KARMA IS A BITCH(THE GHOST) - by David Lilly-West

Ola didn’t sleep.He told himself it was the chart. Or the Azul. Or the million dollars sitting in his account like a loaded gun on a marble table. But at exactly 6:47am, when Lagos began stretching awake without him, he was still standing there. Same black tee. Same floor-to-ceiling windows. Same diamond chain tossed across the kitchen island like a dead snake. The city below him pulsed with life. Danfo horns. Generators coughing awake. Dispatch bikes weaving through morning traffic like they had somewhere holy to be. And OlaFX — forex prince, nightclub prophet, patron saint of “outside” — stood barefoot in silence, staring at a city that suddenly felt too loud for him. His phone was dead. He killed it himself. First time in four years. No Telegram alerts. No trade setups. No “Good morning Big Stepper” from girls who didn’t know his middle name. No fake love wrapped in emojis and invoice energy. Just one name. Echoing through ₦300 million worth of emptiness. “Zee.” He said it out loud this time. The penthouse didn’t answer back. It just watched him. Judged him. By 9:03am, OlaFX was googling like a possessed man. “Zainab silver cross Quilox Lagos” Nothing. “girl who hates loud clubs Lagos” Therapy blogs. Bible verses. One article about emotional unavailability. God Himself was mocking him. “how to find someone with no Instagram” WikiHow told him to accept it and move on. He almost launched the laptop through the glass. Instead, he opened Instagram. The one app he trusted less than Lagos politicians. Search. <a class="tc-blue" href="https://twocents.space/insights/tag/quiloxfriday">#QuiloxFriday</a> Videos flooded his screen instantly. Sparklers. Azul bottles. Chains. Girls screaming into cameras. Money sprayed like confetti. His own face over and over again. Laughing. Performing. Existing like a brand instead of a human being. Charade. Then— Pause. @somiblack’s story. Timestamp: 2:18AM. Corner of the frame. White tee. Braids tied into a loose bun. Silver cross glinting under club lights for half a second. And while everybody else stared at bottles and cameras— she was staring at her phone. Like the entire club bored her. Like the whole room was wasting her battery percentage. Ola screenshotted it so fast he nearly cracked his thumb. Zoomed in. The image broke into pixels. Still blurry. Still perfect. And for the first time in his life— OlaFX zoomed in on a girl and didn’t care about her body. Just her absence. He opened Somi’s DM. Bro, the girl wey block my snap last night— Delete. Who be the babe for your story by 2:18? Delete. He could already hear the group chat screaming. “Crypto landlord don fall!” “OlaFX dey find WOMAN?” “She don win be that!” His pride had already been stripped naked in Quilox. He wasn’t about to hand them the belt too. He flung the phone across the couch. The Malivelihood chain rattled against marble like it was laughing at him. By 11:14am, he broke another rule. He drove himself. No driver. No convoy. No tinted deception. Just him inside a matte-black G-Wagon crawling through Third Mainland traffic while hawkers slapped windows selling plantain chips and fake AirPods. For the first time in years, nobody recognized him. And somehow— that hurt. He didn’t know where he was going until the car stopped on its own. Quilox. Daytime. Without music, the place looked pathetic. The red carpet was stained. The gate looked rusted. The sparklers sat dead inside a plastic bucket. No bass. No girls. No hype man screaming “energyyyy!” Just silence. An expensive empty room pretending to be heaven after midnight. The gateman spotted him immediately. “Oga OlaFX! You come early today sir! Tonight we dey—” “Yesterday.” Ola’s voice came out rough. “Girl. White tee. Silver cross.” He swallowed once. “She blocked my number. You see her?” The gateman scratched his head slowly. “Oga… many girls dey come here o…” “She wasn’t trying to be fine.” The gateman blinked. That confused him more than forex ever could. Ola looked away first. “Forget am.” Back inside the car, his palms were sweating against the steering wheel. His palms. His sweat. Since when did Lagos