ACT 1 — SETUP
When I moved into the compound, I told myself the place was manageable. It was not perfect, but the rent was low, the room was clean enough, and I needed somewhere quiet to write my stories.
The apartment was a one room apartment, squeezed between other one room apartments, all facing the same open passage. Every tenant cooked near their doorway, dried clothes on thin ropes, and greeted each other with tired politeness.
The only thing I did not like was the general toilet. All the tenants used just one toilet, and although I tried to accept it, there was always something unpleasant about the place.
It smelled of damp cement, old soap, and water that never fully dried. In the morning, buckets lined the passage like a queue of silent people waiting for their turn.
Mr Tunde, the landlord, lived in the compound too. He acted calm, almost fatherly, and most tenants greeted him with respect. He was the kind of man who spoke slowly and expected people to listen.
There was one thing everybody knew belonged to him. A red towel hung inside the bathroom on a nail close to the wall. Nobody touched it. Nobody questioned it.
ACT 2 — BUILDING TENSION
For the first two days, everything went well. I saw people going in and coming out of the bathroom without argument. The compound seemed peaceful, and everyone appeared to be minding their business.
On the third day, I was rushing somewhere that morning. I carried my bucket of water, entered the toilet, and tried to bathe quickly before anyone else started knocking.
The water was cold on my shoulders. The wall was rough against my elbow. The red towel hung quietly beside me, heavy and still, like a witness that had been there too long.
While I was bathing, I felt someone touch me from behind. It was too clear to dismiss. It was not water. It was not cloth. It was a hand.
I turned immediately. The space was empty. The door was shut. The small window showed nothing. Only the red towel remained, hanging as if it had not moved at all.
I told myself, ‘Maybe it is just my imagination.’ That sentence became my excuse, because I did not want to believe something terrible was hiding in plain sight.
That evening, while I was typing my stories inside my room, a feminine scream tore through the compound. I ignored the first one, then the second came louder and sharper.
I ran out and met the neighbours gathered outside. Chizaram, the tenant in room number four, came running from the bathroom, tying just a piece of her white towel.
‘He touched me! My body! He was touching me!’ she cried, shaking so badly that even the loudest neighbours lowered their voices.
She said she had felt a hand while bathing, but when she opened her eyes, she saw nobody. The compound exploded with questions, but nobody had an answer.
ACT 3 — THE INCIDENT
I stood there and said nothing. That silence later became one of the things I regretted most. I had experienced the same thing that morning, but fear and shame sealed my mouth.
The next day, very early, I decided to test what was happening. I went to the bathroom with my bucket of water and soap, then locked both the door and the small window.
I poured water on myself and rubbed soap over my face and body. My eyes were tightly shut. The bathroom was so quiet I could hear my own breathing bounce off the walls.
Then I felt a gentle breath on my shoulder. My stomach dropped. I stopped moving, holding the sponge in my hand, trying to convince myself I was wrong.
Shortly after, something touched my left hand. This time, I screamed. I tried to open my eyes, but soap entered them and burned until everything became white pain.
I staggered backward, blind, and reached for the wall. My fingers found wet cloth. The red towel. The red towel was the only thing that never looked innocent again.