THE WRONG w******p GROUP

Chapter One - Part 2: THE PACKAGE

The Wrong w******p Group

Part Two: “The Package”

Recap — in Kimberly’s voice

So apparently, joining the wrong w******p group can nearly get you kidn*pped. Who knew? One minute, you’re laughing at memes; the next, you’re getting coordinates to a creepy “pick-up location” that feels like the start of a Netflix crime documentary.

Chioma, my best friend, chaos partner, and professional trouble magnet said, “Let’s just check it out.” And me, a supposedly smart Yoruba girl studying abroad, followed her like a goat to s*******r. Don’t ask me why. Curiosity is a disease, and I’m terminal.

Anyway, the Monday morning started with me clutching a brown package, a strange message saying “Don’t open it,” and a location ping that led straight to an abandoned-looking house. Now, I’m wondering if I should have just ignored that group chat and focused on passing my classes instead of starring in a live-action mystery series.

.....

Delivery Day Disaster

You know how everyone says “it’s just another Monday”? Yeah, mine started like that, except with me trying to sneak a suspicious box into class like I was smuggling contraband.

“Kimberly,” Chioma whispered dramatically as we walked through the campus courtyard, “you look like you’re about to deliver a bomb.”

“It’s not a bomb,” I hissed, hugging the package closer. “It’s... a surprise. For someone.”

She gave me that look, eyebrows raised, lips twitching and damn, she looks sexy when she does it sometimes. “Right. A surprise wrapped in duct tape with no return address. Totally normal.”

The morning sun glared down like it was judging me too. I was wearing a dark brown crop top which has the sentence 'Be the best' written on the front, a little brown jacket to cover up my navel incase of oversabi lecturers and a jean trouser with my black slippers(black can never go wrong with any outfit right?!, well, I don't even care at that point.) Students rushed past with their coffee cups and laptops, while I carried this thing like it was a newborn baby. The label on it said just one thing: K.M. — URGENT DELIVERY. DO NOT OPEN.

“I still don’t understand why we’re the ones delivering it,” Chioma said. “Why not the mailroom? Or the FBI?”

“Because,” I said, adjusting my grip and turning sideways to face her, she was hot with the not too short cream coloured gown she was wearing and her ponytail which was done perfectly and a black scrunchie to match, “the message said it had to be hand-delivered. And I think whoever sent it knows me.”

That shut her up for exactly ten seconds.

“Knows you how? Like, knows-you-from-the-group-chat knows you, or knows-you-as-in-stalker-knows-you?”

I glared. “You’re not helping.”

As we reached the lecture hall, Professor Jenkins, known campus-wide for his hatred of late arrivals, was already setting up. I shoved the box into my tote bag (don’t ask how it fit; desperation makes you creative) and slid into a seat.

“Good morning, class,” the professor began. “Today, we’re discussing ethics in digital communication.....”

I almost choked. Digital communication. The irony.

Halfway through his lecture, I felt my phone buzz. Chioma, sitting beside me, leaned over.

> Unknown Number: Did you receive the package?

My blood froze.

I turned to Chioma and whispered, “Someone just texted me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. But they know about the package.”

Her eyes widened. “Text them back!”

I hesitated, then typed:

> Me: Who is this?

No reply.

Another minute passed. Then another buzz.

> Unknown Number: Deliver it by noon. Don’t be late.

Chioma mouthed, “NOON?!”

I mouthed back, “YES!”

The professor stopped mid-sentence and glared. “Miss Kimberly, do you have something you’d like to share with the class?”

My soul left my body. “Uh, ...ethics?”

The class burst into laughter.

....

The Lecture Hall of Doom

If embarrassment could kill, I’d have been six feet under right beside my GPA.

Everyone laughed as I sank lower in my chair. Chioma bit her pen to keep from giggling.

“Since Miss Kimberly seems so interested in ethics,” Professor Jenkins said, “why don’t you tell us what you’d do if someone sent you a suspicious message online?”

The class “oooh-ed.” I swear the universe was mocking me.

“Uh,” I stammered, “I’d … report it?”

He nodded. “Good. Because ignoring signs of trouble is how people end up on Dateline.”

Laughter again. Meanwhile, the suspicious message sat in my phone like a ticking time bomb.

When class finally ended, chioma grabbed my arm. “So. Noon deadline. That’s in, what, thirty minutes?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“And you plan to just … walk there? With that?” She pointed at my tote bag.

“I don’t exactly have delivery drones, Chi.”

She sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if we die, I’m haunting you first. Can we go have lunch before going?!”

