WATCH THIS BEFORE YOU TELL ANYONE THE TIME ..You Need To Watch This
It was a Wednesday, the kind of hot, dusty afternoon in Umuaga village where the air clung to your skin like a second shirt. Ephani was packing up his small market stall, arranging his goods—bags of rice, yams, and kola nuts—with practiced care. A stranger approached, his face unremarkable but his eyes sharp, like they held a secret. “Young man, please, what is the time?” he asked. Ephani glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s 3:00, sir.” The man gave a faint smile, nodded, and melted into the crowd.
Ten minutes later, he was back. “Sorry, young man, I forgot. What time is it again?” Ephani, a little puzzled, checked his watch. “Ten minutes past three, sir.” The stranger stared, his gaze lingering too long, then turned and walked away slowly. When he returned a third time, Ephani’s patience frayed. “Young man, what is it by the time this time?” Ephani snapped, “A few minutes past three, sir. Don’t come back again. Why don’t you buy a wristwatch?” The man said nothing, only nodded and whispered, “It is dawn,” before disappearing into the bustling market. Ephani brushed it off, just another odd encounter in a busy day.
That night, over dinner, Ephani told his sister Chika about the strange man. “Some people just like to disturb,” he said, spooning yam porridge. “He kept asking for the time, like he had a spiritual problem or something.” Chika laughed. “You know these people, always with drama.” They ate, the conversation drifting, but the man’s words lingered in Ephani’s mind like a stubborn shadow.
At exactly 3:00 a.m., Ephani jolted awake, his stomach twisting with sharp pain. He stumbled around the room, drank water, and lay back on the couch, but sleep wouldn’t come. Then, something worse happened. His eyes were open, but his body was locked, frozen. His mind screamed, but his mouth stayed sealed. His chest felt crushed, his heart racing. Above him, near the ceiling fan, a black shadow hovered, staring. Suddenly, the pressure lifted. Ephani gasped, bolting upright. “God, please, what was that?” He didn’t sleep again until 5:45 a.m., when exhaustion pulled him under.
But sleep brought no rest. Ephani found himself in a place without stars, floor, or ceiling—only a thick, whispering mist. Voices hissed, “He showed us the time. His time is open now. Let us in.” Ephani ran, but his legs moved as if through wet cement. Below, he saw his own body, still asleep on the couch. He was outside himself. The darkness grew hot, his soul shrinking under its weight. “I want to go back!” he screamed. The darkness laughed. At 6:45 a.m., his eyes snapped open, sweat soaking his shirt, his chest burning like his very soul was on fire.
He called his mother, voice trembling. “Mama, something’s wrong with me.” He recounted everything—the man, the pain, the shadow, the dream. Mama’s face tightened. “We must see Dibia.” They hurried to the bush path behind Uma stream, where Dibia, an old man with tribal marks and red-rimmed eyes, lived in a hut that smelled of herbs and mystery. He didn’t greet Ephani, only stared. “The boy has crossed the border between day and night,” he said. Mama knelt. “Biko, Dibia, help us. My son is not himself.”
Dibia sat Ephani before a clay pot filled with water and dropped three kola nuts into it. They sank, and the water turned black. “What you touched was not a man,” Dibia said. “His name is Uchobi, a soul collector, buried without peace. He roams, borrowing time from the living. You’ve become his doorway.” Ephani’s heart sank. “What does he want from me?” Dibia’s eyes were grave. “He wants to leave, and you’re his path.” Mama begged, “Is there no way to break it?” Dibia nodded. “There is, but it’s dangerous. Tonight, sleep alone. No lights, no sound, no prayer. The spirit has seen your fear. Now it must see your courage. When he comes, do not run, speak, or blink. Let him speak. If you survive, you’ll be free. If not…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
That night, Ephani sat in darkness, heart pounding. The walls creaked, the wind rattling the windows. At 3:00 a.m., the air turned cold and heavy, his breath shallow. The man from the market appeared, his eyes now black voids. “You showed me the time. Now show me the way. I only need your name for a short while.” Ephani’s body screamed to respond, but he remembered Dibia’s words. He stayed silent, unflinching, though fear clawed at him. The man pressed, “Just say yes. Say your name, and I’ll leave before morning.” Ephani held still. Suddenly, the shadow screamed and vanished.
Dawn broke. Ephani lay unconscious on the floor, a black, burnt handprint seared into his chest, as if something had tried to rip his spirit out. Dibia arrived, nodding. “You were strong, but the spirit isn’t finished. There are three gates: your name, your blood, your breath. You’ve protected your name. Now guard your blood.” That day, Ephani noticed a small cut on his arm, like a razor’s scratch, though he hadn’t injured himself. That night, his window was open, and on the floor sat a clock, stuck at 3:00 a.m.
Dibia returned, preparing a bath of bitter leaf, charcoal, and palm oil. “Bathe in silence before sunrise for three days,” he instructed. On the third day, Ephani slept and found himself at a gate of light. A voice said, “Your time is not his. Your soul is reclaimed.” He woke to a peaceful house, the air clean and light.
A week later, Ephani returned to the market. The stranger was gone, but every day at 3:00 p.m., a dog near his stall barked and ran in circles. He told Dibia, who said, “Uchobi is searching for another who will answer his question. You’re safe, but don’t tell the village. It’s not your place. Never answer a stranger asking for the time again.” Ephani nodded, praying no one else would fall into Uchobi’s trap.
