Junior is Awake

JUNIOR IS AWAKE

People say there are only two things that can push a good person into danger: love and poverty.

In my case, it was poverty raw, embarrassing, throat grabbing poverty.

My name is Chidinma, and three weeks ago I resigned from a job that paid ₦1.5 million every month.

Yes.

One point five million naira.

Cash.

My friends still think I’m mad.

“Are you okay?”

“Is it not just to sit inside AC and watch pikin?”

“Even if the child is stubborn, endure first!”

They don’t know what I watched.

They don’t know who I watched.

And they don’t know that some jobs don’t pay salary they pay souls.

THE OFFER THAT LOOKED LIKE DELIVERANCE

After NYSC, life humbled me thoroughly.

Three years with a 2.1 in Mass Communication, and all I had to show for it were unpaid internships, rejected CVs, and friends who suddenly stopped picking my calls.

Sapa followed me like a spiritual husband.

One evening, while scrolling aimlessly on Telegram, I saw the advert:

URGENT: Special Needs Nanny required

Location: Banana Island

Salary: ₦1.5m monthly

Accommodation & feeding included

Only serious applicants

I laughed out loud.

Then I applied.

Two days later, I got a call.

The interview happened the next morning.

The house on Bourdillon Road looked less like a home and more like a palace someone uprooted from Dubai and dropped in Lagos. White walls. Gold gates. Four G-Wagons lined up like soldiers.

When the gate opened, I already felt small.

Madam came out herself.

She was tall, light-skinned, glowing, wrapped in quiet luxury. Her perfume alone could pay my rent for six months.

She studied me slowly.

“The job is simple,” she said calmly.

“You will watch my son, Junior. He is very quiet. He doesn’t like noise. He doesn’t like sunlight. And most importantly”

She paused and stared into my eyes.

“you must never touch his face.”

Something about the way she said never made my stomach tighten.

But hunger spoke louder.

“Yes Ma,” I replied.

She led me upstairs.

MEETING JUNIOR

The nursery was… wrong.

Too cold.

Too quiet.

The AC was blasting like the room was preserving something.

In the center sat Junior.

On a gold chair.

He was wearing a Gucci T-shirt and tiny diamond studs.

I almost laughed.

Because Junior wasn’t a child.

He was a life sized ceramic doll.

Painted skin.

Perfect curls.

Glass blue eyes fixed on the wall.

For a second, I thought it was a prank.

Then Madam handed me an envelope.

“Your mobilization fee. ₦500,000.”

My mouth closed immediately.

For ₦500k, I would babysit a refrigerator.

THE EASY DAYS

The first three days were smooth.

I sat in the freezing nursery, scrolling my phone. Junior never moved. Never blinked. Never breathed.

Madam and Oga would come in, kiss the doll, speak to it softly.

“Junior, did you behave today?”

“Did you eat well?”

They would turn to me.

“Yes Ma,” I lied. “He finished his Cerelac.”

They would smile and tip me in $100 bills.

I told myself they were rich people coping with grief. Maybe they lost a child and replaced him with a doll.

People handle trauma differently.

I didn’t ask questions.

I never ask questions when money is talking.

THE NIGHT EVERYTHING CHANGED

Thursday night.

I fell asleep on the couch in the nursery.

Around 2:00 AM, I woke up suddenly.

Not because of fear.

But because of sound.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Small footsteps on tiles.

I rubbed my eyes and looked at the gold chair.

It was empty.

My heart skipped.

The door was locked from inside.

“Junior?” I whispered, feeling foolish.

Then something cold grabbed my ankle.

I screamed.

Junior was under the table.

But his face

God.

His painted smile was gone.

In its place was a black hole, wet and breathing.

Inside it… teeth.

Human teeth. Rotten. Crooked.

“Mama…”

The voice came out like an old man dying.

Not a child.

Not human.

My strength drained instantly. I felt dizzy, like something was sucking my life through my leg.

I kicked with everything left in me. 

Junior flew across the room and smashed into the wall.

The ceramic head cracked open.

Inside wasn’t empty.

Inside was a human skull.

Fresh flesh. Blood. Brain matter.

Junior wasn’t a doll.

He was a container.

RUNNING FOR MY LIFE

I didn’t think. I didn’t pray.

I ran.

I unlocked the door, bolted past security, through the gate, onto the road.

I didn’t stop until I reached a police checkpoint near Ikoyi Bridge.

I collapsed there.

By morning, my phone was buzzing.

Madam had sent a message:

You broke his shell, Chidinma.

Now he is loose.

He is very hungry.

And he has your scent.

Come back and finish your shift, or he will come to you.

I threw up.

HIDING WAS NOT ENOUGH

I ran to a church in Mowe. Locked myself inside the prayer room. Told the pastor everything.

He went pale.

“This is not a child,” he said. “This is a thing.”

We prayed.

We fasted.

I slept on the altar floor.

At exactly 2:00 AM on the third night

Tap. Tap. Tap.

At the window.

Slow. Patient.

Like something that knows time means nothing.

The pastor shouted prayers.

The tapping stopped.

Then the voice came:

“Mama… finish my food…”

I knew then.

Running was useless.

THE FINAL DECISION

At dawn, I left the church.

I went to the police with evidence. Photos. My torn clothes. The skull pictures I snapped before running.

This time, I went public.

Journalists. Social media. Names.

Banana Island woke up to headlines.

The mansion was raided.

They found three more “dolls.”

All with skulls.

All fed by nannies who never returned.

Madam and her husband disappeared.

But Junior?

Junior was never found.

I moved out of Lagos.

I changed my name.

I don’t take jobs without visiting first.

I don’t enter houses where silence feels alive.

And every night at 2:00 AM, I still listen.

Because sometimes…

The salary wasn’t high because the work was hard.

It was high because what you were feeding was alive.

FINAL WORD

If a job offer looks too good to be true,

ask what exactly you are being paid to watch.

Money is good.

But your soul is expensive.

And some children are not children.

Some are just…

awake. 😳

End