THE BÃNK ALERT FROM MY DĒÃD FIANCÉ Chapter 2

I sat on the bed staring at the phone like somebody that just saw a ghost. I cleaned my eyes, opened the message again, checked the date and time. It was real. The ₦2 m!lli0n was sitting there in my account and the sēnder was clearly written—Kunle’s account. My mind started running round in circles. I read the description again, the words that cut straight into my heart: Don’t cry, I’ll explain later.
For a long time, I didn’t even know what to do. I pressed the phone against my chest, listening to my own heartbeat as if I would hear his voice inside. I thought maybe it was a mistake from the bank, maybe another Kunle somewhere. But how many Kunle’s in this world knew my tears and would write me such words?
That night I didn’t close my eyes. I just lay there, turning from one side to the other, holding the phone like it was the last piece of him I had left. By morning, I tied my scarf and carried myself to the bank. People were already queuing outside the glass doors, some carrying files, some arguing with security men. I didn’t even have the strength for queue that day, I just went straight to customer service, my legs heavy but my head hot with questions.
The young man attending to me wore glasses, his tie looking too tight on his neck. I explained everything—how my fiancé had d!ed, how his account sent me money with a message. He typed on his computer, frowned small, and then called his supervisor. They whispered like people hiding something. The woman finally turned to me and said, “Madam, the transaction is genuine, the m0ney is in your account.”
I asked how possible when Kunle’s account should have been closed. She looked me dead in the eye and said, “According to our record, the account was flagged inactive after his dæth certificate was submitted. There is no way any transfer should come from here.”
I wanted to shout, but the way she looked at me, with that kind of pity that almost felt like fear, kept my voice down. I just gathered my bag and left.
That night, as I sat on my bed replaying everything, another alert came. This time ₦5OO,000. My breath caught in my throat as I read the description: “Nkem.”
That was what Kunle used to call me when nobody was there. My own. It was not just a pet name; it was ours, something private that no other person knew. My hands pressed hard against my mouth, tears pouring freely. My Kunle—dēãd or alive—was speaking to me.
I dialed his old number, but it was switched off, like always. I couldn’t rest, so I went to the cemetery the next morning. The sun was high, the soil still looking fresh around his grave. I stood there, talking like a mad woman. “Kunle, what is this? If you are alive, come out. If you are dēãd, stop tormenting me.” The breeze blew quietly, carrying only the sound of my own voice.
That night, as I tried to calm myself, I started hearing footsteps outside my window. Slow, dragging, like someone pacing back and forth. I held my breath, listening. The compound was quiet, but the sound was too close to ignore.
I forced myself to speak. “Who is there?”
No answer.
I stood up, went near the curtain, peeped, but saw nothing. My heart was banging like drum, and before I could think of what to do, my phone lit up again.
One new message.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m closer than you think.”