Ifeoma Onuoha was born into wealth, the kind that speaks before you enter a room. The Onuohas owned half of Enugu, their estates scattered all over the city. Her father drove a different car every week, her mother wore diamonds like they were nothing, and their parties were the talk of the whole country.

But beneath the opulence, beneath the praise and admiration, lay a truth so dark it stained Ifeoma’s soul.

Every Onuoha child must make a sacrifice before they turn twenty. A life for a life. That was the pact, one sealed by blood by their great-grandfather, Ekene Onuoha, who, desperate to raise his family from the dust, had called upon a forgotten god buried deep in the Nsude Hills. The god had granted wealth, power, and long life. But every generation had to pay the price. The price was the blood of a stranger, shed in secrecy, offered willingly.

Ifeoma was nineteen years and eleven months old.

She felt the clock ticking beneath her skin. The whispers came at night. They always had. In her dreams, she would hear the voice, a deep, unnerving voice.

“Bring me a soul.”

Her older siblings had done it. Each one emerged from the rite untouched and smiling, wealth blossoming even brighter in the family. Their eyes carried shadows, yes, but their hands were never empty.

She tried to pretend she didn’t know. That the secret chambers beneath the ancestral mansion in Nsukka were just dusty wine cellars not a grave for the innocent. That her brother’s tears one night were from heartbreak, not horror. That her sister’s nightmares weren’t stained with blood.

But the truth always rose.

She’d begged her mother once.

“I can’t do it. I won’t.”

Her mother had simply said, “Then you’ll die before your twentieth birthday. And everything you’ve ever known, your future, your name, your soul will vanish.”

So Ifeoma wandered the city like a ghost, looking at people as if they were already dead. In markets, at bus stops, in quiet neighborhoods. Who would she choose? Who deserved to die so she could live?

Each night, the god’s voice grew louder. Her dreams filled with blood and death. Her skin crawled with invisible fingers, reminding her of the promise her blood carried.

Then came Chioma.

A girl her age, with warm eyes and calloused hands from helping her mother fry akara by the roadside.  They became friends quickly, too quickly. She was the only normal thing in Ifeoma’s life. They laughed at silly things, shared suya in silence, and exchanged dreams. Chioma didn’t care about money. She called Ifeoma “Iffy” and teased her about her silk dresses.

And that’s when the god whispered louder.

“She is perfect. Take her.”

Ifeoma’s hands trembled for days. She stopped sleeping. Chioma noticed.

“I have to do something horrible,” Ifeoma whispered once, her eyes full of fear and sadness.

Chioma laughed. “You? Miss Princess? The worst thing you’ve done is forget my birthday!”

If only she knew.

Three nights before her birthday, the family gathered. The black robes came out. The ancestral blade gleamed under candlelight. Her father stood tall, eyes hollow with tradition.

“You must do it. Or we all suffer.”

The god needed its price.

The altar was ready. All that remained was the offering.

Ifeoma lured Chioma to the house with a lie. "It’s just a party, a small birthday thing." Chioma smiled. “You didn’t forget after all!”

As they descended into the cold dark of the shrine, Chioma’s laughter echoed, growing uneasy.

“What is this?”

Ifeoma held the blade. Her heart thundered. Her family stood around her like statues of judgment.

The god whispered, “Now.”

But instead, Ifeoma turned the blade on herself.

“No,” she said, trembling. “I won’t be part of this.”

Chaos. Screams. Her father surged forward. Her brother grabbed her arm. But it was too late. Blood spilled, hers.

The god’s voice roared in her head, angry, betrayed.

Then, silence.

Silence at last.