Authoress Layo

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AFRICAN PROVERBS
⭕ 1. The anger of a p***s doesn't destroy the va**na. (Zimbabwe)
⭕ 2. There's no virgin in a maternity ward. (Cameroon)
⭕ 3. A child can play with it's mother's breasts but not with the father's testicles. (Ghana)
⭕ 4. The man who marries a beautiful woman and the farmer who grows corn by the road side have the same problem. (Ghana)
⭕ 5. When you see a woman sitting with her legs open, never tell her to close them, because u do not know her source of fresh air. (Ethiopia)
⭕ 6. He who says that nothing lasts forever has never tried Hausa perfume. (Nigeria)
⭕ 7. The only woman who knows where her man is every night is a widow. (Togo)
⭕ 8. An erected p***s has no conscience. (Uganda)
⭕ 9. If u go to sleep with an itching a**s, u are sure to wake up with smelly fingers. (Kenya)
⭕ 10. The day a mosquito lands on your testicles is the day you will know there is a better way of resolving issues without using violence.(Senegal )

Pick 2 and explain the meaning 😀😀

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The Seer

Chapter One – The Strange Visitor

In the small village of Akerele, life moved at the pace of the rising sun. Farmers tilled the land, children played by the stream, and the market women’s laughter could be heard as they sold their goods.

One evening, a strange old man appeared at the village square. His hair was white as cotton, and his eyes seemed to look beyond the present, as though they saw both yesterday and tomorrow at once. He carried no load, only a crooked staff.

The villagers whispered, “Who is he?”

But when the chief asked, the man bowed and said softly,
“I am a seer. I see what others cannot. I have come to guide those who wish to listen.”

Some villagers laughed. “Another trickster looking for free food!”
But a few listened closely, for there was something about his voice that demanded respect.

👻 The Forgotten Guest

Chapter Seven – The Night of Release

Night crept over the house with an unnatural heaviness, pressing down on Ada’s chest until each breath felt like work.

She hadn’t touched the key since it shot across the room. It still sat wedged into the wooden floorboards upstairs, as though the house itself refused to let her throw it away.

But she could feel it—its pull.

Every time she tried to distract herself, to read, to pace, to simply sit still, her mind wandered back to the locked basement. To the promise scratched into the wall: “Tonight. Set me free.”

She wrapped herself in a blanket and sat on the couch, rocking slightly like a child. “No,” she whispered over and over. “I’m not opening it. You can’t make me.”

But the house laughed at her.

The lightbulbs flickered in rhythm, as if mocking her heartbeat. The windows rattled with sudden gusts of wind, though outside the night was still. And faintly—always faintly—came the sound of footsteps pacing below, where no one should be.

Pace.
Pace.
Pace.

Each step like a drumbeat under her skin.

Finally, Ada snapped. She stood, fists clenched. “What if I don’t?” she shouted at the ceiling. “What if I never open it?”

For a long, tense moment, silence.

Then, slowly, every photograph in the house slid from the walls and crashed to the floor in unison.

Ada gasped, clutching her chest. The air grew so cold that her breath misted before her face.

And then came the voice—angrier than ever, thundering through the beams of the house, rattling the very floorboards:

“Then I will take what is mine.”

Ada froze, her blood running cold.

A scream tore through the night—not hers. A child’s scream. High-pitched, echoing from the basement.

Ada’s knees buckled. “No… no, no, no.” She knew she was alone. There were no children here. It was a trick.

But the scream came again, this time joined by frantic banging from the basement door. Tiny fists. A voice crying: “Help me! Please, help me!”

Tears blurred Ada’s vision. She stumbled toward the door before catching herself. “It’s not real!” she cried. “You’re not real!”

The banging stopped. Silence fell.

And then, right behind her—so close she could feel the cold breath against her ear—came a whisper:

“I am more real than you.”

Ada spun around, heart in her throat. Nothing. Only darkness.

But when she turned back, the basement padlock was gone.

In its place hung the key.

Gleaming. Waiting.

