CITADEL

October 15th, 2045

Golden light bathed the Citadel Plaza.

Tunde stepped out of the sleek black limo, welcomed by a graceful burst of camera flashes and warm orchestral music rising from a live quartet nearby. The plaza sparkled with white marble tiles, water fountains, and floating light drones capturing every moment in soft focus.

He was dressed in an elegant white agbada embroidered with fine gold thread, a custom piece from the Citadel’s top designer. His smile was calm, collected, but unmistakably proud. This was not arrogance—it was earned triumph.

Above him, digital banners flashed:

“Tunde: From Dust to Dominion – 1.3 Million Albums Sold”

“Live from Eko Citadel – Acorn awards.

As Tunde walked the glass-carpeted steps, gentle applause rolled across the assembled guests—diplomats, scholars, artists, dignitaries. No wild chants. No chaos. Just admiration.

He made his way to the other side of the car and opened the door gently. His mother stepped out.

She wore a flowing silver iro and buba with delicate sapphire stones, her posture elegant, her smile soft and proud. Every eye in the crowd turned toward her. Cameras paused for reverence. She took Tunde’s hand.

“Eko Citadel,” she whispered, her voice full of awe. “We’ve finally arrived, my son. I am… so proud of you.”

Tunde's chest rose slowly with emotion.“It’s a new beginning, Mum,” he said. “Take it all in. You deserve this.”

Inside the Grand Hall.

Soft classical music played as waiters moved between golden pillars with trays of crystal flutes and bite-sizes on plates.

Tunde shook hands with Nobel laureates and tech CEOs.

The President of the Citadel gave a brief nod.

“A voice like yours reshapes a culture. You've given the forgotten something they never had—dignity.”

Later, he sat beside Wale yinka and Chima Adichie, exchanging words that felt like poetry.“Your music,” Chimamanda said, smiling, “feels like truth disguised as rhythm.”He beamed. His mother sat beside him, regal and composed.

Then, the awards host walked onto the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Citadel Musician of the Year... Tunde.”

Applause filled the marble hall. A standing ovation. Tunde stood, kissed his mother’s forehead, and walked to the stage.

“This is not just for me,” he said, voice steady through the microphone. “It’s for my mother. For everyone still living in the shadows.”

Then, a hum. A flicker. A crack in the light. The ceiling glitched. The applause slowed, blurred.

His mother’s smile faltered. Her face dimmed.

Tunde looked around, confused.

The music dissolved into static.

The air shimmered like a mirage.

“Mum?” he called out.

The hall collapsed into darkness.

He woke, violently. A beam of weak morning light cut through the hole in the ceiling.The cold sting of reality wrapped around him. Tunde gasped and sat up on the dirt floor. His breath hitched. His agbada was gone, replaced by a tattered shirt. No cameras. No applause.

Only smoke. Damp. The scent of kerosene.

Beside him, his mother lay shivering, coughing dryly into her cloth wrap.A rat crawled across a rusted pan near the fire pit.

Tunde stared into space for a long moment, then lowered his gaze to her. “Just a dream,” he muttered. Then louder, jaw clenched: “Someday, Mum… I’ll make it real.”

………………………………………………..

Tunde was one of the “forgotten” — the millions who lived in the Ruins.

It used to be called Lagos once. Now it was just a scorched wasteland, a skeleton of concrete and rusted steel, littered with collapsed buildings, fractured roads, and memories. The sun hung low most days, as if ashamed to shine too brightly on what was left.

No one knew exactly how the country ended, not really.Some whispered that Nigeria had picked a fight with a world power, maybe China, maybe the U.S. and in response, the sky had lit up with fire and the ground had trembled as nuclear and atomic bombs swallowed the cities. Others swore it was divine punishment, a long-awaited reckoning. That God, in all His fury, had simply had enough.

But to Tunde, none of that mattered.

What mattered was that he’d been born into the ashes of that reckoning. What mattered was that his mother, had raised him in the shattered remains of a two-room flat with a leaky roof and no doors, scavenging food from broken supermarkets and trading scrap metal for sachets of water.

What mattered was that his father — whoever he was — had left before the first mushroom cloud rose, before the world cracked open. Pregnant and alone, his mother had carried him through war sirens and famine winters.

