The last meal on Olarenwaju street part 2

Part 2 — The <img alt="Second ServingTunde didn’t eat.At least, not at first.His" src="/media/inline_insight_image/81EB7895-A423-4F9C-A049-E8196198587A.png" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;"/> hand stayed frozen above the plate while the smell kept pulling at his senses like a rope tied to his stomach. The rice looked perfect under the flickering lantern—too perfect. Each grain separate, steaming like it had just been served from a normal kitchen. But nothing about this place was normal. The figures around the table hadn’t moved. Still sitting. Still watching. Still breathing. Slow. Wet. Patient. Tunde forced a nervous laugh. “Aunty… I think I lost appetite.” The old woman didn’t blink. “Everybody says that,” she replied softly. “Until they take the first bite.” One of the figures at the table shifted slightly. Just a small movement. A spoon scraped the plate. Tunde’s head snapped toward it. The figure was eating. Slowly. Deliberately. But the more it ate, the more wrong it became. Its shoulders began to rise unnaturally, like something was stretching inside its body. The sound of chewing grew louder… too loud… like bones cracking with every bite. Tunde stood up abruptly. “I’m going home.” The lantern flickered again. This time it didn’t go out. It just dimmed… like it was scared. The old woman sighed. “You people always want to leave before dinner finishes.” Tunde backed away toward the door. That was when he noticed something that made his stomach drop. The entrance he came through… was gone. Not blocked. Not closed. Gone. Just a wall of old rusted zinc where the exit should have been. His heartbeat spiked. “No… no, no, no…” Behind him, a chair creaked. Another figure stood. Then another. Then another. Until all four had risen. Slowly. Synchronised. Like they had been waiting for permission. The old woman tapped her spoon lightly on her glass. Tink. And they all stopped. She smiled again. “Sit down, Tunde.” He froze. “I know your name?” Her eyes softened in a way that was worse than any anger. “I know everyone who comes here hungry.” One of the figures tilted its head. And in that moment, Tunde saw it clearly. Its face wasn’t a face. It was stretched skin over something hollow… like a mask forced onto a moving skull. The mouth opened slightly. And whispered: “We were hungry before you came.” The lantern went out again. But this time, it didn’t come back. Only chewing sounds filled the darkness. Slow. Close. Everywhere. Tunde stumbled backward, knocking the table. The plate fell. It didn’t break. It just… sank into the floor. Like the ground had swallowed it. Then— A hand grabbed his wrist. Cold. Wet. Impossible strength. The old woman’s voice came from directly behind him. “You shouldn’t waste food.” Tunde screamed and jerked free— But as he turned, he saw it. The kitchen door was open now. And inside it… was not a kitchen. It was something vast. Something breathing. Something that smelled like every meal ever cooked in that street… all mixed together into one living thing. And it was waiting. For the next bite. The old woman leaned closer and whispered: “Dinner is not for leaving.” “It is for becoming.” Tunde ran. But the moment his foot hit the floor— the floor hit back.

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