MY GHOST LOVER

Cassie stared at the paper taped to her door like it was a death warrant. FINAL NOTICE. PAY N350,000 IN 3 DAYS OR VACATE. NO EXCUSES THIS TIME. - LANDLORD. The red ink was bleeding from the rain. Her hand was shaking so badly the paper rattled. Three days. Where was she supposed to find three hundred and fifty thousand naira in three days in Lagos? This Lagos where she had no helper, no husband, no rich uncle. Just this morning, Baba Razaq the landlord had banged on her door at 6am while she was still brushing her teeth. "Cassie! My money! I have 10 other girls ready to pay double for this room! You think this is charity?" She had begged. "Baba please, end of week. My salary..." "Salary? You that they fired at Shoprite? I heard. Don't play with me." How did he know? Everybody in this Yaba face-me-I-face-you compound knew everything. The woman frying akara downstairs had already told everyone she saw Kehlani carrying her staff ID card out of Shoprite like a thief. She was fired. Yes. Two weeks ago. Her supervisor said she was "too quiet with customers." What did that even mean? She was quiet because she was hungry. She was quiet because her mother was calling every day shouting about bride price and village meetings. She pushed the door open. Her one-room apartment smelled of damp and failed dreams. The single bulb flickered. NEPA had taken light since morning, and her small Gen had no fuel. She threw her bag on the floor and sank onto the thin mattress. The foam had sunk in the middle from three years of sleeping on it. "God, why me?" she whispered to the cracked ceiling. "I did everything right. I left the village. I got second class upper in UNILAG. I did NYSC. Why am I still suffering like this?" Her phone rang. MAMA flashing on screen. She ignored it. She knew exactly what Mama would say. "Cassie, your mates are married with two children. Your cousin Nkechi's husband just built house. When will you bring a man? Come back to village, there is a widower who wants to marry you, he has land." She couldn't go back. She would rather die in this Yaba room. She tried calling her best friend, Blessing. No answer. Blessing had blocked her last week after she borrowed 5k and couldn't pay back. She curled up and cried. Not loud crying. That silent, shoulder-shaking crying that only broke girls in Lagos know. She prayed, even though she had stopped going to church because she had no offering. "Anybody. Any spirit. Anybody that can hear me. I need someone to save me. I cannot do this alone again. Please." She fell asleep on the floor, still in her work clothes. At 11:58 PM, there was a knock. Three slow knocks. Tok. Tok. Tok. Deliberate. Cassie jolted awake. Her heart was in her throat. Who knocks at almost midnight in Yaba? Armed robbers don't knock. Yahoo boys don't knock. Only spirits knock like that. Her grandma used to tell her. She didn't answer. She held her breath. Then an envelope slid under her door. Slowly. A brown envelope. Fat. Heavy. She crawled to it on her knees, like it might bite her. She opened it with shaking fingers. Cash. Thick bundles. Fresh mint naira. The kind banks give. She counted. N10,000 x 40. N400,000. More than her rent. Enough to pay landlord, buy food, buy fuel. Her heart started beating so fast she thought it would burst. Fear mixed with hope. Who leaves N400k like that? She rushed to the door and flung it open, still holding the envelope. A man was standing at the end of the dark corridor. Tall. Black suit that looked expensive. Even in the darkness, even with only the moonlight from the corridor window, she could see how handsome he was. Too handsome. Like an Igbo film actor. "Wait! Oga! You left money! You made mistake!" He turned slowly. He smiled. His teeth were too white, too perfect. And his eyes... his eyes were all black. No white. "I didn't leave it. I paid what belongs to me," he said. His voice was deep, like he was speaking from inside a well, not used to speaking to humans. "What do you mean what belongs to you?" "This apartment. You. I have been watching you since you moved in." Cassie's blood ran cold. "I don't know you. Take your money back! I don't do hookup!" He walked closer. His shoes made no sound on the cement floor. As he passed under the flickering corridor light, Kehlani saw it. The light didn't shine on him. The light went straight through him. Like he was not there. "You prayed," he said, now right in front of her. She could smell rain and old incense and something like dust from an old grave on him. "Last night. You said 'I need someone to save me.' I came. I always come when lonely women call." "I didn't pray to you! I prayed to God!" He lifted his hand to touch her face. She wanted to run but her legs refused. His hand was cold. Ice cold. Not human cold. Dead body cold. The cold that makes your soul leave your body. Cassie screamed. A raw, loud scream that woke the neighbor's baby. And then he was gone. Like smoke blown by wind. Vanished. The envelope was still in her hand. Real. Heavy. She slammed the door, locked it with key, padlock, chair behind it, everything. She counted the money again with shaky hands. It was real. But inside the envelope, under the cash, there was something else. A small, old, yellow receipt. Shoprite receipt. Dated 2021. And a name written in faded biro at the back: ERIC HENRY- STAFF ID 104 - DECEASED. She looked at the clock. 12:03 AM. Outside her window, so close it felt like he was breathing on her neck, she heard his voice again, whispering through the wall, through her skin: "I'll be back tomorrow night, my wife. Keep my money safe."