Zainab sat at her desk, staring at the map.
The obsidian amulet—the first key—rested beside her pencil case, its soft glow reflecting in her glasses. She still hadn't told anyone. Not her mum. Not her cousins. Not even Nkiru, her oldest friend.
How do you even begin to explain something like this?
"Hi, I touched a library mirror and got sucked into a forgotten city where a ghost lady made me relive my trauma, and now I have a glowing stone and a talking map."Yeah, that wouldn't go down well over breakfast.
She sighed and ran a finger through her braids, gently tugging at the ones near her temple like she always did when she was deep in thought.
On the map, a new inscription had appeared just under the teardrop:
"Seek the city beneath the sands."
She whispered the words aloud. "City beneath the sands… That could be a metaphor, right? Or maybe... an actual buried city?"
She reached for her laptop and started typing:"Ancient cities in Africa lost beneath the sand."
Result #3 caught her eye:
"Birnin Iji — a mythical city said to be swallowed by the Sahara over 1,000 years ago. Legends say its people never died, only waited."
Her heart skipped.
✈️ The Flight North
Convincing her mother to let her visit Sokoto under the excuse of a "geography field trip" wasn't easy. It involved tears, extra house chores, and her best innocent face. But somehow, it worked.
By Thursday, Zainab found herself on a dusty bus heading north, with nothing but a backpack, her journal, the obsidian amulet hidden under her shirt, and that pulsing map.
She wasn't sure what she expected, but it wasn't this. Wide-open skies. Dry air that cracked her lips. And endless sand. She had read about it, but being here was different. Real. Alive. Even the wind seemed to whisper in some forgotten tongue.
🏜 Arrival
She reached the village of Tassaba, near the edge of the desert. An old man at the market stall looked up when she asked about Birnin Iji.
"Young girl," he said, his Hausa laced with a thick accent, "why do you chase things the sun has buried?"
"I'm just curious," she replied carefully.
He stared at her for a long moment… then handed her a dried date.
"Go past the Singing Dunes. At the third crescent rock, listen when the wind pauses. If you're meant to find it, the sand will open."
Zainab blinked. "That's it?"
The man chuckled. "That's always been it."
🌬 Into the Desert
She followed his instructions with nothing but her compass, a bottle of water, and blind faith.
Hours passed. The heat pressed down like judgment. Her shoes filled with sand. Her throat ached. She nearly turned back — twice.
But just as the sun dipped low, she reached the third crescent rock.
The wind fell silent.
Zainab held her breath.
And then — thud. A vibration beneath her feet. Then another.
Suddenly the ground cracked open like a trapdoor. She stumbled backward as sand spilled into a hidden stairway winding downward — carved stone beneath centuries of dust.
She looked around.
"If this isn't magic, I don't know what is."
She gripped the obsidian amulet, tucked it tight in her palm, and began to descend.
🕯 The City That Waited
The staircase opened into a massive underground chamber — lit not by torches, but by walls painted in light-sensitive ink that glowed in the dark. Murals of warriors, musicians, children. Buildings made of golden stone. A city perfectly preserved.
Zainab took a step, then another. Her footsteps echoed. Her heart thumped.
And then she heard them.
Voices.Soft. Echoing. Not alive… but not exactly dead either.
"The bearer of memory returns..."
She spun around. No one.
"The seeker of balance steps forward..."
The air grew colder. The amulet grew warmer. She walked deeper into the ruins, heart tight.
In the city square, a stone pillar waited. On it, a second trial was carved.
"To take the second key, you must return what is not yours."
Zainab frowned. She didn't have anything stolen. Or did she?
She looked down at the amulet, then at the city — the glowing murals — the thousands of stories still locked in stone.
And it hit her.
This wasn't a city that needed rescuing.It was a city that needed remembering.
🔑 A Living Key
Zainab removed her notebook and began sketching — every mural, every carving, every face. She whispered names aloud, invented ones when she had to.
As she did, something changed.
The wind returned — but it was singing now.
The ground trembled. A circular slab rose from the plaza. Resting on it: a second amulet — shaped like a crescent moon, this time white and cool to the touch.
She picked it up, and the map in her backpack pulsed again.
A new message appeared:
"The third key lies where water runs uphill, and time stands still. Seek the Lake of Secrets."
Zainab smiled through cracked lips.
She was tired. She was dusty. She was completely out of data.
But she was ready.