Tera Mayo Funny Storyteller

11/04/2025

She is 26 years, but served Breakfast 5 times with this her young age💔

Check out Storytera’s video.

11/04/2025

The Day I Found Out My Wife Was Using My NIN for Online Loan Apps 😱
Episode 1: Love, Lies, and Loan Notifications 💔
I used to believe that love covers everything—pain, shame, even foolishness. But I never knew love could also cover debt. My name is Bamidele, a 33-year-old auto technician living in Ibadan. I met my wife, Ronke, at a church youth camp six years ago, and I swear, she was the kind of woman every man would pray for. Soft-spoken, beautiful, respectful, and had that innocent smile that could melt anger like butter in a hot pan.

We dated for two years before getting married. Back then, I used to work at a mechanic workshop around Dugbe. Ronke was a hairdresser in Bodija, but she told me she planned to go back to school once we settled down. I admired her ambition, so I supported her dream. When we finally got married, I took a small loan from a cooperative society to open a mini salon for her in our area, Akobo.

The first two years of our marriage were peaceful. We prayed together, joked together, and dreamt together. Even when money was tight, Ronke never complained. She would cook with joy, tell me not to stress, and remind me that better days were coming. I loved her with everything in me.

But love, as I later discovered, doesn’t stop deceit—it only delays your ability to see it.

It started subtly. I began noticing that my phone would beep randomly with loan repayment messages from companies I’d never heard of—PalmPay, Branch, FairMoney, and some I couldn’t even pronounce properly. At first, I thought maybe it was an error. I ignored it because I had no loans anywhere aside from the cooperative one I took years ago.

But then, one night around 11:30 pm, my phone vibrated under my pillow. Half asleep, I checked it. A message from one of those loan apps said:

“Dear Bamidele, your repayment of ₦8,200 is overdue. Failure to repay will lead to escalation and contact of your family and friends.”

My heart skipped. 😳

I sat up immediately, turned on my phone’s torchlight, and re-read the message. ₦8,200? For what? I checked the sender’s name again—it wasn’t a number I recognized.

I looked at Ronke beside me, sleeping so peacefully, breathing like a baby. I didn’t want to disturb her. But sleep refused to come back. My mind was racing.

The next morning, I went to the nearby mobile money kiosk to confirm if my NIN or BVN had been used anywhere suspicious. The attendant, a young guy named Kunle, entered my NIN into his system. After some seconds, he looked up at me with a shocked expression.

“Bros, are you the one using all these apps? Because your NIN don enter like six loan platforms o.”

I froze. “What do you mean?”

He turned the monitor toward me. My name—Bamidele Akinwale—appeared across several online loan apps. Each one showed outstanding balances, ranging from ₦5,000 to ₦27,000. My mouth went dry.

I went back home, quietly. Ronke was in the kitchen cooking yam porridge. I wanted to ask her immediately, but I was scared of sounding like a fool. What if it was identity theft? What if someone had hacked my details?

So, I waited.

That evening, I tried to test her indirectly. “Babe,” I said casually, “you know some people dey use another person NIN to collect loan online these days o.”

She turned sharply, her eyes widening slightly before she forced a laugh. “Ah, God forbid o. Na wicked people go do that kind thing.”

But her voice trembled. Just slightly—but I noticed.

I wanted to believe her. But two days later, everything exploded.

While I was at work, my younger brother Femi called me in panic. “Brother Bami, some people just called me from one loan app. They said you borrowed ₦15,000 and refused to pay. They even sent your picture and said they’ll post it online if you don’t pay!”

My hand started shaking.

Immediately, I rushed home. Ronke was sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll through her phone. But the way she was biting her lip told me she already knew what I was about to say.

“Ronke,” I said quietly, trying to control my voice, “are you the one using my NIN to collect loans?”

She looked up, and tears immediately filled her eyes. “Bamidele, please don’t shout. I can explain.”

That was when my world started crumbling.

