Satellite.

Jimoh found the house sale advertisement on the WhatsApp status of a house agent.

The picture slides revealed an old duplex with rusty cream painting, perforated block walls, outdoor decking, and an aluminium garage. The interior revealed asbestos ceilings, old louvre windows, and large bathrooms with bathtubs—an old house, no doubt.

“But why is it so cheap?” Jimoh asked aloud.

The price was the baffling part. He tried to rationalise why a house situated in Bodija could be put up for sale at 12 million. 12 million was a steal for one of the most expensive neighbourhoods in the urban city.

“Guy, you sabi say April fool don pass?” he replied to one of the pictures.

Jimoh concluded it was one of those houses due for demolition by the government, even those were not sold below their worth.

The sizzling of his old iron brought him back to his mundane reality. He checked his kaftan for creases and smoothened them up. It was his father's one-year remembrance and his heart dreaded the humiliation that was about to come with it.

He heard a car honk and rushed outside. The main house was sealed since his father's passing and reserved for events like this while he took refuge in the boy’s quarters.

Jimoh recognised the black Range Rover and his brother. His overweight sister, not so much. Her cheeks sagged more than they did the last time he saw her; the gravitational pull gave her lips a downturned shape; it reminded him of a particular dog breed he couldn't put a name to.

His little niece, Bella, whom he only saw at family gatherings like this, ran up to him with a joyful squeal.

“Bella, get back here!” Her mother thundered.

“Sayo, let the little girl play,” His brother, Tosin, appealed before turning to Jimoh, "It's good to see you. Taking care of the place, eh?” he asked with a look of uncertainty.

“I'm doing my best,” Jimoh shrugged.

Tosin spent the journey into the compound proving him wrong. He complained about the badly cut shrubs along the sidewalks, the weeds sprouting out of the interlocked floors, a mysterious crack on the wall, and the unswept dried leaves from the mango trees.

“You live here for free, the least you could do is take care of the place.”

Jimoh stared at the Range Rover keys dangling from his brother's fingers as he gesticulated his displeasure. He looked down at Bella who tugged at his clothes, but the look on her mother's face bothered him more than Tosin's scolding.

“Eh, Jimoh? Surely you don't expect us to hire a miguard caretaker with you around?” Tosin continued.

The shrill notification sound from his phone diverted Jimoh's attention from both sour situations. It was a message from the house agent.

“Guy, I no fit lie to you,” came the reply.

The memorial commenced with a prayer from a friend of the deceased who doubled as a pastor.

Despite the hours of straightening and ironing, Jimoh noticed his white kaftan was less smooth than that of his siblings. There was a dull shade to it and a visible crease on the left sleeve. It had less to do with the quantity of starch used and more with the quality of the clothing.

The smell of their musks made him wish he hadn't worn his smart collection body spray. That body spray had served him for years, but it was nothing like the spicy and almost fruity scents that drifted from his siblings.

Their other brother, Tayo, joined the memorial from a Zoom call. His pointy bald head bobbed from the bottom of the screen as he chanted his amens to the prayers.

Jimoh opened an eye to glance at the buffet trays arranged on a long table. It was all he could think about.

Soon, they all stood in line with plates to dish the food. He had his eyes on the pounded yam, but the garnishing of the jollof rice drew him in even more. This food was a big break from the unseasoned noodles he had adjusted his palate to.

The lawyer of the deceased was present and, this time with an unusual announcement, one that set the mood of the family gathering for the rest of the day.

“Pa Festus left something for Jimoh. He did it much later while the illness was on the verge of claiming him. He sold his stocks. They're valued at 15 million. Jimoh can either claim the money or use it to buy more shares.”

Jimoh’s siblings took the news with shock. The looks on their faces screamed impostor. Late Pa Festus had no business leaving an inheritance for the bastard child his unfaithful wife imposed on him. Jimoh was as jolted as they were. His half-eaten chicken wing fell back onto his messy plate.

A toast was made to the late Pa Festus Oni, and the pastor gave the closing prayer. Jimoh’s head was racing. 15 million could change his life.

The recent development had driven the family into chaos. Sayo couldn't hide her disgust for the boy whose birth and existence had destroyed her family. If she had her way, the bastard would have been kicked out the moment her father passed. What was a 28-year-old man still doing living under his father's roof anyway? And it wasn't even his real father.

Jimoh paced around in the boys’ quarters. He heard the banters of his siblings from the main house where they were staying the night.