👻 The Forgotten Guest

Chapter Six –

Ada stumbled backward from the coffee table, her heart hammering so hard she could barely breathe.

The photograph lay where she had dropped it, the man’s face now fully visible—gaunt cheeks, hollow eyes that seemed to look straight at her, and that awful grin stretching too wide for any human mouth.

She didn’t touch it again.

Instead, she fled upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind her. She leaned against it, shaking, whispering to herself, This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

But even as she said it, she knew it was.

⸻

The next morning, she woke to find the photograph on her nightstand.

She hadn’t brought it there.

Bile rose in her throat. She snatched it up and was about to throw it across the room when something on the back caught her eye—new writing, carved deep into the paper as though by invisible fingernails:

“Find the key.”

Ada’s breath quickened. “Key?” she muttered. “What key?”

She searched the room, her fear now laced with frantic determination. She tore through drawers, yanked open cupboards, checked beneath the bed—nothing.

Then she remembered the wooden box.

She dug it out from under the bed where she’d tossed it. Inside, beneath the photograph’s wrapping paper, she felt something hard. She peeled back the layers until her fingers closed around a small, iron key—cold, heavy, and strangely warm all at once, as if it pulsed faintly in her hand.

The basement key.

The air around her seemed to shift the moment she touched it. The temperature dropped. The shadows in the corners deepened.

And then came the voice.

Not whispering this time. Laughing. Low, guttural, echoing through the house.

Ada stumbled back, clutching the key. “What do you want from me?!” she screamed.

The laughter stopped.

A pause.

Then, from every wall, every corner of the room, the voice answered, calm and chilling:

“Freedom.”

Suddenly, the bedroom door slammed shut on its own. The window rattled violently, the glass threatening to shatter. The photograph on the floor burst into flames without a spark or match.

Ada screamed and dropped the key, but it didn’t fall. It hovered midair for a moment, then shot across the room, embedding itself into the wooden floor with a metallic thunk.

When the room finally stilled, Ada stood frozen, tears streaming down her face.

On the wall opposite her, carved deep into the plaster by unseen hands, were four words:

“TONIGHT. SET ME FREE.”
Authoress Layo

You know, sometimes I think God just looks at us youths and shakes His head…”

The other day in church, I told myself, ‘Today, I will be 100% focused on the sermon.’

First five minutes, I was doing great – nodding like, ‘Yes, Pastor, preach!’
By the tenth minute, my stomach started singing special number: ‘Feed me, O Lord… with rice and stew…’

I said, ‘No problem, I’ll ignore it.’ Then I looked at the choir, and one brother was clapping off-beat.
My brain was like, ‘Help him, Lord!’

By the fifteenth minute, I tried to take notes on my phone. Guess what? One WhatsApp message popped up:
‘Hey! What are you doing after church?’
And I replied in my mind, ‘REPENTING!’

Then Pastor said, “Some of you are here physically, but your mind is at home checking the pot of rice.”
I almost shouted, “Who told him?!”

At the end of the service, I prayed: “Lord, help me focus next week.”
Next week? I sat in front row. Guess what happened?
Pastor said, “Tell your neighbor you will not be distracted.”
I turned to my neighbor… and that was the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen.
I said, “Brother, I will NEVER be distracted again… by anyone else but YOU.”
Neighbor 🤨

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👻 The Forgotten Guest

Ada didn’t sleep that night. She sat on the couch until dawn, staring at the carved message on the table: “Set me free.”

When the first light of morning crept through the curtains, she finally moved. Her limbs felt heavy, her head pounding from fear and lack of rest. She needed answers—real ones.

She retrieved the wooden box she had found by the basement door and studied the old photograph again. Her grandmother’s face stared back at her—calm, almost proud. Beside her, Ada’s mother as a little girl smiled shyly. But that man in the background…

She still couldn’t make out his features. The more she stared, the more it seemed as though the photo wanted to keep him hidden.

Ada turned the picture toward the light. Something glinted faintly on the corner of the image, like tiny etched marks. She squinted and tilted it again.

