The sun dipped behind the cloudy Lagos sky, leaving a soft orange haze over the community center as people gathered for Madam Sugar's much-anticipated Christmas Charity Program. It was the kind of event everyone looked forward to—where hunger bowed to hope, at least for one day. Decorations sparkled, soft carols played, and the scent of fried chicken and jollof drifted through the air like a blessing.
Ayo, Banji, Emmanuel, and Adeoluwa stood together near the entrance, carrying crates of bottled water they volunteered to help arrange. Their clothes weren't fancy—just clean, carefully ironed shirts their mothers had pressed with pride. Today wasn't about their struggles. It was about the possibility of something brighter.
Madam Sugar arrived exactly at 5 p.m., stepping out of her white SUV like a vision. Her dress shimmered gold and white in the fading light, her skin pale and glowing, her smile soft enough to calm storms. Children rushed toward her, adults clapped, and even teens whispered like she was royalty.
Behind her, the Sugar Babies—Moyin and Kelvin—helped distribute gift boxes. Moyin's gentle voice guided children into lines. Kelvin laughed with two little boys chasing each other around the tent. Perfect. Polished. Angelic. A family the whole city admired.
But something else arrived with Madam Sugar.
A presence.
At first, it was subtle—just a quiet shift in the atmosphere. A strange cold breeze. Lights flickering once, like a warning. Ayo felt it crawl down his spine. Emmanuel noticed too; he rubbed his arms and frowned.
"Na harmattan breeze," Banji whispered quickly, as if trying to convince himself.
But nowhere else felt that cold.
Then, as Madam Sugar moved deeper into the crowd, Ayo noticed something across the road—three figures dressed in full white. Long white agbada robes. White cloth masks covering their faces completely. No eyes. No mouths. No features. Just blank purity.
They stood perfectly still.
Watching the charity event.
Watching the boys.
Ayo's heart thumped. "Guy… you dey see that?"
The others turned.
But the moment people's attention shifted toward them—a bus drove past, blocking the view for two seconds. Just two.
When it passed…
The figures were gone.
"Maybe na ushers?" Adeoluwa tried to sound calm, but his voice cracked.
"Ushers no dey wear mask," Emmanuel muttered.
Ayo couldn't shake the chill. Something wasn't right. Someone—somewhere—was watching them. Not the crowd. Not the city. Something darker.
And then Madam Sugar's phone rang.
She excused herself from the microphone and stepped aside with her signature soft smile, but her eyes changed—narrowing just a little, like a crack opening in a perfect porcelain face.
She spoke quietly, too far for anyone to hear…
…but close enough for Ayo to see her expression shift from calm
to concerned
to frightened.
Only for a second.
Then she returned to the stage, perfect smile restored, voice sweet as ever.
"As long as I live," she announced warmly, "no child in this community will be left without joy this Christmas!"
The crowd erupted in cheers.
But the boys noticed her hand trembling as she held the microphone.
They noticed her glance toward the road where the masked figures had stood.
And they noticed something else—something that didn't belong in a Christmas event.
A white envelope on a table near the stage.
No name.
No handwriting.
Just a symbol in faint red:
A spiral with two sugar canes crossing beneath it.
Ayo felt a shiver.
Whatever had started today…
wasn't going to end well.
Not for Madam Sugar.
Not for the four boys.
And not for Lagos.
Because sweetness was fading…
…and the warning in white had just begun.