The lawyer had mentioned he would receive his inheritance within 10 working days. He could start a business, leave the country, buy the car he's been saving up to start a career with Uber. But there was one thing he wanted most of all: to move out of that house. It was the only leverage his siblings had over him. They had been kind and generous enough to let the bastard son stay in the family boys’ quarters in exchange for maintenance.

He could finally rent a place. He stopped pacing and remembered the house he saw for sale. A house like that was worth more than anything else he had planned in his square-shaped head. He picked up his phone and dialled the number of the house agent.

The house looked exactly like the pictures. The cracked wall paint, dusty rails, and cemented floors save for the tree at the far end of the compound and the shrubs by the side of the house.

The agent frowned at the relentless cawing of the crows on the tree.

“Someone should have cut that tree,” he murmured.

He took him through the back to unlock a room Jimoh recognised as a kitchen. A rat scurried across the black and white terrazzo floors. The kitchen led them to the dining area and, subsequently, the living room.

“Never mind the dust; there's a lot of cleaning to do around here, including fumigation,” the agent told him while leading the way upstairs.

The three bedrooms were airy and spacious, with inbuilt closets. The tiles in the bathrooms were white enough to be considered clean. One of the bathrooms had a broken bathtub.

They went down a musty corridor that led to a spacious balcony. The rest of the street was in view. A soft breeze caressed Jimoh's face, and he sighed with contentment.

“Well, that's all of it,” the agent announced. “Do you like what you see?”

“It's perfect,” came Jimoh's reply.

“You can make renovations when you pay,”

"I will not be renovating,” he blurted.

The agent placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, “Don't say that. Money can come...”

“It's not even about money,” Jimoh started. There was an ageless beauty the house conveyed, and he feared renovating it to suit modern standards would ruin it. The house felt like a historical site he had to preserve. It seemed to have its own pulse.

The money came in within two weeks. The first thing Jimoh did was quit his job. Soon, he found himself learning the intricacies of buying a house. 15 million seemed incomprehensible to him now that he had it.

“It has been a rollercoaster trying to sell that house.” the house agent told him while they had cold sodas in his car. “Did I tell you someone came up with the entire sum but pulled out at the last minute?”

Jimoh thought it was a dumb move, “What, why?”

The stout man shrugged, "I'm not sure, something about his wife telling him it's a bad investment.”

Jimoh passed a brown envelope with the bundle of signed papers to him.

The agent smirked, “Now we have to get the house owner to sign.”

“Where is he anyway?” Jimoh inquired.

He got the answer to his question when the house agent drove him to a state correctional centre.

Jimoh looked at him unbelievably.

“You didn't tell me he's a prisoner,” he protested.

“My guy, what you see is exactly the way things are.”

Jimoh had never seen the four walls of a correctional centre before. This one was way shabbier than what the movies showed. The men that littered the drying fields and corridors were more ordinary looking than he thought. They could pass for any other regular-looking men on the streets.

After filling out a form and undergoing a security check, he handed his phone and wallet to the men in uniform and was led to the visiting room.

The house owner was younger than he expected, so young, he could pass for a younger sibling.

A darkened shadow was cast under his eyes which stared at him with apathy and intertipedness.

The boy signed the papers quickly and passed them back to him. “Why are you looking like that?

You know it's a good deal.”

“Why are you selling the house?” Jimoh asked.

“I need the money,” the house owner shrugged. “Is that good enough for you?”

Jimoh only stared at him.

“Look, I'm on death row here. I need to settle and compensate some people.” He explained. "I need money.”

Jimoh wasn't satisfied. “What are you here for?”

“What do you think?” The house owner asked. "I was sentenced to death. What do you think I did?”

“You don't look like a bad person,” he sympathised.

“You must know a lot of bad people.” The boy stood to his feet and signalled to the guard. "Look, if you want to buy the house, speak to the agent. I'm done here. The wise person learns from others' misfortunes instead of gawking at them.”

The encounter left him with a lot of questions. As soon as Jimoh received his phone from the guards, he looked up the house owners’ name on the internet as it was spelled out on the papers.

There wasn't much information about a criminal case. The boys’ socials were as mundane as ever. A regular user who posts about football, music and wishes his friends on their birthdays.

With everything in place, all Jimoh had to do was move. There was nothing much to move from the boys’ quarters; his couch was the only valuable piece of furniture. His mattress was an eyesore, and his other appliances were on the brink of falling apart. Tosin would not let him take anything from the main house. He didn't even care to know where he was moving to.

Jimoh thought about throwing a housewarming party with his friends. His best friend from high school had left for the United Kingdom, and the other friends he made in the university had left the rustic city for bigger ones. Only he had remained, working an underpaid job and making music on FL studio with his 8-year-old laptop.