She confessed that she started taking small loans online during the lockdown period to buy salon materials and foodstuff because my workshop was closed and money wasn’t coming in. At first, she said it was ₦3,000, then ₦5,000, and she planned to pay back quickly. But as the interest kept increasing, she began borrowing from one app to pay another.

Before she knew it, she had used my NIN to register on multiple platforms because her own account had been blocked for overdue payments.

I just stood there, shaking my head. “So, you’ve been lying to me every time you said ‘God will provide’? It was loan apps providing?”

She started crying, kneeling on the floor, holding my legs. “Please, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just didn’t want you to see me as a failure.”

At that moment, I felt torn between anger and pity. I loved her, but my mind was filled with fear. If these loan apps had already started contacting my family, how long before they started posting my pictures online?

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept staring at the ceiling, thinking of how something so small could destroy everything we built.

By the next morning, another message came in:

“Dear Bamidele, your total loan balance of ₦72,500 must be repaid in 48 hours. Failure to do so will result in public exposure.”

My heart bled. That was when I realized this was no longer a family issue. It was a storm—one that could destroy my name, my business, and my marriage.
What would you do if you discovered your partner used your identity for loans without telling you? Would you forgive them or call the police?
Let's go to Episode 2 on my website👇: “The Shame That Went Viral — When Love Became a Headline 📰💔”
https://storytera.com/stories/100/episodes/10002
Episode 3 is here:
https://storytera.com/stories/100/episodes/10003
NOTE TO READERS:
use the links above to read episode 2 and 3.
This is just episode 1 out of the full 3 Episodes. All episodes are available for free on StoryTera

11/03/2025

Once I reach 10k followers on my Tiktok, I will start uploading all episodes on Facebook https://www.tiktok.com/.com

11/03/2025

How a Fake Crypto Investment Almost Destroyed My Marriage 💔💰
Episode 1: The Sweet Promise of Quick Wealth in Ibadan
If anyone had told me that something as innocent as an online crypto investment could shake the foundation of my marriage, I would have laughed. But that was before I met Kola — the man who almost ruined everything I built with my husband, Dayo.

It all started in 2022, when the wave of cryptocurrency hit every corner of Nigeria. From Bodija to Dugbe, everyone seemed to be talking about Bitcoin, Ethereum, and a strange coin called “LunarX.” My husband, Dayo, was a calm and hardworking man — an accountant who believed in savings and patience. But me? I was getting tired of waiting for life to “get better.”

We were living in Ibadan then, in a modest two-bedroom apartment in Akobo. Things were okay, but not great. I was running a small hair salon, and Dayo’s salary could barely cover rent, feeding, and our daughter’s school fees. So when one of my clients mentioned that she made over ₦600,000 in just two weeks from crypto trading, my ears stood up.

I smiled and said, “Ah, that one no dey possible!”
But deep down, I was already dreaming.

Two days later, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I went online and joined a WhatsApp group called *Crypto Queens Nigeria*. That was where I met him — *Kola the Trader*.

Kola’s display picture showed him in a luxury car, holding a MacBook, with captions like “Crypto Changed My Story 🚀💵.” He was smooth, confident, and spoke the language of success. He often posted screenshots of transactions showing millions entering his account. Everyone in the group seemed to respect him like a mini-god.

One day, I sent him a private message.

“Good afternoon, sir,” I typed, pretending to be formal. “Please I want to learn about crypto investment.”

He replied immediately.
“Ah, don’t call me sir o. Just call me Kola. I like helping people. You sound like someone ready to make money.”

That was the beginning.

Within a week, Kola started chatting with me every night. He explained how the “LunarX Token” was about to explode in value, claiming it was backed by a top U.S. company. He said early investors were already making triple returns. I told him I didn’t know much about digital wallets and trading apps, and he offered to “guide me personally.”

He even sent me a voice note, his deep Yoruba accent mixing with soft laughter.
“Don’t worry, Funke, I’ll handle the technical part. You’ll just sit back and enjoy your profit.”

