THE TRAVELLER
The evening was thick with mist as I found myself stranded on a desolat£ road. My car had given up the gh0st, sputt£ring to a halt just as the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon.
The road was quiet, making me doubt if it has been abandoned for long. This is the myst!c work of Google map. As if the time was on a journey, my thinking and wondering was already an hour gone.
I curs£d under my breath, glancing around for any sign of civilization. That’s when I spotted it—a grand, yet eerily isolated mansion, nestled deep within the surrounding woods.
I was tired and needed somewhere to rest. The thought that the place could be an abode of kidnappers did not flash into my mind.
As I approached, the house seemed to shimmer, growing more magnificent with every step I took. Its walls, once obscured by distance, now gleamed with its awesomeness.
Standing on the porch were a couple, with a baby cradled in the woman’s arms. They were strikingly beautiful, like figures plucked from an old, gilded portrait. The man, tall and commanding, stepped forward with a welcoming smile. As if they were expecting a visitor. Me.
"Good evening, sir! Welcome to our humble abode. I am Mr. Dos Santos Akinyemi, and this is my lovely wife, Claudia. Our precious one here is Efifun Oluwa Dos Santos."
His voice was warm, almost too warm, like honey laced with something I couldn't quite place. I introduced myself, but before I could finish, Mr. Dos Santos interrupted with a gracious wave of his hand.
"Please, come inside. It’s much too cold out here."
Inside, the house was even more stunning—a place that could only exist in dreams. He led me through lavishly decorated rooms, showing off various awards and accolades he had received as a philanthropist.
No doubt this man is either a billionaire or a millionaire. Wait, why did he have to leave the city to live in the thick bush.
But then, something caught my eye—a large, ominous grave in the garden, partially obscured by the foliage. I opened my mouth to ask about it, but Mr. Dos Santos swiftly changed the subject, directing my attention to a sumptuous office lined with bookshelves.
Rich men read a lot of books. The calendar on the wall has not been changed for years, but I concluded he must have his reason for not changing them.
He introduced me to the chef, a man who had apparently been with the family for fifteen years. He bypassed me as if I wasn't existing. That to me, is p£tty.
As the evening wore on, the air grew heavier with tension. A sudden knock echoed through the mansion, and a woman—Dos Santos’ sister—entered. The resemblance was str!king.
Her presence was unsettling, to me I think she sn£aked in through the back door. her smile never quite reached her eyes.
Mr Dos Santos was telling me how he made his first Million by selling newspapers in the early 90s. How he walked with Gen. Sani Abacha and some military juggernauts. His story was quite interesting but my eyes were fixated on the sister.
The entire house seemed like a glass house and you could see what's going on in all the rooms. She walked straight past us, heading for the baby’s room. Through the crack of the door, I watched in horror as she sprinkled a strang£ substance over the child, who immediately began to wail.
I tried to stand up, but he held me down and told me to look at the picture on the wall on the far left. There was a portrait of his parents, a local cab man and a fufu seller in Mushin.
I wasn't concentrating, I quickly turned and kept looking at his sister. Our eyes soon met, she then panicked, and fled the room and met the chef in the hallway. They exchanged a quick k!ss before she whispered something in his ear. I strained my long ear to hear, catching only fragments:
"Pois0n... ensure it's done..."
The chef nodded with a smirk, his face grim as he returned to the kitchen. He paused before a pot, hesitating, then dumped an entire vial of something into the already simmering stew and mixed it well..
My stomach churned. This is not going to be an ordinary dinner. I tried to call his attention but it seemed he was interested.
Dinner was served, and the family gathered around the table, laughing and joking, oblivious to the d£adly meal before them. I didn't know when he left me.
Immediately he sat down, Mr Dos Santos picked up some meat and shared it with his wife. I scr£amed, shout£d and even tried to move, to warn them—but my body was frozen, stuck in place as though I had been rooted to the ground. I slamm£d the table many times, yet, it was as if I wasn't there.
The sister quickly excused herself, leaving the table with a bottle of water the chef had given her. I saw her make her way to Dos Santos' room, where she began rifling through a safe, pulling out wads of cash and important-looking documents.
At this time, Mr and Mrs Dos Santos had fallen to the ground, d£ad. As a result of the food they ate.
She kept ransack!ng the room till she felt tired and w£ak. She drank from the bottle water, her smug expression suddenly faltered. Her hands trembled, and she gasped, paralyz£d by the very pois0n she had conspir£d to use on her brother. Her body slumped to the floor, lif£less.
Meanwhile, the chef stagg£red out of the kitchen, a knif£ stuck in his stomach, bl00d staining his uniform. He clutch£d his side, and I desp£rately tried to call out to him, urging him to save the baby.
He looked in my direction as I kept y£lling at him to go the other way. The baby had just stopped cry!ng. The chef was losing so much bl00d and could not walk properly. When the chef finally reached the baby's room, the baby’s face was a melted, grotesque h0rror.
With his last strength, the chef called the police, and scrawled a note before collapsing beside his boss.
I tried to hide as soon as I heard the police siren. When the police finally arrived, they found only c0rpses—and the note,
“This house is not to be sold. Make a statue of my boss and his family at the centre. He is a good man."
He wanted it to be a memorial for the once great Dos Santos family.
By the time they discovered the sister’s body in the master bedroom, her bones were wr£cked.
Instantly I felt relieved and turned to leave, only to feel a cold hand grip mine. I whirled around to see Mr. Dos Santos standing behind me, his eyes filled with s0rrow, with a mixture of sm!rk.
As we walk out of the room, still wondering if all that I saw was just a movie or a dream, or a vision, I stopped and refused to move except he answer the only question I have.
"Why did your sister k!ll you?"
I asked, my voice tr£mbling. He paused, t£ars streaming down his face, thick as tar.
"Every member of my family was on my payroll. I funded scholarships for their children and set up businesses for their spouses. Take this sister of mine—her son lived with me for three years. When he wasn’t st£aling from me, he was trying to as$ault my wife. I sent him to the UK, but he ended up st£aling there too and got deported. Then came the real trouble—he got into a f!ght and stabb£d someone. He was arrested and charged with murd£r. His mother demanded I step in, but I refus£d. It wasn’t that I didn’t try, but it was a murder case, and I couldn’t sacrific£ my name and integrity to save him.”
As I tried to comprehend his words, his wife joined us, holding their baby. They both climbed the grave site, a chair was already there as they sat together, posing as if for a family portrait. He looked at me for the last time and shook his head.
“Let the world know about us. Tell them I didn't abandon them, my tree didn't blossom before it was cut off. I am sorry.”
But then, before my very eyes, their forms began to harden, their skin turning to cold, unfeeling stone. They became a statue.
In the centre of the garden now stood a statue—a haunt!ng reminder of the trag£dy that had unfolded.
I stumbl£d back, realizing I had forgotten my bag inside. But I dared not go back. The five hours I spent in that house felt like a lifetime, and the lesson learned was as clear as the moonlit night—greed and betrayal are cancers that destroy even the strongest of bonds.
The house stood silent behind me as I walked away, but I knew I would never forget the faces of the Dos Santos family, frozen forever in that trag!c moment.
Thanks for reading.
