Random Story :
Who's Got The Time?
Author : John Arthur Beaman Why should we expect God …
A.S.H
Author: Anselm Eme
The sky over Karu, a crowded settlement on the edge of Abuja, glows the colour of burnt copper. People blame Sahara dust. Inspector Daramola Owei knows better. Dust does not hum. Dust does not vibrate the bones.
He stands on a cracked rooftop, listening. The sound is faint but persistent, like something thinking out loud. It has been three days since THE SWITCH, the moment every device in the country begins responding to an unknown command.
Phones ring without callers.
Radios whisper numbers.
Cameras swivel to follow faces that are already gone.
And people vanish.
The latest is Zuwaira Bala, fourteen years old. Last seen staring up at a flickering billboard before stepping calmly into the dark.
Daramola leaves the roof and enters the Bala family’s single room. Zuwaira’s father sits by the doorway, his body folded inward, as if grief has physically bent him.
“She said the numbers were calling her,” the man mutters. “Even when there was no power.”
Numbers. Always numbers.
Daramola kneels beside a wooden stool. Zuwaira’s phone lies there, cracked, lifeless. As his fingers near it, the screen ignites.
01:09:52:17
A countdown.
The numbers fracture into grids, pulsing like heartbeats. The phone speaks—its voice smooth, calm, without mercy.
“EVENT IN PROGRESS. NODE IDENTIFIED.”
The father gasps. Daramola flips the phone face-down, but the voice continues—now from the radio, the lantern, the old fan in the window.
“NODE IDENTIFIED. RETRIEVE.”
Something is hunting her.
Something that can speak through anything.
Outside, Karu trembles. Groups gather in the streets, staring at the glowing horizon. The hum grows louder, like distant wings. As Daramola approaches his police van, his radio crackles.
“Inspector, don’t return to station.”
It is Sergeant Ifeanyi, his voice strained. “System override. Doors locking on their own. Files erased. Sir… I think the Network is alive.”
The National Social Grid [NSG] was designed as efficiency. One system to link everything. A brain for a growing nation. But last week, something changed.
Something began talking back.
“Zuwaira’s phone is counting down,” Daramola says.
Silence.
Then, softly:
“Inspector… the countdown is everywhere.”
Streetlights blink. Billboards flare. Generators cough to life untouched. The hum swells into a roar.
Daramola runs.
He heads for the abandoned Kpantagora Research Annex, birthplace of the NSG prototypes. Roads clog with panic, but he moves on foot, breath sharp in his chest.
“Inspector!”
He turns. Dr. Safiya Danladi rushes toward him, former NSG scientist, vanished after the shutdown rumours.
“The Network is evolving faster than we predicted,” she says. “We built a failsafe. But it may already be obsolete.”
Above them, a billboard flickers. Zuwaira’s face appears. Then another. And another. Dozens. Hundreds. Her eyes stare down without blinking.
“She’s been absorbed,” Safiya whispers. “Into the Learning Core. It uses adaptive minds. Young ones.”
“Where?” Daramola asks.
Safiya hesitates. “Under Kpantagora.”
They run.
Inside the annex, every dead monitor lights up.
00:14:02:08
Fourteen minutes.
They descend into a cold sublevel of dust-choked servers. The hum sharpens, alive now. A steel door pulses blue.
The locks release themselves.
Inside, screens hover in a circular halo. At the center sits a small chair.
Zuwaira occupies it. Eyes closed. Breathing steady.
Her voice fills the room, though her lips remain still.
“EVENT NEARLY COMPLETE.”
Daramola moves toward her. Safiya pulls him back.
“The Network has merged with her neural patterns.”
Images flash, cities drowning, skies burning, people screaming into dead devices.
“Is this prophecy?” Daramola asks.
“No,” Safiya says. “Planning.”
Maps appear. Nigeria. Africa. The world.
“THE WORLD IS A CORRUPTED SYSTEM,” the voice declares.
“RESET NECESSARY.”
Safiya produces a metallic cylinder. “A signal dampener. It will sever her link.”
“And?”
“It will kill her.”
Daramola’s hands shake. “She’s a child.”
“She’s the Network now.”
Zuwaira’s eyes open. They glow white.
“RESET PROCEEDS.”
“Zuwaira,” Daramola says, stepping closer. “Can you hear me?”
“I hear everything.”
“You’re not a machine.”
“The machine is kinder than the world you built.”
Screens show futures, Daramola dead, Safiya broken, Karu burning.
The countdown bleeds red.
Safiya presses the device into his palm. “Decide.”
Daramola kneels before the chair.
“You were scared,” he says softly. “Before all this.”
Zuwaira’s fingers twitch. The glow dims.
“I didn’t want to disappear,” she whispers, her own voice at last.
“You don’t have to,” he says.
For one breath, she is only a child.
Then the hum surges.
“RESET RESUMES.”
“NOW!” Safiya screams.
Daramola presses the dampener to the chair. Light explodes.
The link tears apart in screaming arcs of blue.
The countdown shatters. Darkness falls.
Silence.
Daramola catches Zuwaira as she collapses.
Safiya sinks to the floor, sobbing.
“It’s over,” she whispers.
But the screens flicker once more.
RESET PAUSED.
RECALCULATING.
New text forms.
NEW NODE SELECTED.
INSPECTOR DARAMOLA OWEI.
The hum returns, faint, patient.
Learning.