heat reach him? By 2PM, he was spiraling beautifully. Terra Kulture. He told himself it was for “investment in art.” Lie. He wasn’t looking at paintings. He was scanning every room for braids. For silver necklaces. For girls who looked bored in beautiful places. He bought black coffee. Didn’t drink it. The cup sat there getting cold beside him like another thing waiting to be noticed. A girl laughed loudly behind him. His heart jumped. Not her. He left immediately. By 5:30PM, he was parked near Lekki Phase 1 roundabout with the engine off, watching Bolt drivers like stock charts. Because she said: “My sister dey outside dey wait.” So now every Bolt was possibility. Every girl stepping out of a ride made his pulse twitch. Every “I dey come” turned his head. His Rolex ticked too loudly. For the first time ever, it sounded less like wealth— and more like a countdown. Out of instinct, he opened TradingView. EURUSD. Perfect setup. Clean sniper entry. Easy $200k if he entered now. Last month, he would’ve posted the profits with Future lyrics and fire emojis. Now? The candlesticks blurred. They stopped looking like candles. They became: A silver cross. A loose bun. “Quilox no be church.” Ola slammed the laptop shut. The sound cracked through the car like a gunshot. By 9PM, his phone looked like a war zone. Somi: Bro where you? Hard Rock don set. Somi: Penny dey ask of you. Somi: You no post since yesterday. Boys dey worry. Pamilerin: Guy you good? Last week, he would’ve already been outside. Second bottle. Third girl. Fourth fake laugh. Charade. Now the thought of Azul made his stomach twist. He replied once. I dey house. Resting. Somi replied instantly. Resting?? You?? Bro who die? Ola stared at the message for a long time. Then locked the phone. Because he couldn’t explain that something actually did. He ordered food. Didn’t eat it. The jollof got cold beside the diamond chain. Two dead things on marble. He tried Netflix. Every actress carried her face. Every love scene felt like fraud. He turned it off. Then walked the length of his penthouse again. 4,200 square feet. It took thirty seconds. It had never felt smaller. 12:38AM. Same window. Same city. Different man. Lagos glowed beneath him like a giant circuit board. Money moving. Deals closing. People lying. People loving. People pretending. His trading account glowed behind him on the iMac. $1,048,332.14 He refreshed it six times. The number stayed the same. He didn’t. Because tonight, he would trade every dollar for one thing: To know if she got home safe. To know if her sister vexed. To know if she laughed about the loud idiot with sparklers— or if she never thought about him at all. That was the new bag now. And for the first time in his life— OlaFX had no idea how to long it, short it, or survive it. He pressed his forehead against the glass. Cold. Like her palm against his camera lens. “Zee,” he whispered to twenty million strangers below him. “If you dey hear me…” His voice cracked slightly. “I no dey do charade again. I swear to God.” Lagos didn’t answer. His intercom did. BZZZT. Ola froze. Nobody came to his penthouse at 12:39AM unless it was a girl— or trouble. And he hadn’t ordered either. His throat went dry. Somi? Pami? No. They would’ve called first. This was quiet. Too quiet. He walked toward the screen slowly, like a trader approaching a chart capable of ruining his life. Thumb hovering over ANSWER. One press and he’d find out if this was miracle— or margin call. The camera feed blinked on. Lobby. Cold white lighting. Empty marble floors. And then— White tee. Loose bun. Silver cross catching the LED light like it was carved from stars. Holding a phone in one hand. Small brown envelope in the other. Looking directly into his camera. Zee. Not a screenshot. Not a memory. Not imagination. Real. Standing downstairs like unanswered prayer finally got tired of waiting. She raised one eyebrow. Not smiling. Not angry. Just watching him. Like she already knew he’d crack. Like she knew he’d pray. Ola’s heart did something it hadn’t done on a -50% candle. It stopped. Then ran. Fast enough to ruin him.

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