There was Precious, though, bright and beautiful as the morning sun. The only woman he'd ever loved deeply. Such information he kept to himself. Precious had gotten married the previous year to a man above his league.

He recalled how his heart sank during the wedding. He couldn't stay beyond the church and had spent the journey home contemplating death. The speeding vehicles beckoned to him, so did the hook on the ceiling of his room where a fan used to be.

Precious was elated at the news and came over with food and wine. She welcomed him into her arms and swung him left and right in a tight embrace. There was the new house, but Precious embrace was the closest thing that felt like home.

“Jimoh, did you invite a pastor to pray in this house?” she asked, holding her wine glass delicately. Her left brow arched upwards.

Jimoh shrugged. "What for? God has already answered my prayers by giving me this house.”

“That's not what I mean. When you move into a new house, it's only normal to invite someone to bless the place. It doesn't have to be a pastor. It could be an imam, anybody.”

He laughed. "Okay, okay, I'll find a pastor. I won't go to the one in my family church because I don't want tongues wagging. But they're always asking for money.”

Precious rolled her eyes, “Of course, logistics is not free.”

He laughed. "Calm down; even the blessings of Notre Dame didn't stop it from burning.”

He gave her a tour of the house. She seemed to love it as much as he did. He wondered if acquiring such property would make her see him more like a man. If he had acquired the house earlier and told her how he really felt, would he have stood a chance? Such questions plagued his mind as he watched her peep excitedly at every nook. They sat on the balcony upstairs, admiring the view.

Precious turned her gaze to the tree, “those are a lot of crows,” she observed.

The crows gathered around a fallen one, rising and falling in a ritual dance. Two of them watched Jimoh and Precious from where they were perched.

“You should take my word for it. The new successor has the heart of a chicken,” one of them cawed.

The others had started to peck on the deceased crow. The two flew off the branch to join in the farewell.

Jimoh saw his guest out very late that night, he was more worried about her getting home safe than what her husband would think.

“Is he okay with you coming back this late?” He asked.

Precious waved a hand. “He isn't in town. Besides, I can go home whenever I want.”

She had taken more wine than he did, and that worried him more. The car she walked up to was different from the one he saw the last time. Perhaps her husband had gotten her a new one.

“Call me when you get home,” he said, shutting the door after her.

“This is the least populated housewarming I've ever been to, but I had fun nonetheless. I'm happy for you, Jimoh; I'm sure you'll do great things in this house.” Precious said in between hiccups.

Jimoh smiled sheepishly as he watched her drive away. The smile didn't leave his face after her car had taken the bend and was out of sight.

He turned around and proceeded to get back into his new house. Two little figures peered at him from the balcony of the next house. He waved at the two children, and they scurried back into the house with a scream.

Jimoh fell asleep on the only couch he brought with him. The smell of Precious still lingered on it. His dream was a core memory, the beautiful years before he found out he was a bastard, and everything changed.

He wrestled with his brother, Tosin and played chess with the man he called father while wisps of his mother's cooking drifted in. It was a time in his life he was truly happy.

Jimoh felt a cold hand stroke his cheek. He woke up with a jolt and heard a shrill, metallic sound of his own name. His ears rang painfully, and his eyes darted around the living room.

The place looked as empty as ever. He picked up his phone to see missed calls from Precious and a text telling him she got home safe. He sighed in relief.

Jimoh walked grudgingly to the kitchen for some water, grabbed a half-empty bottle from the counter and gulped it down greedily. He stopped abruptly and stared into space with a frown.

The air around him was thick, and he couldn't help but feel like there was a presence behind him. He felt the heat on his back, and it was almost like he felt soft breaths.

Jimoh swung around swiftly. There was nothing.

He settled in for a shower that morning. As he stepped out of the bathtub, he felt a cold hand grab his ankle. It was as cold as the touch that woke him from his sleep and this time, it felt as real as ever.

Jimoh spent the last couple of minutes twisting and turning, staring menacingly. He grabbed his bottle of shampoo, ready to swing it at the slightest sound or sensation.

Within the next five minutes, he was out of the house and on the way to the correctional centre.

He muttered an unintelligible monologue on the way about how his life was cursed. The previous house owner had to know something about what was happening. It all made sense to him now, buying a house that cheap must surely come with a cost.

Precious was right about sanctifying the place. He texted her requesting her pastor's number.

This was his first big win in life; whatever that thing was, had to vacate the house for him.

He found himself at the prison and walked up to the presiding officers.