He didn’t need to know whether it was a bomb or a god that broke the world.

He already had someone to blame.

Every day in the Ruins was a grind. You woke up hungry, dodged gangs, filtered dirty water through charcoal, and prayed that your cough wasn’t something worse. There were whispers of diseases, airborne, mutating, deadly. People just... faded. The lucky ones died in their sleep.

But not Tunde. He had his music — an old solar-powered recorder, a secondhand guitar missing two strings, and his voice. His voice was everything.

He sang for his mother when the coughing got bad. He sang for the children when the food ran out. He sang to remind himself that he was still here.

But more than anything, he sang to dream.

Dream of the Citadel.

The shimmering safe zone beyond the Wall. A place of abundance, order, air conditioning, and light. Where the air smelled of cinnamon and flowers, and no one ever went to bed hungry. Rich people. Clean clothes. Paved roads. Hospitals.

And maybe — just maybe — someone there who could heal his mother.

She was getting worse. The cough was deeper now, and there was blood on the cloth she hid from him.He noticed. He always noticed.“I’m fine,” she would whisper with a weak smile. “Just tired.”

But tired people don’t wake up with blood in their mouths. So he saved every credit chip, every token he earned from performing at the old underground hangout in Sector Seven. The place was a half-bombed warehouse, lined with oil drums and solar panels, where the youth of the Ruins came to forget they were poor.

Tunde stood on that makeshift stage like a prophet, eyes shut, voice burning with grief and hope. And every time he sang, they tossed him a little more. Not much — but enough.He had a plan.

He would get into the Citadel. No matter what it took.Even if it meant lying, stealing, or selling his soul to the rich bastards in the sky.

……..

The day started out like any other in the Ruins—dry heat pressing down from a burnt-orange sky, dust swirling through broken alleyways like restless spirits. Around here, the only job left for the Forgotten was mining Adrium, a post-apocalyptic miracle metal discovered buried deep in the bones of the earth.

They said Adrium was stronger than diamond, five times lighter, and impossible to replicate. The walls of the Citadel gleamed with it l; unclimbable, unbreakable. Motion-detection lasers lined every inch, scanning for body heat, movement, hope.The message was clear:

You don’t sneak in. You don’t belong.

But Tunde didn’t plan to sneak in.His plan was different—slower, safer, legal. He’d mine Adrium, save up, buy a ticket on the freight line into the Citadel. Once inside, he’d find a studio, record his music, and maybe,just maybe turn his voice into a bridge between the Ruins and the dream.

But that was still far off. For now, it was another morning. Another shift and Abigail and Samuel were waiting at the quarry site.

He slung his patched-up bag over his shoulder and turned to leave but stopped at the sound of a cough behind him.

His mother lay on a thin mat, tucked beneath threadbare sheets. Her breathing was ragged, her eyes tired but still sharp enough to catch him trying to sneak out quietly. “Running off again before I get to say good morning, Tunde?” Tunde turned, smile tugging at the edge of his lips. “I wasn’t running. Just… letting you rest.”

“You say that every morning. And every night I hear you come back limping, Mining that devil metal isn’t rest for any mother’s heart.”He sat beside her, gently brushing a cool cloth across her forehead. “It’s only temporary. Just enough to get us out. You’ll see.”She gave a weak chuckle.

“Out? And into where? The Citadel? That place wasn’t built for people like us. We’re the ghosts they built walls to forget.” “I’m not a ghost, Mama. I’m going to walk through those gates with a pass in my hand and a mic in the other. No sneaking. No shame. Just dreams.”Her eyes softened with both pride and fear.

“Dreams are sweet, my son… but don’t let them carry you where your body can’t return from.Tunde stood, adjusting his gloves.

“I’ll be back by sunset—with enough for medicine this time. Maybe even a little extra for yams.”He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Go safe. And sing something when you dig. It keeps the rocks from falling.” (smiling)“I always do.”

He stepped outside, the sun already baking the cracked streets of the Ruins. Ahead, beyond the haze, the Adrium quarry shimmered like a silver wound in the earth. And far beyond that, like a mirage of heaven, the Citadel gleamed against the sky, daring him to dream.

