The crown of Queens 👑 Episode 1
The Crown of Queens
My name is Toke.
If you are reading this and my WhatsApp is no longer reachable, do not look for me. Do not pray for me. Just learn.
Because greed does not knock loudly. It whispers.
I am a Personal Assistant to one of the most talked‑about women in Lagos society Madam Rose. Influencer. Oil money. Soft life evangelist. The kind of woman bloggers call "self‑made" even when nobody can explain what she actually does.
She lived in Ikoyi, the part of Lagos where silence itself is expensive. Her mansion had cameras everywhere, a generator that hummed like a contented beast, and rooms that smelled of wealth leather, perfume, imported candles.
On my first day, she gave me only one rule.
“Toke, you can touch anything in this house. Anything. But never enter my Prayer Room. If you value your life.”
She didn’t shout. She didn’t threaten. She just smiled.
And I obeyed. For two years.
Until last Saturday.
Madam Rose traveled to Abuja for a society wedding aso ebi stitched abroad, private jet level nonsense. She left in a hurry and for the first time since I met her, she forgot something.
The key.
It lay innocently on her dressing table. Gold. Heavy. Warm.
That same evening, I had a date.
Femi.
Instagram boyfriend. Verified vibes. Lexus. Wristwatch that screamed dollars. The kind of man that makes you sit straighter when you talk.
I had the dress. I had the heels. But my hair… ah.
My old synthetic wig had suffered. The edges were lifting like bad intentions. I looked like struggle.
And then I remembered the room.
The devil does not push you. He suggests.
I unlocked the Prayer Room around 6:47 p.m.
The smell hit me first.
Not incense. Not anointing oil.
Perfume. Expensive, choking perfume… mixed with something old. Something wet. Like dead fish left in the sun.
The lights flickered on.
The room was circular. No windows. Red rugs. Strange symbols carved into the walls. Bowls I didn’t want to identify. Mirrors facing mirrors.
And in the center
The wig.
Thirty inches. Bone straight. So perfect it didn’t look human.
It rested on a golden stand like a crown waiting for a head.
A tag hung from it:
THE CROWN OF QUEENS
Do Not Touch
My heart was beating in my throat.
“Just for tonight,” I whispered.
When I lifted it, my hands went numb.
The hair was cold.
Alive.
But vanity is louder than fear.
The wig did not sit on my head.
It latched.
Like it recognized me.
Pain flashed briefly, then vanished.
I looked in the mirror.
I didn’t look good.
I looked dangerous.
I took pictures. I posted one. Likes poured in like blessings.
The date was magic.
Femi couldn’t stop touching my hair.
“This hair is different,” he said. “It feels like… skin.”
I laughed.
At 11:58 p.m., the headache started.
By the time I got home, the pain had become a presence.
Something was crawling.
I ran to the mirror and grabbed the lace.
It didn’t lift.
I pulled harder.
My vision exploded into white.
The wig was no longer a wig.
It was me.
Hair was growing from my scalp thick, dark roots burrowing inward instead of out.
I screamed.
The scissors screamed back.
Blood followed.
Then the phone rang.
“Why did you touch it, Toke?” Madam Rose asked calmly.
I was sobbing.
“Help me! It’s inside my head!”
She laughed.
“That hair is older than Lagos. It belongs to the Water Queen. I borrowed beauty. I borrowed wealth. And now it’s time to return it.”
My chest collapsed.
“I needed a successor,” she said. “You were perfect.”
The line went dead.
It is now 3:14 a.m.
The whispers have started.
They tell me secrets. Bank account numbers. Names of men who will kneel before me. Places where blood is easy to find.
The pain tightens every hour.
I understand now.
Beauty always collects interest.
If you see a woman glowing unnaturally, pray for her.
If you envy her, stop.
Because some crowns are not worn.
They consume.
And if tomorrow you see a new slay queen rise in Lagos hair flawless, eyes empty Run.
It means I chose to live.
And something else died for me.
TBC.. Episode 2
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