind shuttered windows. Even the children, usually wild in the evenings, stayed indoors.

Jamila sat in her father’s study, staring at his old notebook. Pages of fading ink — broadcast schedules, jotted song lyrics, strange sketches of wave patterns that looked like heartbeat lines. One page was bookmarked with a dried leaf. She opened it.

Scrawled in his handwriting were the words:

“Midnight is the thinnest hour. The air hums with memory.”

She ran her fingers over the ink.

That night, she tried to sleep early. She prayed, whispered Ayatul Kursi under her breath, and tucked her phone under her pillow. But her mind wouldn’t rest. The faint hum of the ceiling fan sounded too much like static.

Every time she blinked, she saw Chika’s smiling face. Every time the wind rattled the window, she heard her father’s sign-off:

“Goodnight, Rogo. The dead never sleep.”

At 11:59, her phone buzzed.

Her heart stopped.

Slowly, she pulled it out, half-expecting to see that cursed number again. But it was a message from Aisha.

“You awake?”

She exhaled shakily and typed back:

“Barely.”

Aisha’s reply came instantly.

“Don’t let it get in your head. We’ll figure this out tomorrow, I promise.”

Jamila smiled faintly, tears burning her eyes.

“Thank you.”

She placed the phone aside and stared at the dark ceiling.

Outside, the wind whispered through the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a faint hum rose — almost like a faraway song.

The same tune she’d played the night before.

Six Feet Away.

Her heart began to race.

“No,” she whispered, sitting up. “Not again.”

She walked to the window. The tower in the distance glowed faintly, though there was no power.

The hum grew louder, wrapping around her like breath. And beneath it — so faint she almost missed it — a voice called her name.

“Jamila…”

Her knees weakened. She backed away, clutching her scarf.

Then her phone buzzed again.

She froze.

One new message. No contact name.

She opened it with trembling fingers.

Play “Silent Tears” – for Aisha.

Her throat closed.

For a long, endless moment, she just stood there, staring at the screen.

Then, with a choked sound, she hurled the phone across the room. It hit the wall and fell to the floor with a dull thud.

The hum faded. The night fell silent once more.

But Jamila knew — deep down — that silence in Rogo was never truly silence. It was just waiting.