In Owojẹ, Sacrifices Don’t Expire

The call came after midnight. No greeting. Just four words: “You are needed

now.” Outside Owojẹ, the gate stood open. Inside, a girl waited—too

young, too still, trying not to be noticed by fate. Amara understood

before anyone spoke. “You were once like her,” the man said calmly. “Someone else chose

speed.” Amara shook her head. “No.” That night,

her phone rang again. Her brother had collapsed. Hospitals spoke in whispers.

Machines spoke in alarms. Then the message came. “In Owojẹ,

sacrifices don’t expire.” A pause. “Choose.” By morning,