Something about his voice was reassuring… almost too sweet.

I invested ₦150,000 first. And in just four days, he sent me ₦210,000. I couldn’t believe my eyes! He said it was “my first profit,” and that if I invested bigger, I could make real money.

I told my husband about it that night, excited like a child.

“Dayo, you won’t believe it! I made ₦60,000 in just four days!”

But his expression changed.
“From where?”
“Crypto investment. The man managing it for me is very good—”
“Funke, you don’t know these online people. Please, be careful,” he warned.

I hissed silently. He never believed in anything new. He only believed in old savings books and traditional banks. But I didn’t want to argue, so I said nothing more.

The next morning, I secretly sent Kola ₦500,000 — money I borrowed from a thrift group I belonged to. He congratulated me and promised I’d make ₦850,000 in less than ten days.

But then, the real story began.

Kola became friendlier. He’d send me morning messages like,
“Good morning, my investor queen 😍.”
He began to call me “Baby Crypto” and once even said,
“If I had a woman like you, I’d spoil her with luxury.”

At first, I laughed it off. But soon, our chats became… personal. Too personal.

He’d say things like,
“Funke, you have a sweet spirit. The kind of woman I can never forget.”

I knew I was married, but the attention made me feel special. Dayo was a good man, but he had become too serious, too busy, too focused on bills. Kola, on the other hand, made me feel alive again. He’d call at night, talk about life, money, and dreams. Sometimes, he’d tell me how beautiful my voice sounded over the phone.

Then came the moment I’ll never forget.

One night, around 11:00 p.m., he called and said,
“Baby Crypto, there’s a private investment opening tonight. Only VIP clients are joining. I can put your name there, but you must send ₦1.2 million immediately.”

I froze. That was almost all my savings, plus the little I’d been keeping for rent. But the way he spoke, the way he assured me that it was a lifetime opportunity, made my heart beat faster.

I told him I’d think about it.

But the next morning, I found myself in front of the ATM, transferring the money.

Days passed. I waited for my “profit.”
Then one morning, I woke up to a shocking sight.

The WhatsApp group had disappeared. Kola’s number was unreachable. His Telegram handle had vanished. Everything… gone.

My hands trembled. I called, texted, even emailed him. No reply.

I fainted that afternoon.

Dayo rushed me to the hospital, confused and scared. When I finally confessed what happened, I expected comfort. Instead, I saw disappointment — deep and cold.

“Funke… how could you?” he whispered.

For the first time in our marriage, Dayo slept on the couch for three nights straight. The tension between us was unbearable. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I kept asking myself — how could I let greed and flattery blind me this much?

But that wasn’t even the end.

A few weeks later, I got a message on Instagram — from Kola.
He said, “Funke, I’m sorry for what happened. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Let’s talk privately.”
And like a fool… I replied.
What would you do if someone who scammed you suddenly apologized?
Do you think Funke should forgive Kola or report him to the police?
Can love ever mix safely with online money promises?
Let's go to Episode 2 on my website👇: : “The Return of Kola — When Love Turns into Manipulation 💔📱”

https://storytera.com/stories/99/episodes/9902
Episode 3 is here:
https://storytera.com/stories/99/episodes/9903
NOTE TO READERS:
use the links above to read episode 2 and 3.
This is just episode 1 out of the full 3 Episodes. All episodes are available for free on StoryTera

11/02/2025

Your Set Time to Start Winning has Come, Go and Win💪

11/02/2025

My Girlfriend Used My BVN to Collect a Loan Behind My Back 😱
Episode 1: Love, Lies and Loan Alerts
My name is Tunde Ogunyemi, a 29-year-old graphics designer based in Ibadan. I wasn’t rich, but I was comfortable. My small studio near Mokola was growing fast, and life was beginning to make sense again after many years of hustling.

Everything was fine until I met Adesewa.

She was one of those girls whose smile could melt a man’s heart instantly. We met at a friend’s birthday party in Bodija, and she came with this confidence that made me forget the drink in my hand. Her laughter was loud, her dimples deep, and her perfume could make you forget your name.

