Episode 5: The Ghost of Bobo
(~1,200 words)
You know what they don’t tell you about dying?
It doesn’t always happen with a gunshot or a scream.
Sometimes, it’s slow. Quiet. A fading heartbeat in the middle of a peaceful morning.
That’s how I became a ghost.
I didn’t get buried. I vanished.
After Taye’s death, I dropped off the radar.
I changed my name , got a Ghanaian passport, and settled in Kumasi, away from the madness of Lagos. I rented a modest bungalow with a mango tree out front and an old security man who thought I was just a mild-mannered Bitcoin trader.
No Rolls Royce. No fake white clients. No Amaka.
Just silence.
At night, I sometimes still heard the screams. Cleaner’s death. Amaka’s betrayal. The gunfight with Taye. But I’d drink hot tea and remind myself—I wasn’t Bobo anymore. That name was buried with the lives it destroyed.
I lived like that for almost a year.
Until I met Muna.
She was a Nigerian nurse, soft-voiced and strong-willed. She was the kind of woman who didn’t care about labels or flashy cars. The kind who looked at me like I was worth saving—even though she didn’t know my past.
She had moved to Kumasi after losing her younger brother in a cult attack in Benin. We met at a pharmacy. She was buying malaria drugs, I was buying painkillers.
“I think you’re taking too many,” she said, eyeing the bottle.
I smirked. “You a doctor?”
“No. But I care enough to ask.”
That was how it started.
Over the next few months, she peeled me open gently. Like a wound she wanted to clean but not infect. I told her my name was Kelvin. She told me hers was Muna. I never gave her the full truth, but she knew enough to know I was broken.
“I don’t know who hurt you,” she once said, “but you carry pain like it’s a badge.”
She made me laugh again. Made me want to live again. Made me believe, just maybe, ghosts could find peace too.
Until the past came knocking.
It was a Tuesday evening.
I had just finished dinner with Muna when I got a text on my hidden line—the number no one was supposed to have.
“They found you. Leave Kumasi now.”
No name. No explanation. But I knew.
Uche.
He was the only one still alive who knew my full escape plan. I hadn’t heard from him in over a year. Rumor was he fled to Côte d’Ivoire after the police raided one of our former safe houses. I thought he had disappeared like the rest.
But apparently, he hadn’t.
The next morning, I noticed a black Prado Jeep parked down the street. No license plate. Windows tinted.
I packed a small bag. Told Muna I had a “business trip” and kissed her goodbye like it was the last kiss I’d ever give.
It almost was.
I took a bus toward Accra, then doubled back in a private cab to Techiman—a dusty town far from the main grid. I had a safehouse there. Old, dusty, stocked with cash and two burner phones.
That’s where I got the call.
The voice was sharp. Young. Nigerian.
“You thought you were done, Bobo? My Oga died screaming your name.”
I froze.
“I’m not Razor’s brother,” the voice continued. “but his boy”.”
My heart sank.
“What?”
“You had him killed and will never go free”
The line went dead.
I sat there for hours, breath shallow, hands shaking.
I hadn’t just created enemies. I’d created descendants of revenge.
Three days later, Muna disappeared.
No calls. No messages. Her phone switched off. Her colleagues hadn’t seen her.
I knew immediately—they had her.
I returned to Kumasi and found her necklace on my doorstep.
Attached to it was a note:
“Return what you stole. Come alone. Or she dies.”
I had nothing left. No ledgers. No more scamming empire. My money was locked in offshore wallets. But they didn’t care about money. They wanted pain. They wanted to finish what Razor started.
I couldn’t call the police. I had no proof, and I was still technically a fugitive in Nigeria.
So I did what ghosts do.
I went back to Lagos.
The air hit different.
Lagos had changed. New houses had risen where old ghettos used to stand. But the streets still whispered. And the game? Still deadly.
I met Format—he was now running a car dealership in Ojodu under a fake name. He helped me find Razor’s boy, known in the underground as “Young Blade.”
He was worse than Taye. Slim, calculative, and raised with one purpose—vengeance.
I tracked him to a house in Yaba.
I went there alone, unarmed, wearing all white.
I found Muna locked in one of the rooms, bruised but alive.
Young Blade stepped out of the shadows.
“You came.”
“I’m not running anymore,” I said. “Let her go.”
He pulled a knife. “After what you did, you think I’ll just let this end peacefully?”
“No,” I said. “But I’m not here to fight you. I’m here to give you what you want.”
He paused.
I pulled out a flash drive.
Inside was everything—bank records, identity swaps, crypto codes, every fraud I ever committed, and the names of every politician, pastor, and foreign partner I helped launder money for.
“it’s all yours, without it, i’m nothing” I said. “It’s my death certificate.”
He stared at me, confused.
“But why?”
I looked at Muna.
“Because this life… it already killed me once. I’m just settling my debt now.”
He took the flash drive.
Then, slowly, he nodded to his boys. They let Muna go.
He walked up to me, looked me in the eyes.
“You’re not a ghost anymore,” he said. “You’re a sacrifice.”
Then he walked away.
I never saw him again.
Muna and I left Nigeria that same month, through Benin Republic. We now live in Namibia. She opened a clinic. I run a small tech repair shop. Nobody knows me as Bobo. Nobody calls me prince.
But every night, I light a candle for Cleaner. For Amaka. For Razor. Even for Uche.
Because in the end, the Yahoo game doesn’t leave survivors.
Just stories.
THE END
A Coolvalstories Production