There were letters.

Very faint, almost invisible: “E. GUEST.”

Guest.

Her stomach tightened. The guest… forgotten… The whisper from the night before echoed in her mind.

She dug through the box, searching for anything else—letters, diaries, anything. At the very bottom, wrapped in brittle paper, she found a folded sheet. Carefully, she opened it.

It was a letter.

My dearest Ezinne,
I cannot stay hidden much longer. They will not understand what we have done. But you must remember our promise: when the time comes, you will release me. Until then, I will wait.

No signature. Just a date: June 14, 1972.

Ada’s pulse quickened. Who wrote this to her grandmother? What did they mean by “release me”?

She needed to talk to someone—someone who might know the history of this house.

⸻

The village square was quieter than the day before, but the stares followed her as soon as she arrived. She spotted the young man who had warned her earlier and hurried to him.

“You have to tell me what you know,” she demanded. “About this house. About my grandmother.”

He looked uncomfortable, glancing around nervously. “I told you already, some doors shouldn’t be opened.”

“Too late,” Ada snapped. “Something is in that house. It’s talking to me. It wants me to open the basement.”

The young man paled. “The basement? You found it?”

“Yes,” she said, pulling the photograph from her bag and thrusting it toward him. “Do you recognize this man?”

He took one look and dropped the photo as though it burned him. “You should leave. Tonight.”

“Tell me who he is!”

The young man shook his head violently. “We call him The Guest. No one speaks his real name anymore. Your grandmother… she brought him here. She said he needed a place to stay. But people started disappearing. First animals. Then… people.”

Ada felt the world tilt beneath her feet. “Are you saying my grandmother… helped him?”

The young man swallowed hard. “All I know is this—she locked him down there, and she made sure nobody ever opened that door again. If he’s still there…” He trailed off, shuddering. “You have to go.”

Ada clutched the photograph, her mind spinning. If her grandmother had trapped this thing, why was it calling to her now?

She returned to the house as the sun dipped low. The shadows seemed deeper, the silence heavier. She placed the photograph on the coffee table and sat before it, staring at her grandmother’s face.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the image in the photo began to change.

The blurred man in the background sharpened.

His face emerged—hollow eyes, a smile too wide, too human and inhuman all at once.

And then, in the quiet of the empty house, a voice whispered—not from the walls, not from behind her—but from the photograph itself:

“Open the door, Ada. I’ve been waiting for you.”

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👻 The Forgotten Guest

Chapter Four – The Whispering Guest

Ada spent the next day in a restless daze. She could not stop thinking about the message in the dust.

In the basement.

She had scrubbed the table clean, opened the windows wide, and tried to convince herself that she had imagined it. But no matter how many times she repeated that lie, her mind whispered back: You didn’t imagine it. Someone—or something—wrote it.

By evening, the unease had twisted into anger. She wasn’t the type to run away from shadows. This was her grandmother’s house. Her home now. Why should she let whispers and footprints scare her?

Still, as night fell, her courage wavered. The house grew colder, each creak of the old beams sounding louder than the last. She curled up on the couch, phone in hand, trying to distract herself with music.

That was when the lightbulb overhead flickered, buzzed, and died. Darkness swallowed the room.

Ada’s breath caught. She fumbled for her flashlight, her heart racing.

And then she heard it.

Not footsteps this time. Not the sound of movement.

A voice.

Soft. Drawn out. Whispering her name.

“Ada…”

Her skin prickled. She swung the flashlight toward the sound, but the beam only revealed the empty corner of the room.

“Ada…”

It was closer now. She spun, pointing the light toward the hallway. The beam illuminated the family photographs on the wall—only now, the glass in one of the frames was cracked, and the blurred man in the background of the picture seemed sharper.

She stumbled back. “Who are you?!” she shouted, her voice trembling.

The whisper came again, slow and heavy, as though the air itself was speaking:

“The guest… forgotten…”

Ada’s hands shook so badly that the flashlight slipped. The beam rolled across the floor, landing on the corridor that led to the basement door.