From that day, she became a part of my life. We talked every night till 2am, sometimes about dreams, sometimes about nonsense. Within two weeks, we were already calling each other *baby* and *boo*. Love was sweet, and I was sure she was the one.

Adesewa told me she was a student of a private polytechnic in Lagos, studying Business Administration. She said she had some challenges with school fees, and because of her tone, I offered to help. She didn’t even ask—she just cried over the phone one night, saying she might drop out if she couldn’t pay. I sent her 80,000 naira that same night.

That was the beginning of what I didn’t know would become a love story with pain and shock.

A few months later, she told me she had finished her final exams and wanted to start a small clothing business. She begged me to teach her how to design logos for her brand, and I gladly agreed. I loved her, genuinely. I used to send her free data, buy her phone accessories, and sometimes pay for her transport when she came from Lagos to Ibadan.

Our love became so deep that we started trusting each other completely. She had my passwords, my phone, even my ATM card sometimes. I never imagined she could betray me because I believed loyalty was still alive in some women.

One Saturday evening, while we were watching a movie in my room, she brought up the idea of registering for a business account.

“Tunde baby,” she said, leaning on my chest. “Do you know you can use your BVN to open multiple business accounts? I just need to try one for my new brand. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

At first, I hesitated. Something in me whispered not to do it. But when she smiled and touched my cheek softly, I forgot my worries.

I gave her my BVN.

She used my phone to verify the code, and I thought that was the end. I never knew she was using my identity to do something bigger—something that would later almost destroy my life.

Weeks passed, and I noticed she became distant. She stopped calling like before. Sometimes, she wouldn’t reply to my messages for hours. When I asked, she said she was busy with her new clothing business. I trusted her again.

Until one morning when I woke up to 35 missed calls from unknown numbers.

I thought maybe it was a client. But when I finally picked one, the voice on the other end shouted, “Mr. Tunde! You think you can run away with our money? You better pay that loan now or we’ll report you to EFCC!”

My heart jumped. Loan? What loan?

I laughed nervously and said they must have called the wrong number. But within minutes, another call came in. This time it was a woman’s voice. “You borrowed 1.2 million naira through our digital loan platform, and your BVN was used. We have all your details. If you don’t pay by Friday, we’ll blacklist you and report you.”

I froze. My throat went dry.

I checked my messages again and saw a text from an unfamiliar financial company saying, *“Loan Approved – ₦1,200,000 successfully disbursed to account linked with BVN.”*

That was when it hit me.

Adesewa.

I rushed to call her. She didn’t pick. I sent her messages, voice notes, even tried her best friend’s number. No response. Hours later, she finally replied with a text that broke me completely:

“Tunde, please forgive me. I didn’t plan for things to go this way. I just needed the money urgently for business. I’ll pay back, I swear.”

My body went cold. I felt weak, like my whole world had just collapsed.

I went to her lodge in Lagos the next day. Her roommates said she left two days ago, saying she was traveling to Abuja for “business deals.” I knew then that she had disappeared with the money.

The calls kept coming daily—loan agents threatening to disgrace me, to post my face online as a debtor. I went to the bank to complain, but they told me since my BVN was used to verify the account, I was legally responsible.

I couldn’t sleep for days. I couldn’t work. I lost some clients because I was too distracted. My mother noticed something was wrong when I stopped sending money home. I told her part of the story, and she cried bitterly.

“Tunde, love is good,” she said over the phone, “but don’t ever trust anybody blindly again. Even the Bible says guard your heart.”

Those words pierced my chest.

But I still couldn’t hate Adesewa completely. I kept remembering her smile, the sound of her laughter, the nights we cooked together, the times she cried in my arms. Love and betrayal became twins in my heart.

Weeks turned into months. I had to start paying the loan bit by bit to clear my name, because I couldn’t bear being called a fraud. Every time I sent payment, it reminded me of her face.

