The man I slept with died two months ago.

But somehow, we booked a lodge and spent the night together just yesterday.

I’m a hooker—or a runs girl as people call it here. This wasn’t the life I dreamed of for myself. It was survival. Poverty pushed me into it.

I still remember back in my first year, second semester. My dad would send me only ₦25,000–₦30,000 to survive for an entire month. In this harsh economy, that wasn’t even enough for food, let alone other needs.

Then came Amaka, my roommate. She always had extra—new clothes, gadgets, money to spare. We started out on the same level financially, but by the second semester, she was already flaunting the latest iPhone while I was still struggling.

One day, I asked her to show me how she made her money. That was how she introduced me to the life of runs. Before I knew it, I was following her to clubs and small parties, meeting men with deep pockets.

At first, the money was just enough for hair, clothes, and little savings. I kept telling myself I would quit someday. Until one afternoon, everything changed.

I was walking to class when a sleek black car pulled up beside me.

“Hey, pretty,” a deep voice called from inside.

I turned to see a well-dressed man smiling at me. “Good day, sir. How may I help you?” I asked cautiously.

“I saw you at the club last night,” he said. “I like your vibe. Maybe we can get to know each other.”

I froze, unsure what to say. Then he handed me his contact card before speeding off.

Soon after, we began chatting. He seemed charming, generous, and extremely wealthy. He even bragged that he was popular on campus because he had funded the construction of several buildings in the school.

I knew I had found a big maga. And unlike with other men, I decided to keep him a secret—even from Amaka. I thought I was protecting myself. But really, I was walking into the biggest mistake of my life.

That evening, we met at a hotel. From the moment I stepped in, something about him felt… off.

He didn’t say a word. His face was expressionless, almost lifeless, as if he wasn’t the same man I had been chatting with online.

The air felt heavy, the room too quiet. My chest tightened, but I forced myself to stay calm. Money first, fear later, I told myself.

Then he made his request. Not the usual thing men wanted. It was strange, unsettling—something I had never experienced before.

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He didn’t want to sleep with me. Instead, he asked for something strange—he only wanted to s¥ck my bre*sts. It was weird, but when he finished, he handed me a huge amount of money and left.

The next morning, as I walked back to my hostel, my heart stopped. Right there on a signboard was a burial poster.

It was his face.
The same man I had just left in the hotel room.

Cold fear gripped me. My stomach twisted, my body trembling.

I thought that was the end of it.
But it was only the beginning of my nightmare.

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