I slept with a woman I met at the club, the next morning her family brought me her bride price.

It was supposed to be a normal Friday night. My friends dragged me to that club on the outskirts of town, the one people whisper about, the one with red lights that never seem to blink, the one with music too heavy for your ears.

I wasn’t in the mood for drinks or dancing, but something in the air kept me there. Then she walked in. A woman. Not just any woman. Tall, skin like bronze in the flashing lights, eyes so sharp I swore she was looking right through me.

She didn’t dance, she didn’t laugh, she didn’t even blink much. She just sat in the corner, drinking something dark, as if she’d been waiting for me the whole time.

I don’t know why I went over to her. Maybe it was the way the crowd parted slightly around her, as if people sensed her presence but didn’t dare get too close. I sat down. She smiled. That smile, God, should have made me get up and leave. But I didn’t. We didn’t talk much.

She knew my name even before I said it. “Michael,” she whispered, her voice like cold smoke in my ears. “I’ve been waiting.”

I don’t remember leaving the club. I don’t remember getting into the taxi. All I remember is waking up in my own apartment with her next to me. She was beautiful, yes. But strange. Her hair smelled like rain on rusty iron.

Her skin was warm, but when I touched her for too long, I felt a chill run down my spine. She didn’t say a word all night, except for one word as she fell asleep: “Forever.”

When morning came, she was gone. Not a trace of her on the sheets, no lipstick on the pillow, nothing.

As if I’d never existed. I almost convinced myself it was just the alcohol playing tricks on me. Until there was a knock at my door.

Three loud bangs. Boom. Boom. Boom.

I opened it, and there they were. An old man with eyes that were too white, a woman with deep tribal markings like scars, and three young men carrying a wooden box. They looked at me as if they’d known me all my life.

The old man stepped forward, placed the box at my feet, and said in a voice too firm for his own comfort, “You slept with our daughter. Now she’s yours. This is her bride price.” I froze.

I wanted to laugh, slam the door, tell them they had the wrong person. But when I looked down, the box was open. Inside were cowrie shells, bloody feathers, and a folded piece of paper with my full name written on it in red ink. How did they know? I hadn’t told anyone about the night before.

No one saw me leave the club. No one knew she had come home with me. But there was her family, standing in broad daylight, binding me to something I didn’t understand.

The old woman leaned forward, her hot, sour breath on my face, and whispered, “Do not reject her. She has chosen you. If you reject her, the river will claim you before sunset.”

They turned around and left. I stood there trembling, staring at the box. Inside, beneath the cowrie shells, something stirred. Small, writhing, alive. I stepped back. I felt a tightness in my chest.

Then I heard him. His voice. From inside my room.

“Michael…”

I turned around. The room was empty. But the sheets were wet. Not with water, but with something thicker. Darker. And then I realized that what happened last night wasn’t just a mistake. It was a binding.

And now, he wasn’t sure if it was a woman.