The day Lagos took its first breath after the strange blackout, people said the same thing:
"Something dey come."
Nobody could name it, but everyone felt it — a quiet shift in the air, a whisper too soft to hear but too strong to ignore. In Makoko, mothers held their children tighter. Fishermen prayed twice before paddling out. Even the street dogs barked at shadows that weren't there.
But Kafé felt nothing.
At least, nothing he could understand.
He sat at the edge of the floating walkway, legs dangling over the water, watching the ripples dance beneath his feet. The morning sun scattered gold across the lagoon. Canoes drifted past, their engines sputtering like tired lungs.
Makoko moved on as if last night never happened.
But Kafé wasn't fooled.
He felt it — an itch beneath his skin, a thrum beneath his veins, like something inside him wanted to wake, stretch, and speak.
He rubbed his left wrist for the tenth time, but the mark — the serpent-shaped birthmark — stayed hidden as always, faint under the skin, quiet, sleeping.
"Why you always come here alone?"
Kafé turned. Imade stood behind him, balancing on a wooden plank as if she had been born on water. Wind brushed her short braids across her forehead. She carried a basket of smoked fish under one arm, her face glowing with the easy confidence of someone who knew every secret alley and hidden path in Makoko.
"Because here is quiet," Kafé said.
"Quiet?" She laughed. "This place noisy die."
"Not the water," he replied. "The water listens."
Imade paused, studying him. "You talk like old people."
"I think like them too."
"Yes," she said. "You overthink."
Kafé smiled faintly. Imade always had a way of turning heavy thoughts into something lighter, safer. She placed the basket beside him and sat.
"You didn't sleep?" she asked.
"Did you?"
"Not really." She looked out at the water. "My mum said that blackout yesterday is a warning. She said Lagos spirit dey restless."
Kafé stiffened. "What did she say caused it?"
"Some say NEPA just disgrace themselves again. Others say marine spirits vexed." She lowered her voice. "But one man said… prophecy."
Kafé felt his heartbeat stumble.
"What prophecy?"
Imade shrugged. "Who knows? You know people. If rain falls small, they will say world is ending."
But Kafé's chest tightened anyway.
Because he remembered something.
A dream.
A shadow standing over him.
A voice whispering.
A cold… watching.
He shivered.
Imade nudged him gently. "Don't carry Lagos problem on your head abeg. You too young for that."
Kafé looked back at the lagoon. "Sometimes I feel like something is following me."
She raised a brow. "Spirit?"
"No. Not spirit. Something else."
Imade studied him again — not with fear, but with worry. She opened her mouth to say something when a sharp whistle cut through the air.
"Kafé! Come quick!"
It was Mama Fausat, the elderly woman who lived in the hut across from his. Sweat dripped down her face as she waved frantically.
"Your mother dey call you!"
Kafé jumped to his feet. Imade followed without question.
They ran along the floating walkway, dodging buckets of water, nets drying in the sun, and goats tied to poles. The lagoon slapped lightly against the wood beneath them.
As they reached his home, Kafé froze.
His mother sat outside, knees weak, eyes red. A small wooden chest lay open beside her. Inside were folded clothes… a faded photograph… and a charm necklace.
"What's happening?" Kafé asked, breathing hard.
Abeni wiped her eyes. "Kafé… we need to talk."
Kafé's stomach twisted. Imade quietly stepped aside, giving them space but refusing to leave.
Abeni touched her son's face. "You're twelve now."
"I know," he replied cautiously.
"And there are things I kept from you."
Kafé frowned. "Mama—"
She held up a hand. "Last night was not ordinary. You feel it too, don't you?"
Kafé hesitated… then nodded.
Abeni exhaled shakily. "There is a reason."
She opened the wooden chest fully.
Inside, wrapped in white cloth, was a small carved sculpture — a wooden serpent coiled around itself, its scales etched with symbols older than the city.
Kafé stared. "What is that?"
"Your heritage," Abeni whispered. "Your father's line."
Kafé blinked. His father had died when he was two — at least, that was what everyone said. He had grown up with only stories, incomplete ones.
"What about him?" he asked.
Abeni's voice cracked. "Your father belonged to something ancient. A society older than Lagos. Older than the river. It was called…" she swallowed hard, "…The Serpent Order."
The words dropped like stones.
Imade gasped quietly.
Kafé felt the world tilt.
"Serpent… Order?" he repeated.
"Yes." Abeni's eyes shone with fear and regret. "And the night you and your brother were born—"
"My brother?"
The air went still.
Abeni covered her mouth as if she had said too much.
"You told me I had no siblings," Kafé said slowly.
Abeni trembled. "I lied. I had to."
Silence.
Thick. Heavy. Crushing.
Kafé felt his chest tighten. "Mama… why?"
"Because your brother…" She hesitated. "…was taken."
Kafé's heartbeat thundered in his ears. "Taken by who?"
Abeni shook her head. "I don't know. Immediately after your birth they first came they couldn't get take either of you because of the aura of the serpent act as a shield protecting both of you but four months after , shadows came in the middle of the night when there was light out. Spirits. Men. Both. And when the light returned… one of you was gone."
"Which one?" Kafé whispered. "Me or him?"
Her eyes filled with tears.
"You… were the chosen one. You carried the mark. They wanted you. But the mark fought back."
Kafé's breath caught. He clutched his wrist, feeling the faint pulse beneath the skin.
Imade stepped closer, voice soft. "Kafé…"
Abeni took his hand. "The world will come for you again. The Order. The shadows. Those who want to control your gift. And those who want to destroy it."
Kafé felt dizzy. "Why me?"
"Because destiny does not choose gently." Abeni wiped her tears. "And because of last night… they know you survived."
The wind shifted.
The lagoon rippled.
And far across the water… a figure watched.
A hooded silhouette.
Still. Silent. Patient.
The same kind Abeni saw the night the twins were born.
Imade's eyes widened. "Kafé… look."
Kafé turned.
The figure vanished.
Abeni gasped. "It has begun. They have found us again."
Kafé stepped back, heart pounding, wrist burning, the serpent mark warming beneath his skin like something alive.
The prophecy whispered across his mind:
Two shall rise.
Only one shall carry the dawn.
Kafé swallowed hard.
Somewhere out there…
his brother was alive.
And not on his side.