A Shadowed Visit
Akintola sat at his desk, lost in the humdrum of paperwork, when she entered—elegant and commanding. A woman in her thirties, moving with a grace that demanded attention. He recognized her immediately. Everyone did. She was Ronke, daughter of the late Chief Ajumobi, a name that echoed with power and legacy. But what struck him now was the air of sanity that surrounded her. That sanity should not have been there.
A Few Weeks Earlier...
When Chief Ajumobi died, it was Sade, his eldest daughter, who arranged for the body to be retrieved. Ronke, on the other hand, had been silent, trapped in a haze, unwilling to believe that her father was truly gone. She had stood, motionless, at the graveside as the ceremony unfolded. The mourners whispered among themselves, exchanging concerned glances, as Ronke's gaze remained fixed on the coffin.
When the final spade of dirt was thrown, and the crowd began to disperse, something snapped. Without warning, Ronke lunged at one of the men sealing the grave, wielding a jagged stone. Blood spilled as she struck, screaming her denial to the sky. They said that her sanity had shattered that day. Her name was on everyone's lips after that—echoing in markets, whispered behind closed doors. They all said the same thing: Chief Ajumobi's death had stolen her mind.
They took her to Aro, the state asylum, for treatment. It was a place from which no one expected her to return.
Now, Here She Was...
Ronke sat across from him, her eyes piercing and unsettlingly calm. With deliberate movements, she removed the hijab that had hidden her identity, revealing eyes that burned with a strange light. Tools were scattered across Akintola's desk—paperweights, letter openers, and the compact mirror that Ronke now stared at, its reflective surface catching the dim light of the room. He felt a knot of fear tighten in his gut. Ronke reached out, her fingers hovering over the sharp-edged tools.
"Do you know who I am, sir?" Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts.
"Yes," Akintola managed, his voice strained, his eyes never leaving her fingers. "You're Chief Ajumobi's daughter... Ronke." He hesitated, then added, "To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Miss Ajumobi?"
She smiled—a slow, deliberate smile that did nothing to ease his tension. "You'll find out soon enough," she said, her fingers closing around the tools on the desk. Akintola's heart raced, his hand moving subtly beneath the desk until his fingers touched the cold metal of the pistol he had hidden there for emergencies.
Ronke began moving around the room, picking up each tool with a meticulous precision. Akintola's throat tightened. He wanted to shout, to call for help, but he was paralyzed by a strange, paralyzing fear. He could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck, each second dragging on like an eternity.
Then, as suddenly as she had begun, she stopped. Without a word, she turned and handed the tools to him, her eyes steady and almost... pleading. "Please, hide them," she said softly.
Akintola's breath came out in a shuddering gasp as he took the tools, quickly locking them away in the small cabinet by his desk. He sat back down, the pistol still cold and reassuring beneath his fingers. He didn't release it. Not yet.
Ronke settled back in her chair, the atmosphere in the room lightening just a fraction. "I need your help, sir," she said, her voice calm, but with an edge of desperation. "There's a story that needs to be told, and you're the one who will tell it. But first, I need to trust you. Do you understand?"
Akintola's mouth was dry. He nodded, the weight of her words sinking into him. This was no ordinary visit. Whatever story she wanted to tell, it was wrapped in darkness, tied to the tragedy that had shattered her world. He knew then that he was about to be pulled into something far deeper—and far more dangerous—than he could have ever anticipated.
Late at night, Agbaje finished his ritual meal: bread and fried eggs from the street vendor who never failed to occupy the junction, a sturdy, reliable presence even in the deepest hours. The meal was heavy, but he needed it — needed the strength for the transformation that lay ahead. Tonight, he would become the avenging wolf, the leader of a hunt that would end the reign of the red wolf, the creature that had killed Chief and left their pack wounded and raw. The other white wolves were already waiting, sharpening their instincts in the moonlit shadows. Agbaje's vengeance was set; the hunt was inevitable.
The time had come. Agbaje made his way into the heart of the forest, the notorious Igbo Lisabi, a place feared even by those who did not believe in legends. They spoke of ghosts who wandered its shadowy depths, of creatures that prowled beyond sight — rumors, perhaps, to keep the superstitious at bay. But the wolves knew better. They knew what truly haunted the forest. Agbaje shed his clothes, keeping only the ragged remains of his shorts, and as he stood beneath the pale moonlight, his body began to twist and shudder, bones shifting and reforming with a guttural crack. A savage howl tore through the air as the transformation completed.
Thousands of white wolves materialized from the darkness, eyes glimmering like shards of ice in the night. Agbaje, now fully transformed, stood at the front, his fur bristling with purpose, his breath steaming in the cold. Without a sound, they began to move as one, paws drumming against the earth, a tidal wave of predators pouring deeper into the forest. The night swallowed them, the only sound the soft, rhythmic thud of their run, the rustle of leaves underfoot, and the whisper of the wind through skeletal branches.
Hours passed as they hunted, moving like a living shadow through the endless, tangled woods. The scent came suddenly, a faint trace of the red wolf's passage, lingering like smoke on the air. Agbaje's ears pricked forward, and the pack surged as one toward the trail. It was a cold scent, difficult to track, but the white wolves were relentless. They tracked the red wolf's movements through winding paths and dense thickets, over rocky outcrops and fallen logs, until the trail led them to the edge of a lake — Odo Oba, dark and still, the waters reflecting the silver of the moon.
They paused at the lake's edge, the pack panting with anticipation, the air humming with tension. The scent was here, but faint, mingled with the damp rot of the forest and the chill of the water. Agbaje's eyes narrowed, scanning the shadows that lay thick across the far shore. The silence stretched, a taut thread ready to snap. Somewhere out there, hidden in the gloom of Igbo Lisabi's depths, was the red wolf, the one who had defiled their pack, the one who had to be destroyed.
Agbaje's heart pounded as he took the first step into the icy water, his fur bristling as he waded deeper. The pack followed without hesitation, a silent wall of white pressing into the unknown. Every muscle was taut, every sense straining against the oppressive quiet, as if the forest itself was holding its breath. The hunt was not over. It had only just begun, and Agbaje knew that this night, in the shadows of the forbidden woods, there would be no mercy.
They would find the red wolf. They would end this.