One day, I received a message from her again.

It read, “Tunde, please don’t hate me. I’m in deep trouble too. I’ll explain soon.”

But before I could reply, her number stopped going through again.

Something told me she was in danger—or maybe she had planned everything from the start.

I began to investigate her past quietly. I searched her Facebook profile, Instagram, and even asked around in her old neighborhood in Lagos. What I discovered next made my skin crawl...

What do you think Tunde will discover about Adesewa’s past? 😨
Was she really in trouble—or was this all part of her plan?
Let's continue to Episode 2 below on my website👇:
https://storytera.com/stories/98/episodes/9802
Episode 3 is here:
https://storytera.com/stories/98/episodes/9803
NOTE TO READERS:
use the links above to read episode 2 and 3.
This is just episode 1 out of the full 3 Episodes. All episodes are available for free on StoryTera

Moral Lessons:
1. Love without wisdom can destroy more than heartbreak ever could.
2. Never share your BVN, password, or sensitive details with anyone, even someone you trust deeply.
3. True love doesn’t need manipulation or deceit to survive.
4. In every relationship, always protect your identity and financial safety.

11/02/2025

Happy Sunday to you all 🙏❣️

11/01/2025

Happy New Month to all my fans. I love you all

11/01/2025

How Social Media Almost Destroyed My Relationship 😭💔
Episode 1: The Message I Shouldn’t Have Replied To 📱
My name is Yetunde. I grew up in Ibadan, the city that never forgets gossip. I’m the first daughter in a family of four, and I’ve always been known as “the good girl.” I never thought a simple chat on social media could turn my peaceful life upside down. But life has its way of teaching lessons we didn’t sign up for.

Back then, I was dating Tunde — a calm, loyal, and God-fearing guy. We met at the University of Ibadan during our NYSC orientation. He was that type of man who would walk miles just to fix your broken slippers. I trusted him with my whole heart. He worked in Lagos, while I stayed back in Ibadan to complete my teaching job at a private school.

Everything was perfect — until social media entered our love.

It started with one innocent friend request on Facebook. His name was Wale. He had that kind of smile that could melt your heart and an online charm that could confuse even a pastor’s daughter. His first message was harmless:

“Hi pretty, you remind me of someone I met years ago. Mind if we talk?”

I ignored him at first. But two days later, after a long boring evening, I replied. That single reply was where my story began to crumble.

Wale and I began chatting daily. He was funny, gentle, and always online. He’d say things like, “Tunde is a lucky man, I wish I met you first.” I’d blush even when I didn’t mean to. It felt harmless — after all, chatting wasn’t cheating, right? Or so I thought.

Gradually, our chats became more personal. He started calling me “Angel,” and I foolishly enjoyed the attention. Tunde was always busy with work, hardly called except at night. Wale, on the other hand, was always there — morning, afternoon, night. That was how the emotional distance between Tunde and I began to grow unnoticed.

One Saturday morning, Wale told me he would be coming to Ibadan for a conference. He said he wanted to finally see “the angel who had been lighting up his nights.” My heart raced. I told myself I wouldn’t meet him — but that same afternoon, I found myself dressing up. I told my friend, Kemi, that I was going to Bodija for a teacher’s meeting. Lies began to build walls around me.

When Wale arrived, he was everything his photos promised — tall, neat, soft-spoken, and dangerously charming. We met at a restaurant in Ring Road. The way he looked at me made me forget I had a boyfriend. He held my hand across the table, and something inside me melted like butter in hot yam.

That evening, he asked if we could take a short walk. I said yes, still pretending to be in control. He told me things that Tunde hadn’t said in months. He noticed my hairstyle, my perfume, my smile — little details that made me feel special.

Before I knew it, he leaned closer. My heart raced. That was the first time I realized temptation isn’t always loud; sometimes, it comes quietly with a soft smile and a good data plan. 😔

That night, Wale called me and said, “You’re not like other girls. You have a soft heart. I can tell you need more attention than you’re getting.” Those words echoed in my mind. I began to compare him with Tunde. It was a dangerous game I didn’t know I was losing.

