I'm not like other girls, I'm worse than them.

The rain pounded the zinc roof of Mama Ngozi’s buka in Oshodi, the sound mixing with the sizzle of akara frying in hot oil. I sat at a wobbly table in the corner, my plastic chair creaking under me, a bottle of warm Fanta in my hand. My faded jeans were still damp from the downpour, and my braids dripped water onto the cracked concrete floor. People avoided my gaze, not because I was some Lagos beauty queen, but because my eyes had a way of cutting through you like a machete. I wasn’t like other girls. I was worse. My name’s Shade. Not Shade with a soft smile and a church hat, but Shade with a smirk that could make even area boys think twice. Growing up in the crowded streets of Ajegunle, I watched girls my age chase dreams of being the next Genevieve Nnaji or marrying a Lekki big boy. They’d flutter their lashes, wear their tightest ankara, and pray for a man with a Range Rover. Me? I didn’t pray. I planned. And my plans left scars. It started small—palming a few naira from my auntie’s purse, slipping a teacher’s answer sheet to the highest bidder in SS3. I wasn’t interested in fitting in with the “good girls” who clutched their Bibles and whispered about boys. I wanted to twist the world until it bent to me. By the time I was 19, I was the one you called when you needed a rival’s secret spilled or a deal gone bad fixed. I didn’t just break rules; I rewrote them. Tonight, though, I was playing for bigger stakes. The buka was just a stop, a place to think before I moved. Across Lagos, in a glass-walled mansion on Banana Island, was Temi Alade, the influencer everyone worshipped. Temi, with her perfect skin and 500k X followers, could sell out a boutique with one selfie. She was the queen of Lagos society—red carpets, endorsements, private jets. Everyone loved Temi. Everyone trusted her. That was their first mistake. Temi had a secret, one she thought was locked tight in her DMs. A shady deal with a politician’s aide, funneling campaign money through her “charity” for a fat cut. I’d found it, not by luck but because I knew where to look. I had a knack for sniffing out lies, like a dog smelling fear. Other girls might’ve used that info to blackmail her for a quick payout or a VIP invite. Not me. I didn’t want her money or her clout. I wanted to see her crown shatter. My phone sat on the table, its cracked screen glowing under the buka’s flickering bulb. I’d already set up the X account—an anonymous burner with no trace back to me. One tap, and Temi’s dirty laundry would flood the internet, from Yaba to VI. Screenshots of her chats, bank transfers, the works. Lagos would eat her alive, and I’d be here, sipping Fanta, when the blogs started screaming. Why? You’d ask. Why be so wicked? Because I could. Because Lagos was a jungle, and I wasn’t prey—I was the predator. Other girls wanted to shine. I wanted to set fires. The rain kept hammering, drowning out the juju music from Mama Ngozi’s radio. My finger hovered over the “post” button. I pictured Temi’s face—her perfect gele slipping, her fans turning on her like hungry dogs. I saw the chaos, the hashtags, the headlines. And I grinned. I wasn’t like other girls. I was worse. And Lagos wasn’t ready for me.

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