I Slept With a Woman I Met at the Club, The Next Morning Her Family Brought Me Her Bride Price

It was supposed to be a normal Friday night. My friends had dragged me to that club at the edge of town—the one people whisper about, the one with red lights that never seem to blink, the one where music feels too heavy for the ears. I wasn’t in the mood for drinks or dancing, but something in the air kept me there. Then she walked in.

A woman.

Not just any woman. Tall, skin like bronze under the flashing lights, eyes so sharp I swore she was cutting through me. She didn’t dance, she didn’t laugh, she didn’t even blink much. She just sat in the corner, sipping something dark, like she had been waiting for me all along.

I don’t know why I went to her. Maybe it was the way the crowd parted slightly around her, like people felt her presence but didn’t dare get too close. I sat down. She smiled. That smile—God, I should have stood up and left. But I didn’t.

We talked little. She knew my name before I even said it. “Michael,” she whispered, her voice like cold smoke in my ears. “I’ve been waiting.”

I don’t remember leaving the club. I don’t remember entering the taxi. All I remember is waking up in my own apartment with her beside me.

She was beautiful, yes. But strange. Her hair smelled like rain on rusted iron. Her skin was warm, but when I touched her too long, I felt a chill crawl into my bones. She said nothing all night, except one word when she drifted into sleep: “Forever.”

When morning came, she was gone. No trace of her in the sheets, no lipstick on the pillow, nothing. Like she never existed. I almost convinced myself it was just the alcohol playing tricks.

Until the knock on my door.

Three heavy knocks. Boom. Boom. Boom.

I opened it, and there they stood. An old man with eyes too white, a woman with tribal marks deep as scars, and three young men carrying a wooden box. They looked at me like they had known me their whole lives. The old man stepped forward, placed the box at my feet, and said in a voice too steady for comfort:

“You have slept with our daughter. She is yours now. This is her bride price.”

I froze. I wanted to laugh, to slam the door, to tell them they had the wrong person. But when I looked down, the box was open. Inside were cowries, bloodied feathers, and a folded piece of paper with my full name written in red ink.

How did they know?

I hadn’t told anyone about last night. Nobody saw me leave the club. Nobody knew she had come home with me. But here was her family, standing in daylight, binding me to something I didn’t understand.

The old woman leaned forward, her breath sour and hot on my face, and whispered, “Do not reject her. She has chosen you. If you reject, the river will claim you before sunset.”

They turned and left.

I stood there shaking, staring at the box. Inside, beneath the cowries, something moved. Small, wriggling, alive. I stepped back. My chest tightened.

Then I heard it.

Her voice. From inside my bedroom.

“Michael…”

I turned. The room was empty. But the bedsheets were wet. Not with water—something thicker. Darker.

And that’s when I realized—last night wasn’t just a mistake. It was a binding.

And now, I wasn’t sure if she was a woman at all.

To be continued