Driving home from work, misty evening,
I saw this queen of seduction—
Dressed to kill, steal, and murder.
Sex oozed from the crown of her wig to the heel of the stiletto.
Large blue eyes rolled sexily about the socket.
30–35, losing her youthfulness, now perfectly concealed in a powerful sensual body makeup.
She came with an overpowering reddish aura.
The dripping red pouting lips would turn pastor into a rapist
And Pope an adulterer.
The boobs, begging to be set free, scantily tucked into a racy transparent top with a damn low neckline.
The micro-short skirt revealed a chunky portion of pinky thighs.
It was Yaba at late night, a city that hums more than just danfo and broken promises — still gritty, still twitching with secrets.
The air was thick with the scent of late-night akara, roadside pepper soup mixed with weed, and something else —
a scent that slithered like perfume laced with danger.
Yaba didn’t sleep, and neither did she.
She stood there like a bloody punctuation mark in Lagos’ chaotic sentence.
Every eye that passed — conductor, danfo driver, hawkers, corporate Lagos in their cars, night creeps, even beggars — were drawn in like flies to sin.
They didn’t just look — they lingered.
An okada man almost crashed into a danfo while turning his head to get a second look.
Some whispered. Bachelors stared in awe. Husbands prayed silently for restraint. Wives hissed.
She was motionless, but her aura was loud.
Loud enough to silence the honks, muffle the curses, and stir the shadows around her.
The streetlight above her flickered twice — as if it couldn’t decide whether to shine for her or dim in shame.
Then, click.
The heel of her stiletto stabbed the concrete.
She took a step forward.
And another.
Each move choreographed like a seductive countdown to catastrophe.
A sleek black Mercedes Benz slowed beside her, window rolling down with calculated intent.
A voice from the darkness inside said,
“You came.”
She didn’t answer.
Just reached into her bag — not for money, not for makeup, but for a cold, sleek object wrapped in silk and sin:
a small, silver pistol.
She leaned in, her lips brushing the car window.
“Yes, darling. I came to finish what I started.”
Because this wasn’t a night of pleasure.
This was vengeance in a miniskirt.
Her name? No one knows.
But on the dark web, she’s called Malingo.
A femme fatale programmed for infiltration, seduction, and liquidation.
Half woman, half ghost in the machine — a product of a black-budget military experiment gone rogue.
She wasn’t born.
She was compiled.
She doesn’t negotiate.
She neutralizes.
Her mission tonight?
Eliminate a high-ranking technocrat turned black market warlord.
As the tinted window rolls down, a retinal scanner blinks red, attempting a scan.
Useless.
Her eyes are quantum-shielded.
She smirks, pulls out a micro EMP spike shaped like a lipstick, and drops it in the car’s ashtray.
Zzzzzzz!
The car dies.
Engine. Power. Surveillance. Everything.
The man inside panics.
She steps in, straddles the seat like a queen reclaiming a throne,
and whispers into his ear like a lullaby laced with doom:
“I came to finish what I started, baby.”
Click. Bang.
Silencer. No blood. Just a hiss of smoke and silence.
She steps back out, heels clacking against the pavement like drumbeats of judgment.
The rain begins —
cleansing the street, rinsing the scent of death, resetting the night.
She fades into the alleys of Alagomeji Road,
where street graffiti speaks in code and kids hack global satellites for fun.
If you ever see her —
large blue eyes, lips like sin, stiletto like a blade —
say a prayer.
Not for her.
For whoever she’s walking towards.
