The Ilorin Shock Episode 7

Episode Seven: Silence After Sunset

Finishing the holy book did not bring rest.

Instead, it brought a new set of rules.

In that house, night was not for play. Night was not for noise. Night was not even for laughter. Once the sun began to drop, everyone adjusted automatically like the compound itself understood the law.

We ate our night food early, between 6 and 7 pm. Sometimes the food was still hot when we swallowed it quickly. There was no time to linger. No time to gist. Once plates were cleared, night officially began.

And night meant silence.

Sleeping early was not advice.

It was command.

If you were caught playing, whispering, or even moving carelessly, the punishment was simple but heavy:

You would be sent inside to read the holy book.

Not for ten minutes.

Not for one chapter.

Until midnight.

The first time I witnessed it happen to someone else, I didn’t believe it.

A boy laughed outside after dark just a small laugh. Before he could explain himself, he was called inside. Hours later, while others slept, he was still there, reading, his voice tired, his eyes red.

That night, sleep avoided me.

I lay still, counting my breaths, afraid even to turn. Every sound felt loud. Every movement felt like a mistake waiting to happen.

After finishing the holy book, expectations also changed. People watched me differently. Some assumed I should be perfect now. Some believed I should never make mistakes again.

But I was still a child.

And children forget.

One evening, after eating early, my brother and I sat quietly. We weren’t playing. We weren’t talking. We were just… existing. I shifted my leg slightly, and it scraped the ground.

The sound echoed louder than it should have.

My heart jumped.

I froze.

No one spoke, but the silence that followed felt like judgment. I didn’t move again.

From that day, nights became a test of self-control. You learned how to sit without moving. How to breathe without making sound. How to sleep before sleep was ready for you.

Days were busy.

Nights were careful.

And slowly, the house began to feel like a place where daylight belonged to children but darkness belonged to rules.

I reminded myself of Oyo State.

Back home, night meant stories.

It meant laughter.

It meant freedom.

Here, night meant discipline.

And though no pain had touched me yet, I could feel something building like pressure behind a wall.

I didn’t know when it would break.

But I knew one thing for sure:

Surviving Ilorin was no longer about misunderstanding words or accents.

It was about enduring silence.

To be continued…  Episode 8