Chapter 12 – The Summons from the Landlord
Three days later, the compound was quieter than usual — too quiet. No mysterious chalk markings. No 2 AM humming. No Aunty Sade sermons under the mango tree. Even Mama Dorcas had gone unusually silent, spending most of her time indoors sipping agbo and muttering under her breath.
I should have known that silence was just the calm before the storm.
It began with a phone call.
"Temi!" Femi shouted from the parlour. "Come o! The landlord just called me!"
My stomach did a somersault. "What did he say?"
Femi put the phone on speaker. The landlord's voice boomed through the room like he was standing right in front of us. "I want to see all of you tomorrow morning. Every. Single. One. Of. You."
The line went dead.
I didn't sleep that night.
The next morning, we gathered in the compound like schoolchildren waiting for punishment. Even Aunty Sade wore a low-key ankara gown — which for her meant it had only mild sequins. Mama Dorcas brought out her Bible and a bottle of anointing oil, as if we were attending a revival, not a landlord meeting.
The landlord arrived with his walking stick, sunglasses, and a face that said "I have time today." He looked around at us and sighed deeply, the kind of sigh that told you this wasn't going to be pretty.
"First of all," he began, "I have never in my life received so many complaints. From tenants, from neighbours, even from the security man down the street. What's going on in this house?"
Silence.
Until, of course, Aunty Sade cleared her throat. "Sir, it's spiritual warfare—"
"Madam!" the landlord cut her off. "Is it spiritual warfare that made you pour oil on the front step of Flat 2B? Is it warfare that had you chanting at midnight like Nollywood witches?"
I stifled a laugh. Femi stepped forward. "Sir, we apologise. There's been some... misunderstanding."
The landlord turned his sharp eyes to him. "You, Mr. Femi. You're the one I rented this place to. If I wanted to house a full spiritual ministry, I would have called RCCG!"
I elbowed Femi. He whispered, "Don't laugh."
Then came the twist.
"Actually, sir," said a voice from behind. "Some of us find the noise... inspiring."
We turned to see Mama Chika, the elderly woman from the next building, stepping into the compound like a VIP.
"I've been praying with them from my balcony," she said proudly. "Ever since I joined them in drawing 'spiritual arrows,' my arthritis has reduced!"
I looked at Femi. Femi looked at me. Mama Dorcas stood taller, like a General whose troops had arrived.
The landlord groaned. "Oh, God. What is this compound turning into?"
"I believe it's turning into a fortress of spiritual resistance," Mama Dorcas said gently.
"Or a comedy theatre," I muttered under my breath.
In the end, the landlord gave us all a final warning: No more midnight sessions. No more chalk. No more noise. One more complaint, and we'd all be evicted — "anointing oil or not."
As the meeting ended, and the landlord limped away muttering about "lunatics in bright clothing," I turned to Aunty Sade.
"So... what now?"
She shrugged. "Simple. We move to silent warfare. No chalk. No oil. Just whisper prayers. The spirit still hears, my dear."
And just like that, spiritual activities went undercover.
But something told me… this compound was far from done with drama.
To be continued…
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