The padlock rattled.

Not loudly—just a faint metallic clink, as though someone on the other side was testing it.

Ada’s chest tightened. She wanted to run, to grab her bag and flee into the night. But her feet refused to move.

“Stop it!” she cried, her voice breaking. “Leave me alone!”

The house fell silent.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the air grew colder. She could see her breath misting in the beam of the flashlight. Her skin broke into goosebumps.

And then she felt it.

A presence. Behind her.

She froze, too terrified to turn. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as if invisible eyes were fixed on her.

The whisper brushed against her ear, so close she could almost feel breath on her skin:

“You cannot leave me here…”

Ada screamed and spun around, the flashlight beam slicing through the darkness.

No one was there.

But when she looked back at the coffee table, her heart stopped.

The words were back, scratched deep into the wood this time, as if carved by unseen fingers.

“Set me free.”

Ada staggered backward, her pulse hammering in her ears. The message was clear. Whatever haunted this house didn’t just want to frighten her.

It wanted her to open that basement door.

🤦🏽‍♀️ My Most Embarrassing Day Ever

I’ll never forget the day my phone betrayed me.

I was in church, sitting quietly like a good girl, when I decided to sneak a little scroll through my crush’s Instagram page. I told myself, “God understands, I just need to confirm if he still looks fine.”

Everything was going smoothly until suddenly… my phone connected to the church speakers.

At full volume.

Instead of worship songs, the whole church heard my WhatsApp voice note:

“Heyyy baby, I miss you. Call me tonight, okayyy?”

The pastor stopped mid-sermon. The choir froze. Even the ushers looked like they had seen a ghost.

I wanted the ground to open and swallow me.

To make things worse, I tried to quickly switch off the phone, but instead Candy Crush sound effects started blasting:

“Tasty! Sweet! Delicious!”

Everybody burst into laughter.

Since that day, some people in my neighborhood don’t even call me by my real name anymore. They just shout, “Sister Delicious!” anytime they see me. 😭😂

👻 The Forgotten Guest

Chapter Three – The Locked Door

The following morning, Ada moved through the house with heavy steps. Sleep had been nearly impossible; each time she closed her eyes, she heard that whisper again—her name, soft and drawn out, like a sigh escaping the walls themselves.

She told herself it was exhaustion, imagination, maybe even the house settling after years of emptiness. But deep down, she knew better.

She had seen it. That shadow.

Determined to take control, Ada decided to explore every corner of the house. Maybe if she knew it inside out, it would stop feeling so menacing.

Dusty sunlight slanted through the cracked windows as she wandered from room to room. Old photographs hung crookedly on the walls, their frames cracked, the faces within blurred with age. In the kitchen, rusted pots lined the shelves. The smell of mildew clung stubbornly to everything.

Then she found the door.

It was at the end of the narrow corridor behind the kitchen. Unlike the other doors in the house, this one was heavy, wooden, reinforced with an iron latch. A thick padlock clung to the handle, its metal scarred with rust.

Ada frowned. She didn’t remember ever seeing this door as a child. Curious, she tugged at it. The lock rattled but held firm.

She crouched, peering at the gap beneath the door. Cold air seeped through, carrying a faint smell—earthy, damp, and oddly metallic, like rust or blood.

Her skin prickled.

She stood quickly, backing away. But her foot struck something on the floor—a small wooden box, half-buried under an old sack. Dust puffed into the air as she bent to lift it. The lid was carved with strange swirling patterns, faded but deliberate.

Inside lay a single object: a photograph.

It showed her grandmother as a much younger woman, standing stiffly in front of the house. Beside her was a little girl—Ada’s mother, unmistakably. But behind them, half-shadowed, stood a man. Tall. Thin. His face blurred, as though the photograph itself refused to hold his image clearly.

Ada’s heart thudded. She looked closer. His hand rested on her grandmother’s shoulder.

She didn’t recognize him.

She turned the photo over. In faded handwriting, her grandmother had scrawled:

“Never forget the guest.”