Days turned into weeks, and Wale became a part of my routine. We started sharing secrets — even the ones Tunde didn’t know. Slowly, the guilt began to fade because I convinced myself nothing serious was happening.

Then one evening, while chatting with Wale, I received a message from Tunde:

“Babe, I saw something I can’t explain. Can we talk?”

My heart stopped. I panicked.

When I called him, his voice was cold. He said, “Yetunde, someone sent me screenshots of your chats with another man. Wale, right?”

It felt like the world ended. I couldn’t breathe.

He continued, “So this is how you repay my love? You gave another man what you promised me?”

Tears rolled down my cheeks. “Tunde, please, it’s not what you think. We were just chatting. Nothing happened.”

But he didn’t believe me. The screenshots looked worse than the truth. Some of my messages were too emotional, too personal — even though nothing physical had happened yet.

He hung up.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I deleted all my social media apps, but the damage was done. Wale kept calling, saying, “Forget Tunde, he doesn’t deserve you.” But my heart was bleeding.

Days later, Tunde stopped answering my calls. I went to Lagos just to see him. When I arrived at his compound in Ogudu, his neighbor told me he had travelled. I sat outside his gate crying like a baby.

That was when I realized — social media can be both a blessing and a curse. It connects hearts, but it can also destroy them silently.

If I had ignored that first message, maybe my life would have been different.

Now, I was left alone with guilt, heartbreak, and a phone that had become my biggest enemy. 📱💔
* What shocking truth will Yetunde discover about Wale’s real identity? 😱
* Will Tunde ever forgive her after seeing those chats?
* Can a digital mistake destroy a lifetime bond?
Let's continue to Episode 2 below on my website👇:
https://storytera.com/stories/97/episodes/9702
Episode 3 is here:
https://storytera.com/stories/97/episodes/9703
NOTE TO READERS:
use the links above to read episode 2 and 3.
This is just episode 1 out of the full 3 Episodes. All episodes are available for free on StoryTera

10/31/2025

To all my fans and readers that are pleading and imploring me to always upload all the episodes here on facebook, this is exact reasons I kept all my stories on my website to be read for free at your leisure and any convenient time.

I do not have ample time to be bittered or be fìghting those that have habits of copying someone's content.
You can see as Janet writes and mayor of Africa are clàshing each other, as I personally also can't be patient enough to know the owner of the story if I am to read their stories or report the copier.

I am humbly pleading to adapt to getting only the episode 1 on Facebook, while you proceed to read the remaining episodes on my website.

To those that had been reading each of the complete episodes, I love you. I know time is coming that I will find a way to gift my web users. I am still earning $1 to $2 posting all these sweet stories monthly.

You can support my writing on my website, there is a "Support My Writing" button underneath each episode page on my website.

No amount is small to support your beloved Teramayo.🥰

10/31/2025

The Day I Saw a Co**se Wake Up in My Village 😱
Episode 1: The Beautiful Stranger Who Came Back from the Dead 💔
That day started like every other quiet Saturday morning in Oje Village, a small community on the outskirts of Ibadan. The sun rose slowly, painting the red roofs gold. Roosters crowed, and women carried buckets of water from the stream, gossiping as they went. But what happened before the sun went down that day still haunts me till today.

My name is Adetoun, and I was just 23 when it all began. I had returned to the village from Lagos after heartbreak shattered me. The man I loved, Femi, had betrayed me with my best friend, Yetunde. I thought leaving the city would help me heal, but I was wrong. Something darker was waiting for me in Oje.

One afternoon, as I walked through the bush path behind Baba Olaniyan’s farm, I saw something strange. A group of villagers was gathered near the old abandoned hut where burials used to take place many years ago. Curiosity dragged me closer. I heard whispers like cold wind.

“Na her o! She don wake up!” someone shouted.

