His name was Darion, but to Maliya, he was just “Kalubi”—the quiet madman who never spoke but always stared with eyes too sharp to belong to someone insane. Unlike the others who danced or muttered or screamed, Kalubi simply watched—her, the trees, the stars. Maliya had met him near the dump site one night, curled like a dying dog, silent, bruised, and bloodied. She took him in, cleaned him, and fed him. At first, she thought he was too far gone to understand her. But one night, while she was talking to herself beside the fire, he whispered, “You’re not crazy, Maliya. You’re the sanest person I’ve ever met.”

 

She dropped her spoon. Her heart nearly exploded. “You can talk?” she asked, eyes wide with terror and awe. He smiled. “Of course. I’ve just been watching. Waiting.” “Waiting for what?” she breathed. He looked into the fire. “For the people hunting me to forget I exist.” And just like that, the foundation of Maliya’s world began to crack.

Kalubi—Darion—told her the truth in pieces. He was the only son of Senator Ifeanyi Obaye, a man swimming in oil money and blood. When Darion discovered that his father had ordered the assassination of several political opponents, including his own uncle, he confronted him. But the senator didn’t argue. He ordered Darion killed. The boy ran, shaved his hair, tore his clothes, smeared filth on his skin, and began to pretend to be mad in the slums. “Better a lunatic than a corpse,” he said.

Taste the Goodness: EL Blends All-Natural Cold-Pressed Juices

 

Maliya didn’t know whether to be terrified or thrilled. The man she had fallen for wasn’t broken—he was brilliant. Hunted. Alive. “What do you want from me?” she asked one night while they lay under the broken roof of the shelter. He looked at her like she was the only thing real. “I want you to keep pretending. Just like me. I want us to make them believe we’re both too lost to matter. Until it’s time.”

Time for what, she didn’t know. But she agreed.

 

Meanwhile, her shelter for mad people—“The Free Mind”—began to draw attention. Not from fans or influencers, but from the families of the mentally ill who had long abandoned them. Some came crying. Some came accusing. Others came to exploit. A rich woman from Lekki offered her ten million to allow her son, who had schizophrenia, to stay there and “keep him out of the way.” Maliya refused. “This isn’t a dumping ground. It’s a home.” The woman spat on her and swore she’d ruin her further.

But the threats didn’t bother her. What did was Dogo’s sudden change. He stopped talking. Stopped responding. He stared at the walls and whispered to himself. Maliya was worried. She tried to hold him one night and he shoved her so hard she hit her head on a bench. “You think you saved me?” he growled. “You think you understand madness? You only sleep with us because you hate yourself.” Then he laughed. And laughed. And didn’t stop.

 

Kalubi—Darion—rushed in, pulled him away, and carried her inside. She had a cut on her forehead. “Don’t blame him,” she murmured through her tears. “He’s still broken.” Darion nodded. But that night, he packed a bag. “It’s time,” he whispered. “I need to go back. And you’re coming with me.”

“To where?” she asked. “To my father’s mansion. I’ve got proof. I have recordings. Witnesses. They think I’m still hiding. But I’m done hiding. It’s time the mad took over the palace.”

Maliya hesitated. But her heart—twisted, wounded, rebellious—said yes.

 

They left that night. But what they didn’t know was that someone had followed them. Anita. Her former friend turned enemy turned…obsessed. She had never forgiven Maliya for choosing “madmen” over “influencer fame.” She had gone mad herself—but the quiet kind. The dangerous kind.

She followed them to Abuja. With a gun. And a plan to make the world hers.

 

To be continued…