When Fake Rich Turns Real and the Price Is the Soul

Aweni, Abike, Ajoke, and Chichi were inseparable.

They all lived together in Mile 12, Lagos four young women from different places, united by one dream: to escape poverty.

Aweni was from Ikoyi in Osun State. Abike and Ajoke were sisters from Oyo. Chichi came all the way from Calabar. Life had brought them together under one roof, and survival kept them together.

By day, they were regular girls.

By night, Abike, Ajoke, and Chichi went out to “hustle.”

They dressed expensive, moved with confidence, and were often seen with big men. To outsiders, they looked rich and connected. Aweni admired them deeply. She begged them constantly to teach her “the way,” telling them she wanted the soft life too.

What Aweni didn’t know was the truth.

Behind closed doors, the girls were tired. The clothes were borrowed. The trips were lies. The money never stayed. They acted rich outside but went to bed hungry inside. One night, after returning home exhausted and broke, Abike finally spoke.

“I’m tired of pretending,” she said. “We can’t continue like this.”

That night, Abike revealed she had a plan a dangerous one. A plan that would change everything. They deliberately left Aweni out of the conversation. Some secrets, they believed, were not meant to be shared.

At midnight, Abike, Ajoke, and Chichi went out together not to a club, but to a place hidden from the world.

The witch woman’s house was deep in the outskirts. The air was thick with smoke. Candles flickered. The ground was cold. When the woman appeared, her voice was low and heavy.

“You want money?” she asked.

“You want rich men to chase you?”

They all said yes.

The woman bathed them at a T-junction before dawn and gave them a powder to rub on their bodies whenever they went out. But she warned them clearly:

“You must return every month to renew this power. If you stop… it will stop working.”

They agreed without hesitation.

From that moment, everything changed.

At clubs, rich men ignored other women and rushed toward them. Cars picked them up. Trips followed Dubai, Paris, Zanzibar. Houses were bought. One mansion stood tall in Banana Island. Their lives transformed overnight.

And Aweni?

She was left behind.

She cried alone in Mile 12, wondering what she had done wrong. The girls she once lived with now lived a life she could only watch on Instagram. Months later, they invited her to visit them.

When Aweni entered the Banana Island compound and saw the luxury cars, the marble floors, and the smiles on their faces, something broke inside her.

She dropped to her knees.

“Please,” she begged. “Show me the way.”

They asked her one question:

“Once you know this way, can you do it?”

Without thinking, Aweni said yes.

They took her to the same witch woman. The same bath. The same powder. The same warning.

But this time, Aweni didn’t listen.

Money came faster than she imagined. She bought cars, properties, and travelled endlessly. She forgot Mile 12. Forgot her parents. Forgot who she used to be. She never went back for renewal. She felt untouchable.

Until one night.

Lying alone in her luxury bedroom, Aweni scrolled through TikTok and Instagram, smiling at comments and followers. Then a strange message popped up—no profile picture, no username.

It read:

“When the consequences begin, they won’t only take the money.

They will also take the soul.”

Her phone fell from her hand.

And for the first time since she became rich, Aweni felt fear.

Real fear.

Aweni couldn’t sleep that night.

The message kept replaying in her head. She tried to laugh it off, telling herself it was just a troll. After all, she was rich now. Powerful. Untouchable.

Around 2:17 a.m., the lights in her mansion flickered.

Her phone buzzed again.

“You were warned.”

Suddenly, the room grew cold. The air smelled like smoke—thick, choking smoke, the same kind she remembered from the witch woman’s house. Aweni sat up, her heart pounding.

Then she heard it.

Bare feet… dragging across the marble floor.

She tried to scream, but no sound came out.

The bedroom door slowly opened on its own.

Standing there were Abike, Ajoke, and Chichi—but not the way she knew them. Their eyes were dark and empty. Their smiles were wide, too wide, stretching beyond human limits.

“You didn’t come back,” they said in one voice.

Aweni jumped out of bed, running through the house, but every mirror she passed showed her reflection rotting, her skin cracking, her eyes sinking deeper and deeper. Her expensive clothes turned to rags before her eyes.

Her phone rang.

The caller ID showed NO NAME.

When she answered, the witch woman’s voice whispered:

“The money was never yours.

The men were never yours.

The life… was borrowed.”

The walls began to bleed.

Aweni fell to the floor, crying, begging, calling her parents’ names for the first time in years.

Too late.

By morning, the security men found her in the mansion—alive, but empty. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t recognize anyone. Her eyes stared into nothing.

Within weeks, the money disappeared. Accounts froze. Properties were seized. The cars refused to start. Banana Island forgot her name.

As for Abike, Ajoke, and Chichi?

People say their mansions are still standing but no one ever sees them in daylight anymore. At night, music plays. Cars arrive. And new girls enter.

Girls who want to be rich.

Girls who don’t listen to warnings.

And sometimes, when the night is quiet, neighbors swear they hear a voice crying from inside one of the houses:

“I should have come back.”

Moral

Not every door to wealth leads to freedom.

Some lead to chains you can’t see until it’s too late.