“Officers, I'm here to see Emmanuel; I know he's not allowed visitors, but this is very important. I was here a few days ago with house papers...”

The prison guards looked amongst themselves uncomfortably.

“No be the guy wey kpai himself?” One of them blurted out.

Jimoh walked out of the prison glass-eyed and with wobbly feet. The boy had killed himself two days before with a shred of glass. He had plunged it into his neck and bled out on the floor of the dining room, ruining the appetite of the other prisoners.

He was in turmoil. He thought about calling the agent, but what would he know about what was in that house? The agent was just a middleman looking to put food on his table. He couldn't call his siblings either. And Precious? He didn't want to bother her.

Precious hadn't replied to his request for her pastor's number. He decided to take things into his own hands. He stopped by a white garment church and narrated his situation in tears. A man and a woman followed him back to the house.

Wisps of incense clouded the air, candles burned in every room, accompanied with the ringing of bells and the stomping of feet. Jimoh found himself caught in the frenzy. He bobbed his head, and for the first time in years, he said a sincere prayer out to whoever was listening.

Let me have this one thing, I've always lost everything, can't I just have this house?

Later, he saw the prophets out and thanked them with a generous sum. Somehow, he believed whatever was in that house was gone. He had to believe it because he knew he could go insane from thinking otherwise.

He returned back to the house, the sun was setting. Fear creeped out from within, but he tried to look as assertive as possible.

“It's gone. The prayers worked,” he muttered to himself.

He had never prayed that much and that sincerely in his life. Hope surged through his veins, and soon, he found himself repeating the previous chants from the prophets.

Jimoh went to sleep with his heart pounding. It was audible in the night silence. He swallowed a lump of spit for the umpteenth time. This time, it hurt, an indication that he was thirsty. But he ,couldn't bring himself to go to the kitchen.

“How do I know it worked?” He whispered.

“It didn't,” came a whisper in his left ear.

He tried to spring up but a dominant force held him down. He couldn't move a muscle. He tried to scream, but his throat was so dry, and soon, he started to choke.

Consciousness seeped slowly out of him, and within a few minutes, he couldn't feel his body anymore. A tear ran down his left cheek down to his ear.

Jimoh sank deep into a trance and found himself in an omniscient form. He saw things through the eyes of an entity that had a footing in the world at a time when atoms of him hadn't existed.

The civilisation then was different, the language was without external influences. Right where the house was built, a modest temple stood, adorned with carvings. The walls were etched with sigils.

The priest and custodian of the religion was a bald man. Something he shared in common with the ones before him. The people came to him for healing and guidance.

Jimoh could read the thoughts of these people, feel their fear and hypocrisy. He felt power surge through him as the chants of worshippers echoed through the temple's walls. The priest led in this vocal ritual.

The people bore offerings and sacrifices and worshipped earnestly with chants, whirling dances and offerings. The immense power he felt was nothing like he had ever felt. However, the euphoria didn't last for too long. This intoxicating power started to dim as the worshippers dwindled. A new generation emerged with a price. Some of these births were made possible thanks to his benevolence, but all he got in return was defiance.

Time passed, and Jimoh felt this power dwindle as the subsequent generations refused to follow the spiritual parts of their forerunners. The last worshiper and upholder of the religion was the priest, bent and wrinkled with age, despaired by his failure to keep the torch burning. He hung himself on a tree after carving a message of doom to the infidels.

He felt the jeer of the other deities, a once powerful being lost in history and memory, reduced to almost nothing.

Jimoh finally gained control over his body. He wanted to feel that power again. He couldn't describe it if he tried. All his life, he had felt helpless and at the mercy of others. This creature was just like him, lonely, an outcast, heading towards erasure. There was so much more to it, but nobody would ever know. He sat up from the couch and sobbed his heart out.

Jimoh felt the cold hand on his back, he didn't fight it, it seemed to be consoling him.

Precious peered through the rusty see-through gate. She dialled Jimoh’s number, an automated voice indicated it was switched off. She knocked repetitively at the gate. Her brows were knit in worry. The weeds around the house were overgrown. She noticed two children peering from the balcony of the next house and moved to talk to them but they scampered back in.

Inside the house, nothing much had changed. The couch was still in the position it was left. The surfaces were dusty. This included the cracked screen of his mobile phone.

Jimoh sat on the floor against a wall; his beard was overgrown, and there were flakey substances from what used to be drool on his chin and cheeks. Across the living room in the kitchen were unwashed plates filled with mold.

His shadow reflected on a wall where the moon shone through the perforated block walls. The dark shadow looked nothing like his lanky frame, not the squared shoulders, not the horns.