Bloodline of Lagos

The Price

*Chapter 3: The Price*

*∼5000 words*

The stone didn’t cool down all day.

It sat on my bedside table, red and smooth, catching the light from my small window and throwing it back in weird patterns on the wall. Every time I looked at it, my chest felt tight. Like the Market was still in the room with me, waiting.

On the back of my door, the chalk writing hadn’t faded: _Stall 48 is open._

I didn’t touch it. I didn’t rub it off. I left it there like a warning.

Mum noticed I was quiet at breakfast. She always notices.

“You okay, Kemi?” she asked, sliding a plate of akara toward me.

I nodded and forced a smile. “Just tired. Didn’t sleep well.”

She studied me for a second, then let it go. She’s good at that. Knowing when to push and when to back off.

After she left for her cleaning job, I sat in the living room with the stone in my hand.

Nothing happened.

No music. No purple lights. No voice telling me to come to the Market.

Just silence.

I almost threw it away.

Then my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

_Stall 48 is open. Bring the umbrella._

My blood went cold.

I don’t have the umbrella anymore. It disappeared after I left the Market. The message had to be from the Keeper, or the Market itself.

I stared at the stone. It was warm now. Hot, almost.

Outside, the sky darkened. Even though it was 10 AM, clouds rolled in fast, covering the sun. The wind picked up, rattling the windows.

The stone burned.

I dropped it.

When it hit the floor, the room changed.

The walls of my flat fell away. The smell of akara and morning air was replaced by rain and iron and old paper. The sound of the city was gone, replaced by drums and flutes and that low, constant singing.

I was back in the Market.

But it was different this time.

The stalls were closer together, pressing in on me. The lanterns burned red instead of purple. The people walking around didn’t look like they were browsing. They looked lost. Hollow.

And in the middle of it all was Stall 48.

It was bigger than the others. Covered in black cloth with silver thread stitched into patterns I didn’t recognize. Symbols that made my eyes hurt if I stared too long.

The red umbrella was leaning against the stall post.

I picked it up.

The moment my fingers touched the handle, the Market went quiet.

“Took you long enough,” a voice said.

It was the Keeper. He stepped out from behind Stall 48, still wearing that 70s suit, still with that blank face.

“You sent me the message,” I said.

He nodded. “The Market did. It wants to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“About Stall 48.” He gestured to the black cloth. “Go inside.”

I hesitated. Last time I went into a stall, I almost lost my voice.

“The Market doesn’t force anyone,” the Keeper said. “But it remembers. And it doesn’t forget easily.”

I swallowed and pushed the cloth aside.

Inside was darkness.

Not the darkness of a room with no light. The kind of darkness that feels alive. It pressed against my skin, cold and damp.

“Hello, Kemi.”

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. The same voice that had spoken when the Market demanded my voice as payment.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I am the Market,” it said. “And you are interesting.”

I gripped the umbrella tighter. “What do you want?”

“You chose to remember,” the Market said. “That is rare. Most people choose to forget. They give me their pain, and I give them a lie. But you… you kept the pain. You kept the memory. And you’re still standing.”

“What does that have to do with Stall 48?”

“Stall 48 is different,” the Market said. “Stall 48 holds what cannot be traded. What cannot be lost. What cannot be found.”

That made no sense.

“Speak plainly,” I said.

The darkness shifted. Shapes moved in it. Faces. Voices.

“Your brother,” the Market said. “Femi.”

My heart stopped.

“You can’t bring him back,” I said. “I know that.”

“I can’t,” the Market said. “But I can show you why he died.”

The darkness solidified. The shapes became a scene.

I was standing on the bank of the canal behind our house. It was raining. Hard. The water was high, brown and fast. Femi was at the edge, holding a plastic ball.

“Kemi!” he called. “Throw it back!”

I was sitting on the steps, scrolling through my phone. I remember that. I remember being annoyed because he kept calling me. I remember thinking, ‘It’s just a ball. He can get it himself.’

He reached for it.

The ground was wet. Slippery.

He slipped.

“Kemi!”

I dropped my phone and ran. But I was too slow.

The water took him.

I screamed. I jumped in after him. The current was strong. It pulled us both under. I grabbed his shirt, but the water ripped it away. I saw his face, eyes wide with fear, and then he was gone.

I woke up in the hospital. Mum was crying. Daddy was angry.

The scene faded.

I was back in Stall 48, gasping for air like I’d been drowning again.

“Why did you show me that?” I asked. My voice shook.

“Because you blame yourself,” the Market said. “And you’re wrong.”

“What do you mean, I’m wrong?”

“The canal was tampered with,” the Market said. “Someone loosened the concrete on the bank. Someone wanted him in the water.”

My blood ran cold.

“That’s not possible,” I said.

“It is,” the Market said. “And I know who did it.”

“Tell me.”