Ada shivered, snapping the box shut. She stuffed it under her arm and hurried upstairs, desperate for light and space. But even as she walked away, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the locked door was… waiting.

⸻

That night, the footsteps returned. Louder this time. They started in the hallway, moved through the sitting room, circled the couch where she sat clutching her blanket.

Her phone’s flashlight beam darted across the walls, but nothing was there. Nothing but the sound of shoes dragging against wood.

Then came the whisper. Not just her name this time. Words.

“Open… the… door…”

Ada gasped, dropping her phone. The room plunged into darkness. She scrambled for it, hands shaking, breath ragged. By the time she found it, the voice was gone.

But the message remained.

In the thin film of dust on the coffee table, a finger had scrawled three words.

“In the basement.”

Ada’s blood ran cold.
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Authoress Layo

👻 The Forgotten Guest

Chapter Two – The Footsteps

Ada woke to the sound of roosters crowing in the distance. Morning light streamed weakly through the broken curtains, painting streaks across the dusty floor. For a moment, she almost convinced herself the night before had been nothing more than a dream.

But then her eyes fell on the footprints.

Two dark, wet imprints stretched across the wooden floorboards just outside her bedroom door. They looked fresh, as if someone had only recently walked through. Yet the floor around them was dry.

Ada crouched low, staring at them. The prints were narrow, with long, crooked toes. They did not look like footprints she had ever seen before. She reached out a hand, hesitated, and then touched the edge. Damp. Cold.

Her stomach knotted.

She hurried to the front door and checked the locks. Still bolted, just as she’d left them. No signs of forced entry. No muddy shoes lying about. Just silence.

Her phone buzzed suddenly, making her jump. A message from Mama Chika.

“Ada, are you all right? Did you sleep in that house last night?”

Ada quickly typed back: Yes, I’m fine. Just settling in.

Almost immediately, another reply came: “Hmm. Be careful, my daughter. That house does not like strangers. Even if you are family.”

Ada frowned. What was that supposed to mean?

Shaking off the unease, she decided to head into the village square for breakfast. She needed air, people, life—anything other than the silence of those walls.

⸻

The square buzzed with activity. Traders spread their goods, women pounded yam, children chased each other with sticks. Yet when Ada entered, conversations quieted. People stared. Some whispered behind their palms.

She forced a smile and bought akara from an old woman at a roadside stall. But as the woman handed her the food, she leaned in close.

“You shouldn’t stay there,” the woman muttered, barely moving her lips. “That house… it remembers.”

Ada blinked. “What do you mean?” This story is weitten by authoress Layo

But the woman only shook her head and waved her off, refusing to say more.

Frustrated, Ada carried her food to a bench. Before she could eat, a young man approached. He was tall, with curious eyes and a wary smile.

“You’re Ada, right? Mama Ezinne’s granddaughter?”

“Yes,” she said cautiously.

He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “They don’t want me talking to you. But… did you hear it last night? The footsteps?”

Ada’s stomach dropped. “How do you know about that?”

His face tightened. “Because everyone hears them, if they stay there long enough. That’s why the house has been empty. Nobody dares sleep there. Your grandmother… she was the only one who could live in it without fear. But even she—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Forget it. I shouldn’t say more.”

“Tell me,” Ada pressed, gripping the edge of the bench. “What happened to her? What’s wrong with that house?”

He looked her straight in the eyes, his voice low and urgent. “Some doors should never be opened.”

Before Ada could reply, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

⸻

That evening, Ada returned to the house, her mind buzzing with unanswered questions. This story is written by authoress Layo .The air inside felt heavier, thicker, as though the house itself was listening. She tried to distract herself by cleaning, sweeping dust from old furniture, and rearranging her grandmother’s books.

But as night fell, the silence grew oppressive. She switched on her phone flashlight again, unwilling to sit in total darkness.

Then it began.

Footsteps.

The same slow, dragging steps she had heard before. Only this time, they started from the living room—just a few feet away.

Her breath hitched. She forced herself to stand, shining the light toward the sound.