The quarry was already alive with noise by the time Tunde arrived, picks clanging against rock, engines sputtering, and the occasional crackle of static from the Citadel drones overhead. People moved like ants below the pit walls, heads bowed, backs bent, chasing the shimmer of Adrium in the dirt like it was salvation.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” came a voice from behind a broken bulldozer.Abigail, she wore a patched leather vest over a dust-streaked jumpsuit, her dreadlocks tied back in a red scarf. A homemade pickaxe rested on her shoulder, and a smirk danced on her lips.

“If you were any slower, Tunde, I’d have started mining your shadow.” Tunde grinned “And here I thought you missed me.” “I missed the part where you actually do your share of the digging.”Before Tunde could reply, a deep laugh echoed from up the quarry slope.

Samuel appeared, shirtless under his suspenders, his broad chest slick with sweat. He tossed Tunde a half-filled canteen. “Let the boy breathe, Abbie. You know he sings better than he mines.” Tunde took a sip oh the water “I do both. Multitalented.” “Then let your talent help us fill this sack before the next drone scan, eh?”

Tunde dropped his bag and picked up his digging gear from a nearby rock. They huddled near the edge of a pit that shimmered with traces of Adrium—like veins of quicksilver beneath cracked earth.

“Any sight of supervisors?”, tunde asked. “Not yet. But the drones are twitchy this morning. And the wall sensors flashed red earlier—someone might’ve tried crossing.”Abigail said. Samuel snorted.“Another desperate fool. They always forget about the lasers.”

A sharp hum passed overhead. The three of them froze.A Citadel drone floated by—sleek, spider-like, with a smooth metallic eye that scanned the quarry below. A warning light blinked as it passed, and the trio waited silently until it was gone.

Only then did Abigail speak.“Every time I see one of those things, I wonder what it’d take to bring one down.”

“One dream too many, maybe.” Tunde said, he looked up, past the quarry’s ridge.There it was again, the Citadel. White and gold, suspended like a god’s mirage behind the shimmer of protective fields. Its smooth towers glowed even through the smog. Somewhere in there, music played through perfect speakers, food was hot every night, and sickness… was curable.

Tunde’s voice dropped to a whisper.“Someday, I’ll be up there… not swinging picks, but performing in front of thousands.” Abigail didn’t scoff this time. She looked at him, something unreadable behind her eyes. “Just make sure your dream doesn’t bury us before you get there.”

Before Tunde could clap back, the sirens wailed and chaos erupted. A man darted into view, panting and wide-eyed, lasers slicing through the air behind him. The drones were in pursuit.

“Stop… stop… surrender the adrium in your possession. You cannot escape,” came the cold, repetitive chant of their synthetic voices.

The man wasn’t alone. Another desperate soul tried to pocket a shard of adrium, despite the well-known truth; all adrium was claimed property of the Citadel government. Still, in the ruins, some were willing to risk it. Underground mercs and black market dealers bought it off the desperate, those too reckless or broken to care about the consequences. Whether they were caught stealing or just too visible trying to sell, the result was always the same: an ugly, bloody scene.

The fleeing man suddenly tripped over a stray pickaxe buried in the dust. He scrambled to rise, but it was too late. A laser cut through his chest, clean and final.

He dropped like a sack. Blood pooled around him, and from his slack hand, the glowing shard of adrium rolled across the ground, straight to Tunde’s feet. For a heartbeat, the world stood still.

Whether it was instinct or something deeper, Tunde nudged the shard behind a nearby crate of mining gear with the tip of his boot. He barely dared to breathe as the drones hovered closer, scanning the body, their sensors humming softly. They were looking for two things: confirmation of the kill… and the missing adrium.

One of the drones descended with a mechanical hiss, red lights sweeping over the lifeless body. Another hovered in place, scanning the surrounding area. Tunde didn’t move. His fingers twitched slightly at his sides, the only betrayal of the storm building within him.

“Subject: Deceased. Adrium: Not detected.”

The lead drone emitted a short, shrill beep, and the others responded with a synchronized retreat, lifting upward like vultures denied a feast. In seconds, they were gone, vanishing into the smog above the ruins.

Tunde exhaled slowly.