I froze. Wake up? From where? My eyes followed the murmurs until I saw her — a young woman sitting on the ground, her wrapper torn and dusty, her eyes empty like she’d been far away. The villagers said her name was Morenike. She had been buried three days ago after a strange illness took her life suddenly.

My legs trembled. How could someone buried three days ago now be sitting among the living?

The elders said maybe she wasn’t truly dead, that her spirit had wandered and returned. Others said she had been possessed by something unholy. I didn’t know what to believe, but something about Morenike drew me closer. She looked frightened, lonely, and somehow… familiar.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Her image haunted me — her cracked lips, her weak smile, the way she looked at me before she was carried away to her father’s house. I felt pity and fear, but deep down, a strange connection too. I prayed silently: “God, please don’t let evil visit this village.”

The next day, I visited Morenike. Her family house was quiet. Only her mother sat outside, weeping silently as neighbors gathered. When she saw me, she said, “Adetoun, you remember her, abi? You and Morenike attended the same primary school.”

I gasped. She was that same Morenike — my childhood friend who moved away when we were twelve. No wonder her face looked familiar.

I entered the house, and there she was, sitting on a mat. She looked pale but alive. When our eyes met, she whispered, “Adetoun… I came back because of him.”

“Who?” I asked.

She smiled weakly. “A man I loved. He betrayed me before I d!ed. But I couldn’t rest.”

Her voice was soft but heavy. I didn’t know what to say. Before I could ask further, she grabbed my hand tightly, and suddenly her eyes turned red for a second. My heart almost stopped.

“Help me find him,” she said. “He’s still in this village.”

I pulled my hand away, breathing fast. “Morenike, you need rest,” I said, trying to calm her. But deep inside, I knew something wasn’t right.

That night, I told Mama about what happened, but she warned me to stay away. “Dead people don’t come back without reason,” she said. “If she truly came from the grave, something must follow her.”

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The next morning, I went to the stream to fetch water. As I bent to fill my bucket, I saw a reflection behind me — Morenike, standing quietly, staring at me through the water.

I turned around quickly, but she was gone.

My hands shook. Maybe I was losing my mind. Or maybe, the dead really don’t stay buried.

That evening, something even stranger happened. I was in my room reading when someone knocked on my door.

“Who is it?” I asked.

No answer.

I opened the door slowly, and my heart almost jumped out of my chest. It was Morenike. She looked different — her hair wet, her wrapper dripping, and her eyes glowing faintly like moonlight.

“Adetoun,” she said softly, “I need you.”

I stepped back, trembling. “How did you—”

She interrupted, her voice breaking. “Please. I can’t rest until I find him. The man who caused my death. The man I loved.”

And before I could speak, she whispered his name.

“Femi.”

I gasped loudly. Femi? The same Femi that broke my heart in Lagos? How could that be possible?

Tears filled my eyes. My mind started racing. Could Femi have been involved in Morenike’s death? Was this her revenge — or something more evil?

I wanted to run, but my legs felt heavy. Morenike smiled sadly, then vanished before my eyes. I screamed until Mama ran in, but when she arrived, the room was empty. Only the floor was wet — like someone had walked through water.

From that night, I stopped sleeping well. Dreams of Morenike calling my name, walking in the moonlight, and whispering secrets of love and betrayal filled my nights. I knew something terrible was coming.

And deep in my heart, I knew Femi had to be found — before the co**se who came back from the dead found him first.

But what if she already had?
😨😨😨
1. Why did Morenike come back from the grave?
2. What secret connects Femi, Morenike, and Adetoun together?
3. Is it possible that love could be powerful enough to call the dead back to life?
Use the link to go to Episode 2 on my website below👇:
https://storytera.com/stories/96/episodes/9602
Episode 3 is here:
https://storytera.com/stories/96/episodes/9603
NOTE TO READERS:
use the links above to read episode 2 and 3.
This is just episode 1 out of the full 3 Episodes. All episodes are available for free on StoryTera