The Warning Returns
868 Words
The dream started like a memory — warm, soft, familiar.
Danika was laughing.
Her head thrown back.
Sunlight danced across her face.
They were at the beach, feet buried in sand. Waves curled against the shore in gentle pulses.
She wore a white wrapper around her waist. A coral necklace shimmered like fire in the wind.
Mike was smiling.
Then the sky dimmed.
The tide rose.
Danika’s laugh faded.
Her smile collapsed.
Suddenly, she stood waist-deep in black water, hands stretched toward him.
Her lips moved.
But no sound came.
Her eyes held something older than sadness.
Something like warning.
Behind her, the waves surged.
A figure — cloaked in shadows — rose from the sea and wrapped its arms around her.
She didn’t scream.
She only whispered, through salt and silence:
“You gave everything. Now there is nothing left of you.”
Mike sat up in bed, gasping.
His shirt clung to his skin, soaked in sweat.
It was 4:13 a.m.
Outside, the generators were silent.
Only the rustle of tree leaves whispered through the wind.
He reached for his phone.
No new messages.
He lay back down.
But the silence now felt louder.
As if something unseen… was watching.
Later that morning, Danika called.
Her voice was normal.
Too normal.
“Babe, I need to ask you something serious,” she said, skipping greetings.
“Okay,” Mike replied, trying to sound calm.
“My mom said something weird last night. She went through one of my drawers… and found my old hospital file.”
Mike frowned. “Why is she going through your stuff?”
“She’s like that. But listen she found my discharge notes. From 2019. From the… pregnancy.”
A long pause.
Mike blinked.
He hadn't known this part of her.
“I didn’t know you were pregnant,” he said softly.
Danika inhaled.
“Yeah. It was a long time ago. I was nineteen. It ended badly. I lost the baby. Didn’t tell anyone except my aunt.”
“I buried that part of my life.”
Mike ran a hand across his face.
“Why is she bringing it up now?”
“She says it’s a curse. That I never healed. That no man will truly stay unless I cleanse myself.”
“She’s threatening to take me to one of those seer women in Agege.”
“Danika—”
“I told her no. But she’s stubborn.”
Mike clenched his jaw.
“Your past isn’t a curse.”
She was quiet.
Then softly: “But what if it is?”
He hated that sound — the doubt in her voice. The shame she was swallowing.
“You think I’d leave you because of something that happened years ago?”
“No,” she said. “But I think you should know who you’re building with.”
Mike exhaled slowly.
“I’m still here, Danika.”
That afternoon, Mike visited his aunt in Ketu.
The same woman who once dragged him to see an oracle.
She was sweeping the compound when he arrived.
Wrapper tied high. Lips moving in quiet prayer.
She looked up. Her eyes narrowed.
“So you finally came.”
“I had a dream,” Mike said. “About water. About her. And I need clarity.”
Inside the small living room — filled with incense and gospel posters — she poured water into a calabash and began to chant.
Mike sat on a wooden stool.
His legs shook.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Then she looked up.
“She carries a wound,” his aunt said. “It’s not just the lost child. It’s deeper. Something generational.”
“Her mother… her mother is the doorway.”
Mike swallowed. “So what does that mean for me?”
His aunt’s voice was calm.
But final.
“You are pouring water into a basket.”
“It will not hold.”
“Not because your love isn’t strong — but because her soul is not ready to be filled.”
Mike looked away.
“Do I leave her?”
“That choice is yours,” she said.
“But the more you give, the more you lose. The longer you stay, the more the river claims you.”
Mike left without a word.
But her warning lingered — heavy, like a storm that never rains.
That night, Danika messaged him.
Danika: I can’t sleep.
Mike: Me neither.
Danika: I feel like things are changing.
Mike: They are. But we’ll find a way.
Danika: Are you sure?
Mike: I want to be. That has to count for something.
Then he added:
Mike: Do you believe love can survive a prophecy?
Danika didn’t reply.
Not immediately.
An hour passed.
Mike sat alone in the compound, staring up at a sky where stars fought to be seen behind Lagos smog.
Then her reply came:
Danika: If our love is strong enough, maybe we rewrite the prophecy.
Danika: But if I’m the curse… maybe you should run before it’s too late.
He stared at the message.
Typed nothing.
Just sat in silence.
Because a part of him still wanted to fight.
But another part…
Already felt himself drowning.
- Writer
