THE WRONG w******p GROUP

When people say one small mistake can change your life, I always assume they’re being dramatic. Until the night I joined The Group. Not “a group.” The Group. It all started on a random Tuesday, the kind of day that begins with bad Wi-Fi and ends with emotional damage. I was sitting in my dorm room at Westfield University, pretending to study while actually stalking my lecturer’s LinkedIn page. Don’t judge me; the man gave me a B minus for “lack of originality,” and I just wanted to confirm whether his beard was original. My roommate, Chioma, was snoring on her bed, half-covered in a pink blanket that had seen better days. She had just returned from her “night shift” at Starbucks, which basically meant she’d spent six hours flirting for free coffee and gossip. Me? I was bored. Homesick. And slightly hungry. I would have loved a very hot smoky jellof rice with dodo, beef and coleslaw just the way my mother cooks it in Nigeria. Being bored , homesick and hungry is that very dangerous combination that leads people to make poor decisions, like texting their ex or joining random w******p groups. So when my phone buzzed with a new w******p link titled “Project Sunshine 🌞”, I didn’t even think twice. I just clicked. Don’t ask me why. My brain was clearly on airplane mode. The chat opened instantly. Dozens of messages were already flying in: > Duke: Drop confirmed. No loose ends. Maya: The girl? Duke: Handled. Rex: Keep it clean this time. No attention. I blinked. Read it again. Then stared at my phone like it had started speaking Latin. “What in the Nollywood is this?” I whispered. Before I could process, Chioma stirred on her bed. “Kim, who are you talking to at this ungodly hour? If it’s another motivational YouTube guy, abeg, reduce your volume.” I ignored her. I was busy scrolling. The messages kept coming, fast and coded like a spy movie, but with more grammatical errors. > Rex: I’ll send location by midnight. Maya: Cash or transfer? Duke: Cash. No Trace. At that point, my Nigerian instincts kicked in. Two options presented themselves: Option A: Exit the group. Option B: Mind my business and sleep. Guess what I chose? Option C: Screenshot everything like an FBI intern. .... Chioma sat up, rubbing her eyes. “You’re smiling suspiciously. What happened?” “Chioma, I think I just entered a criminal w******p group.” She frowned, blinking like her brain needed to restart. “Ehn?” I turned my phone toward her. She squinted at the screen, then gasped so loudly she almost inhaled her pillow. “Kimberly! This is not a group chat. This is evidence! These people are planning something.” “I know!” I hissed. “But what if they find out I’m here? My name is literally showing, look!” The group info read: > Kimberly A. Westfield 🇳🇬 Chioma clutched her chest. “You didn’t even use a fake name? Oh Lord, carry me home.” “Don’t shout!” I whispered. “Maybe they won’t notice.” Just then, a new message appeared. > Rex: @Kimberly A. Westfield, Do we know you? .... My soul left my body. “Chioma,” I whispered, frozen. “They saw me.” She screamed, quietly, but dramatically. “Type something! Pretend you’re supposed to be there.” “Like what? ‘Hi, I’m new to crime, please don’t kill me’?” Before I could think, my phone buzzed again. > Maya:We don't care who you are. State your role or leave. “Your role?” Chioma echoed. “Kimberly, these people think you’re part of them!” I could practically hear my heartbeat in stereo. “Okay, okay,” I muttered, “think, Kimberly. Think like a bad guy.” “Which you’re not,” Chioma added helpfully. I quickly typed: > Me: Sorry. Wrong number. And hit send. For a moment, the chat went silent. Then, three dots appeared. Someone was typing. > Rex: Nice try. Nobody joins by mistake. I dropped my phone like it was hot charcoal. “Nope! Nope! I’m done. I’m uninstalling w******p!” Chioma grabbed it before I could. “Wait, wait, wait! Don’t! What if they track you through the app?” “Chioma!” “I’m serious! Have you not seen those movies where people vanish after texting the wrong person?” “Those are movies!” I protested. “This is real life!” “Exactly!” she said, eyes wide. “Worse!” .... I wanted to laugh, cry, and vomit all at once. I’d just joined a group that sounded like a mafia meeting. And now, they thought I was one of them. Suddenly, a new message popped up. > Duke: Don’t panic. If she’s new, we’ll test her. Chioma read it over my shoulder. “Test you? Kimberly, which kind of experiment is this?” Then, another message came in: > Rex: Fine. Let’s see how loyal she is. Rex: Kimberly, check your inbox. Instructions sent. My heart dropped. I slowly opened my private chat. A single message waited there. > Rex: Deliver this package by 11 a.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late. Attached was a location pin. Somewhere in the city. .... “Chioma,” I whispered, voice trembling. “They sent me an address.” She stared at me like I’d just confessed to joining a cult. “You’re finished. They’re using you for ritual delivery service.” “What do I do?” I said, pacing the room. “If I ignore it, they’ll think I’m suspicious. If I go, I’ll die.” Chioma stood dramatically, clutching her hair bonnet. “We need to think smart. First, we act normal. Second, we wait, do we have pepper spray?” “Chioma!” “I’m asking questions that matter!” ..... That night, I barely slept. Every noise sounded like a footstep. Every notification made me jump. By morning, my brain was fried but curiosity wouldn’t let me rest. What if this “package” thing was a prank? Or maybe some stupid online experiment? Chioma begged me not to go. I promised I wouldn’t. Then, naturally, I went anyway. Because apparently, My Name is Kimberly Imisioluwa Afolabi and I’m allergic to peace.