His eyes flicked to the crate. The shard glowed faintly in the shadows like a heart still beating.

He glanced around, no one seemed to be paying attention. Most had scattered the moment the alarms blared. A few lingered, watching from behind rubble or shattered pillars, waiting to see if the drones would return. They didn’t. Tunde crouched casually beside the crate, as if checking the straps on his boots. In one swift motion, he reached into the shadows and slipped the adrium into the inner pocket of his tattered jacket.

It was warm. Too warm. He stood and walked away, pulse thumping like a drum in his ears. Something had changed. Something big.

In the ruins, no one kept adrium — not for long. You either sold it, got killed for it, or turned it in and prayed for a scrap of mercy from the Citadel patrols.

But as he felt the weight of it against his chest, Tunde didn’t feel afraid. He felt… awake.

After the drone’s distant hum faded into silence, Abigail stormed over, her boots kicking up dust with every step.

“What the hell were you thinking, Tunde? You could’ve gotten yourself killed or gotten all of us killed!”

Tunde gave a crooked grin, wiping sweat from his brow. “Nothing gets past you, huh?” She shoved him lightly in the shoulder. “Don’t joke. You know how much the Citadel hoards that Adrium. You touch what’s not tagged, they will come looking.”

Samuel came jogging down from the ridge, his giant form bouncing like a sack of muscle and curiosity.“What did Tunde do this time? Please tell me it wasn’t explosives. Or worse dancing again.” “He took the Adrium chunk that fell off that dead scavenger from yesterday.”

Samuel’s eyes widened. “You mean the guy with the half-face and the extra crispy look?”, “That’s the one.” Samuel gasped “You touched dead-guy Adrium? That’s bad juju, man. That stuff’s cursed! What if the chunk remembers his trauma? What if it screams at night?”

Tunde gave him a flat look. “It’s a rock, Sam”, “A rock with a past, my guy.”

Abigail groaned and turned away, muttering something about idiots and early funerals.

Tunde patted the small shard hidden inside his vest pocket. It was jagged, faintly warm to the touch. Most Adrium had to be mined raw and refined before it was stable. But this piece—this one glowed faintly, like it had already been through the forge.

Maybe it was worth something. Maybe enough.

………………………………

Tunde pushed open the tin door of their shack just as the last of the sunlight died.

Inside, the shadows felt thicker than usual. A single candle flickered in a cracked jar. His mother lay still, her breathing labored, lips dry.

“Mama... I’m back. I got something big today. Might be able to trade it for meds.”

No answer.

He knelt by her side, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. Her skin burned with fever. Her chest heaved in short bursts like her lungs were running from something she couldn’t outrun. “Hey... hey, I’m here. Just breathe. I’m here now.” She stirred slightly, eyelids fluttering, but her voice was barely a rasp. “Tunde...?”, “Yeah, it’s me. I got something. Something important.”

He pulled the Adrium shard from his pocket and stared at it. It pulsed once, softly, almost like a heartbeat. But what good was a miracle metal if it couldn’t fix the one thing he needed most?. He glanced at the door, then back at his mother.Then at the shard.

The marketplace smelled like melted plastic and stale smoke. Generators buzzed under cracked pillars, throwing flickering light over scattered stalls. Old Kara was no place for hesitation. Everyone here either had something to sell, or something to run from.

Tunde moved past a man selling drone eyes out of a lunchbox. Past a woman trading baby formula for bullets. His hand clutched the bundle tightly under his jacket, the shard of adrium. It still pulsed faintly, even through the cloth.

He didn’t look anyone in the eye. Eyes invited questions. Questions got people killed.

He reached the back of the corridor, where a dull green light glowed over a rusted shutter. The words stenciled on the metal read:

"GLITCH: Tech, Trade, No Talk."

He knocked once. A few seconds passed. Then the shutter groaned open. A boy stood inside. Half his face was covered in dark plating, the other half too young to be this tired. His mechanical eye scanned Tunde in silence. “I need to see Madam Glitch,” Tunde said.“No walk-ins.”

“I’m selling.” He pulled the cloth back just enough for the boy to glimpse the faint blue shimmer.The boy paused.

Then stepped aside.