Empty.

But the steps continued, circling the room, pacing, as though something unseen was moving restlessly around her.

“Who’s there?” she whispered, her voice shaking.

The footsteps stopped abruptly.

Silence.

Then came a faint sound. Not footsteps. Not knocking.

A whisper.

Her name.

“Ada…”

The phone slipped from her trembling hands, the flashlight clattering against the wooden floor. She scrambled to pick it up, her chest pounding. This story is weitten by authoress layo. The light swung wildly, landing on the far corner of the room.

And there, just for a second, she saw it.

A shadow. Tall. Thin. Standing perfectly still.

When the light shifted again, the corner was empty.

Ada pressed her back against the wall, clutching the phone with trembling fingers.

For the first time, she wished she had listened to Mama Chika. Follow Authoress Layo for more stories

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👻 The Forgotten Guest

Chapter One – The Return

The road to her grandmother’s house stretched long and lonely, flanked by thick bushes that seemed to whisper with the wind. Ada dragged her small suitcase along the dusty path, her eyes fixed on the silhouette of the house ahead.

It stood at the edge of the village, just as she remembered—though now it seemed taller, darker, almost like it had been waiting for her return. The once-white walls were now stained with mildew, and the windows gaped like hollow eyes. The old gate groaned as she pushed it open, the sound echoing into the still night.

As she approached the front steps, she felt the weight of unseen eyes. The air smelled of damp earth, rust, and faintly of camphor—the way her grandmother’s clothes had always smelled.

“Are you sure you want to stay here, Ada?” came a voice.

She turned. Mama Chika, the nearest neighbor, stood by her fence, her wrapper tied tightly around her chest. Her face carried both pity and warning.

Ada forced a smile. “It’s just a house, Mama Chika. My grandmother’s house. I’ll be fine.”

Mama Chika shook her head. “That place… it’s not empty. People hear things. Some nights, lights come on by themselves. We don’t go near it after sunset.”

Ada swallowed her unease, tightening her grip on the suitcase handle. “Ghost stories,” she said firmly. “I don’t believe in all that.”

But when she unlocked the heavy front door and stepped inside, a shiver ran through her body. The house smelled of age and silence. Furniture was draped in dusty white cloths like sleeping figures. Cobwebs hung in corners like forgotten lace.

She set her things down and wandered into the living room. The clock on the wall had stopped at 11:47, frozen in time. She brushed her fingers against it, leaving a streak in the dust.

By nightfall, Ada had cleaned a small corner of the house for herself. She spread her bedsheet on the old couch, too tired to make it to the bedroom upstairs. The sound of crickets filled the night air as she closed her eyes.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

She frowned. The clock was working again, its steady ticking echoing through the house. She hadn’t wound it. She hadn’t even touched it properly.

Then came the knock.

Three slow, deliberate knocks on the front door.

Knock.
Knock.
Knock.

Ada sat up, her heart hammering. She stared at the door. Nothing moved. The night outside was quiet. She told herself it was just the wind, though she knew the sound was too precise.

She lay back down, pulling the blanket up to her chin. But then—

Footsteps.

Inside the house.

Slow. Heavy. Coming from the hallway.

Ada froze. She strained her ears. The steps were deliberate, dragging slightly, like someone was walking with wet shoes. They stopped outside her bedroom door.

Her mouth went dry.

“Hello?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

No reply. Just silence so thick it pressed against her ears.

The doorknob rattled. Slowly, carefully, as if someone on the other side was testing it.

Ada bolted upright, grabbed her phone, and switched on the flashlight. She yanked the door open—

Nothing. The hallway was empty.

Her chest heaved as she forced herself to breathe. The air smelled faintly of damp soil, stronger now than before. She closed the door, locked it, and returned to the couch, vowing it was all her imagination.

But when morning light streamed in through the cracked curtains, she saw them.

Two wet footprints.

Right outside her door.

Leading down the hallway.

And smeared faintly on the wooden floor, as if written with a finger dipped in water, were two chilling words:

WELCOME HOME.

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