The darkness shifted again. This time, a face appeared.

It was Mr. Ade.

Our neighbor. The man who lived three houses down. The man who always gave Femi sweets when he passed by. The man who cried at the funeral.

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” the Market said. “He owed money. Bad people. They told him to create an accident. A child. It would look like a flood death. No questions asked.”

I shook my head. “You’re lying.”

“Ask him,” the Market said. “Ask him why he hasn’t been home in three years. Ask him why his house is empty.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked.

“Because you asked,” the Market said. “You opened Stall 48. Stall 48 holds truth. And truth has a price.”

“What’s the price?”

The darkness receded. The stall came back into focus.

The Keeper was standing in the doorway.

“The price is your choice,” he said. “Now that you know, what will you do?”

I looked at the red umbrella in my hand.

“What can I do?” I asked. “He’s gone. Femi’s gone.”

“You can choose justice,” the Market said. “You can choose revenge. You can choose to let it go. But you cannot choose to unknow it.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to break something.

But all I felt was tired.

“Why tell me now?” I asked. “Why not three years ago?”

“Because you weren’t ready,” the Keeper said. “The Market only shows you what you can carry.”

I walked out of the stall.

The Market was quiet. The people moving around were quiet. Even the drums had stopped.

I looked at the Keeper. “If I go to the police, will they believe me?”

The Keeper shook his head. “The Market deals in truth, not proof. You have no evidence. Mr. Ade is gone. The people he owed money to are gone.”

“So what’s the point?” I asked. Anger crept into my voice. “You show me this, and I can’t do anything about it?”

“You can do something about yourself,” the Keeper said. “You can stop letting it control you.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him he didn’t understand.

But he was right.

For three years, I’d been living in that moment on the canal bank. I’d been punishing myself for it. I’d been letting it decide who I was.

“No more,” I said.

The Market shifted. The red lights turned back to purple. The drums started again, slow and steady.

“Good,” the Keeper said. “Stall 48 is closed.”

The black cloth fell away, and Stall 48 became an ordinary stall selling dried fish. The smell was awful.

“What happens now?” I asked.

“Now, you leave,” the Keeper said. “And you live.”

I nodded. I turned to go.

“Kemi,” the Keeper called.

I stopped.

“The Market will call again,” he said. “When you’re ready.”

I didn’t answer. I just walked away.

The Market faded.

I was back in my room.

The stone was gone.

The chalk writing on my door was gone.

It was 10:15 AM.

Only 15 minutes had passed in the real world.

Mum came home at noon. She found me in the living room, sitting on the floor with my back against the couch.

“Kemi?” she said. “Are you okay?”

I looked up at her. Really looked at her. The lines around her eyes. The gray in her hair. The way she carried herself like she was holding up the world.

“I’m okay, Mum,” I said.

She sat down next to me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I almost laughed. “Something like that.”

We sat in silence for a while.

“Mum,” I said finally.

“Yes, baby?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “For everything. For Femi. For being distant. For making you worry.”

She took my hand. “Kemi, listen to me. None of this was your fault. Do you hear me? None of it.”

I nodded. I didn’t cry.

“I know,” I said.

She squeezed my hand. “Good.”

We stayed like that until the akara got cold.

That night, I slept without dreaming.

No canal. No rain. No Femi calling my name.

Just quiet.

The next day, I went back to work at Mama Tolu’s.

Business was slow. The rain had scared people inside.

I was wiping tables when I saw him.

Mr. Ade.

He was thinner than I remembered. Older. His clothes were worn, his shoulders slumped. He stood across the street, looking at my stall like he wanted to come in but couldn’t.

Our eyes met.

He looked away first.

I didn’t call out to him. I didn’t confront him.

I just watched him walk away.

Later, I told Mama Tolu I was taking a break.

I walked to the canal.

It was quiet. The water was low. The bank had been repaired years ago, the concrete smooth and new.

I sat on the steps where I’d been sitting that day.

“Hey, Femi,” I said.

The wind moved through the grass.

“I know now,” I said. “It wasn’t my fault. And it wasn’t just an accident.”

I didn’t say his name out loud. Saying it felt like reopening a wound.

“I’m going to live now,” I said. “For both of us. Okay?”

The wind moved again.

I took that as a yes.

When I got home, there was a package on my doorstep.

No name. No return address.

Inside was a red umbrella.

Not the same one. Smaller. Newer.

And a note:

_Stall 49 is open when you’re ready.

– K_

I smiled.

I put the umbrella by the door and went inside.

Mum was cooking again. Jollof rice. My favorite.

“Something smells good,” I said.

She looked up and smiled. “For you, my star girl.”

I helped her in the kitchen.

And for the first time in years, I felt like I was home.

The Market would call again. I knew that.

But I wasn’t afraid anymore.

Because now, I knew who I was.

And that was enough.

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