Inside, the space was colder, lit with wall-mounted panels salvaged from old solar rigs. Machinery cluttered the corners—half-built drones, stripped weapons, cooling vents that leaked steam and oil.

She emerged from the shadows like a spider.

Madam Glitch looked like someone who had survived five different lives and didn’t like any of them. One arm was entirely mechanical, long fingers clicking against each other. Her face was lined, unreadable. A jagged coil ran from her left temple into a metal collar around her neck.“You brought something,” she said flatly.

Tunde placed the cloth on the metal table between them and unwrapped it. The adrium shard gave off a low hum. Pale blue, crystalline, and razor-edged. Still warm. Glitch tilted her head.

“Where did you get this?”

“I found it,” Tunde replied.

“Where?”

“On a body. A man who was shot by drones near the quarry, I hid it and took it when the drones left”.

She picked up the shard, turning it in her fingers like a jeweler sizing a gem. Her cybernetic hand didn’t flinch at the heat.

“This is clean,” she muttered. “Too clean. Whoever was carrying this was valuable to someone.”

“I need credits,” Tunde said. “That’s all, and we were just mining them at the quarry so it makes sense that it's a clean piece.”

She studied him. Not the shard, him.

“You’re not a scavenger. You don’t know what this piece is really worth.”

“I know it can save my mother,” he said quietly. That gave her pause.

Then she turned to a terminal behind her, tapped a few keys, and returned with a credit chip. She slid it across the table.

“Three hundred units.” Tunde hesitated. “I was told it could go for five.”

She let out a dry laugh. “Then whoever told you that was either setting you up or sending you to your grave. Take the three.”

He looked down at the shard, then at her. Then picked up the chip. “Deal.”

Glitch gave a slight nod. “Good choice. But a word of advice: if you’re planning something stupid, like smuggling yourself into the Citadel don’t come back here. You won’t get a second deal.”

Tunde said nothing.

He turned and left.

Outside, the sky had dimmed. The wind had shifted. The ruins were darker than he remembered.

You would think that since the ruins were already a wasteland, the crime rate would be relatively low.

You couldn’t be more wrong.

Mercenaries ruled these broken districts. Ruthless, organized, and heavily armed, they were more powerful than any local council or surviving militia. They ran smuggling routes, tech rings, and even made deals with Citadel officials under the table.

And Tunde was going to them. Not by accident.

On purpose.

He didn’t go home after the trade. Abigail would be furious. Samuel would probably start looking for him by nightfall.

But this wasn’t about them.

He had a sick mother. A pocket full of credits. And a desperate idea.

He followed the old road west, toward Block 47, a place whispered about in hushed tones. A decommissioned refinery now controlled by a group known as the Brass Fangs. They had the resources, the contacts, and according to rumor the means to move people past the Citadel wall.

The closer he got, the worse the world looked. Charred metal. Burned-out trucks. Scorched pavement. Bones half-buried in the ash.

He found them near sundown.

Three mercenaries sat around a barrel fire inside a crumbling fueling station. Their rifles leaned against the wall beside them. One cleaned a blade. Another lit something wrapped in foil. The third watched the road.

Tunde stepped into the open. Hands visible. No sudden moves.

One of them stood. “Don’t move.”

“I’m not armed,” Tunde said. “I came to talk.”

Now all three were alert.

“Talk to who?” the tall one with a scar down his cheek asked.

“Your commander,” Tunde replied. “Or whoever’s in charge here.”

The braided one narrowed her eyes. “No one talks to Brass Fangs unless they’re bleeding or paying.”

“I have credits,” Tunde said. “And I can find more adrium.”

That made them pause.

The scarred one stepped forward. “You’re a scavenger?”

“No. I just got lucky today,” Tunde said. “Found a dead man. A drone had taken him out. He had a shard. I sold it. I work at the quarry, I might be able to get more.”

The three looked at each other. Quiet.

The older one finally asked, “Why come to us?”

“Because I need something only you can offer,” Tunde said. “I want access to the Citadel.” The scarred one chuckled. “You’ve got guts, kid.”

Then he gestured toward the ruined building behind them.

“Alright. You want to deal with the Brass Fangs? Come inside. But if you’re lying…”

He tapped the handle of his knife.

“…you won’t walk out.”