I glared at her, "Do you think I have the appetite to eat anything right now? You can go alone but please, I take God beg you, be back in twenty minutes!"

She scoffed and left.

......

The Long Walk to Nowhere

Trust some Nigerians and African time, She came back thirty minutes later. We had just eight minutes before noon so we left immediately to the location given to me.

The coordinates from the text led us off campus to a quiet street lined with maple trees. Students cycled past; a delivery van idled by the curb. Everything looked normal, too normal.

Chioma kept glancing over her shoulder. “This is how horror movies start.”

“Relax,” I said, even though my heart was doing jumping jacks. “We just drop it off and leave.”

The GPS pinged. We stopped in front of a tiny coffee shop called Bean There, Done That.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Chioma muttered. “All this drama for cappuccino?”

I pushed the door open. Bells jingled. Inside smelled like roasted heaven. A barista with pink hair smiled. “Welcome! Pick-up or delivery?”

“Delivery,” I said slowly. “For … K.M.”

Her smile faltered. “Oh. That’s … quite interesting.” She disappeared into the back.

Chioma leaned close. “You saw that, right? She looked like she just saw a ghost.”

Before I could answer, the barista returned with an envelope. “You’re supposed to swap.”

“Swap?” I echoed.

She pointed at my tote. “You leave that box. You take this envelope. That’s all I know.”

Chioma whispered, “Girl, this is Mission Impossible.”

We did the exchange. The envelope was sealed with red wax, like 1800s royal-family kind of wax. On it, in neat handwriting: OPEN AT 4 P.M. ALONE.

I stared at it. “What kind of nonsense scavenger hunt is this?”

Outside, Chioma said, “Okay, we’re going to our dorm, locking the door, and opening that thing together.”

“Except it says ‘alone.’”

She folded her arms. “And since when do we listen to creepy handwritten notes?”

.......

Dorm Room Dilemmas

Back in our room, the envelope sat on my desk like it owned the place. I paced. Chioma scrolled through t****k as if we weren’t possibly about to be cursed.

“Maybe it’s money,” she said hopefully.

“Or anthrax.”

She tossed a pillow at me. “You watch too many documentaries.”

At exactly 4 p.m., I exhaled and picked up the envelope. “Here goes nothing.”

Chioma squeezed her eyes shut. “If something jumps out, I’m suing.”

I broke the seal. Inside was a single Polaroid photo, a blurry picture of me and Valerie that had been taken that morning.

My scream could’ve registered on the Richter scale.

Chioma snatched the photo. “How, how did they... we just left class, this is literally today!”

There was also a note beneath it:

> Nice job following instructions. The next delivery arrives tonight. Don’t miss it.

“Nope,” Chioma said, throwing her hands up. “Absolutely not. I’m calling campus security, the police, maybe the Pope.”

Before she could reach her phone, there was a knock at the door.

We froze.

“Kimberly Afolabi?” a deep voice called.

Chioma mouthed, Do NOT open it.

Another knock. Louder.

I swallowed. “Who’s there?”

“Courier service. Got a package for you.”

Chioma’s eyes nearly popped out. “Another one?!”

I stepped closer. “Leave it at the door!”

A pause. Then footsteps retreating. We waited until silence settled. When we opened the door, there it was, another brown box, same duct-taped design, but this one smaller and marked with black ink: OPEN NOW.

.....

The Second Knock

“Don’t you dare,” Chioma whispered.

I knelt by the box. My hands shook. “What if there’s something inside that explains all this?”

“Or something that eats you.”

I peeled the tape slowly. Inside was … another envelope, and a tiny flash drive. The envelope read, Play the file and follow instructions.

Chioma’s voice went high-pitched. “We’re not seriously plugging that into your laptop, right?”

“Curiosity,” I muttered, “is a disease.”

I inserted the flash drive. The screen flickered. A video started, shaky, like handheld footage. The camera panned over a dimly lit room full of boxes identical to mine. Then a voice distorted by static said:

> “You’re not supposed to be part of this group, Kimberly. But now that you are, you have two choices: finish the delivery chain … or be delivered.”

The screen went black.

Chioma gasped. “DELIVERED?! What does that even mean?!”

My phone buzzed. Another message.

> Unknown Number: Nice view from your window.

We both turned slowly toward the window.

The pink curtain swayed — and a small red laser dot danced across the wall.

Chioma whispered, “Kimberly… someone’s out there.”

Another buzz.

> Unknown Number: See you soon.

Then — BANG!

The lights went out.