KINGZ Collection Designs

04/01/2026

EPISODE NINE

WHEN FIRE RETURNED

The mother fell ill quietly.

Her body weakened, her breaths shorter. Oyoyo stayed close, praying daily that her children would return soon.

One afternoon, a familiar figure stepped into the compound.

Ejoke.

Now a lieutenant.

His uniform fit him perfectly, authority settling naturally on his shoulders. His mother cried when she saw him.

“You came,” she whispered.

“I promised,” he said.

That night, peace returned briefly.

At dawn, screaming shattered it.

Gunshots.

Fire.

Bandits.

Ejoke moved instantly.

Training took over.

He secured his mother and aunt, positioned them safely, then armed himself. From within the house, he observed, calculated, waited.

The first attacker fell silently.

Then another.

And another.

Ten men dropped before they understood what they were facing.

When a second truck arrived, Ejoke moved fast. He flanked them, threw a gr***de, and dove for cover.

The explosion lit the morning sky.

Confusion erupted. Screaming. Retreat.

The bandits fled, firing blindly, afraid of an enemy they could not see.

When silence returned, Ejoke stood still, breathing hard.

For the first time, the past loosened its grip.

He had not run.

And this time, he had won.

03/01/2026

Oh great

DEAD ON ARRIVAL

EPISODE SEVEN

THE GOODBYE THAT LINGERED

Morning arrived softly, as if it knew the weight it carried.

Ejiro woke before dawn, her suitcase already packed, her room stripped of anything that might tempt her to stay. The walls felt bare without her laughter echoing against them. Every step she took toward the sitting room felt heavier than the last.

Her mother was already awake in her wheelchair, staring out the window.

They looked at each other for a long time.

No words came first.

Ejiro knelt slowly, resting her head against her mother’s knees, the same place she had cried the day her father died.

“Mama,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “I don’t want to leave you like this.”

Her mother’s hand moved to her hair, fingers gentle, familiar.

“You are not leaving me,” she said softly. “You are moving forward. That is different.”

Tears slipped down Ejiro’s face.

“Who will help you? Who will sit with you when it hurts? Who will—”

“I will be lonely,” her mother said honestly. “I won’t lie to you.”

Ejiro looked up sharply.

“But I will also be happy,” she continued. “Because my children are choosing life. Because you are refusing to be buried with your father.”

She smiled, though her eyes were wet.

“Every step you take forward keeps me alive.”

Ejiro hugged her tightly, careful of the chair, careful of the fragile strength her mother now carried. They stayed like that until the sun climbed higher.

When it was time, Ejiro stood.

She kissed her mother’s forehead.

“I’ll call every day.”

“I know.”

“I’ll come back for holidays.”

“I know.”

“I’ll make you proud.”

Her mother nodded. “You already have.”

When the car finally pulled away, the house felt suddenly hollow.

Silence settled in like an unwanted guest.

The mother sat alone, staring at the empty doorway, the echo of footsteps still ringing in her ears. Loneliness crept in slowly, wrapping itself around her chest.

But beneath it lived something stronger.

Hope.

She imagined Ejoke in uniform. Ejiro in a foreign classroom. Futures unfolding far beyond bloodstained roads.

Later that afternoon, another presence entered the house.

Oyoyo.

Her sister did not knock loudly. She simply walked in, sleeves rolled, eyes already assessing what needed to be done.

“I’m here,” she said.

From that day, Oyoyo became her legs, her strength, her companion. She pushed the wheelchair through corridors and into sunlight. She cooked, cleaned, and talked endlessly to fill the quiet.

And when the nights became too long, she stayed awake.

The house breathed again.

03/01/2026

EPISODE EIGHT

STEEL AND MEMORY

Ejiro learned quickly that distance did not erase memory.

No matter how busy her days became, her father’s death followed her into lecture halls and quiet dorm rooms. Sometimes, in the middle of studying, her hands would shake. Sometimes, she would hear shouting that wasn’t there.

She forced herself forward anyway.

She buried herself in books, assignments, and deadlines. She learned to smile in public and cry only at night. Healing did not come easily, but she did not stop trying.

Back home, Ejoke was learning a different kind of survival.

Military training broke boys and rebuilt men.

The days were brutal. The nights worse.

They ran until their lungs burned. Crawled through mud and thorns. Stood under rain holding rifles heavier than fear. Mistakes were punished. Weakness was exposed.

More than once, Ejoke wanted to quit.

Each time, his father’s final moments returned.

The shouting.
The gunfire.
The helplessness.

He clenched his fists and pushed on.

“I won’t run,” he told himself. “Not again.”

His instructors noticed him early. His discipline. His focus. His refusal to fall behind. Academically, he excelled. Tactically, he adapted fast. Physically, he endured.

He trained harder than anyone.

When others slept, he studied. When others complained, he practiced.

By the time graduation approached, his name stood at the top.

Best in weapons handling.
Best in field tactics.
Best academically.

Not because he wanted medals.

But because he wanted justice.

26/12/2025

DEAD ON ARRIVAL

EPISODE FOUR

BETWEEN BREATHS AND BONES

Morning crept into the hospital without warmth.

The sun rose somewhere beyond the concrete walls, but its light did not reach the corridors where survivors lay stacked in pain and silence. The hospital smelled of antiseptic, smoke, and blood—a mixture that clung to the air and refused to leave.

She lay in the intensive care unit, motionless.

Machines surrounded her bed like silent guards. A ventilator breathed for her in slow, mechanical rhythm. A monitor traced thin green lines across a black screen, each rise and fall proof that her heart still worked, even if the rest of her seemed uncertain.

The doctors spoke in low voices.

“Severe spinal trauma.”
“No response to stimuli.”
“Possible permanent damage.”

Words were written. Files were signed. Decisions were made around her body as if she were not there, as if she could not hear them.

But somewhere deep inside her, something listened.

Her mind drifted through broken images—
a kitchen table,
steam rising from tea,
Ejoke’s voice calling her,
Ejiro’s arms wrapped tight around her waist.

Then fire.

Gunshots.

The sound of her husband falling.

She tried to scream.

Nothing came.

Her fingers did not move. Her legs were gone from her awareness, like they had never existed. Panic rose, thick and suffocating, but her body did not react. She was trapped inside herself, awake but buried.

A tear slid from the corner of her eye.

Hours later, a nurse noticed.

“She’s crying,” the woman said softly, leaning closer. “Doctor… I think she’s conscious.”

The doctor stepped forward, shining a light gently into her eyes.

“Madam,” he said clearly. “If you can hear me, blink.”

Nothing.

“If you understand me… blink once.”

Time stretched.

Then—barely—her eyelids trembled.

Once.

The room went still.

“She’s in there,” the nurse whispered.

Hope did not rush in loudly. It arrived carefully, afraid to break what little remained.

---

Across town, Ejoke sat on the floor of a crowded neighbor’s house.

He had not slept.

Ejiro leaned against him, finally exhausted, her breathing shallow but steady. Around them, survivors spoke in hushed tones, counting the dead, listing names, arguing about who was to blame.

Ejoke heard none of it.

His hands were clenched so tightly his nails had drawn blood. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his father fall. Every time he opened them, he expected to see his mother walk through the door.

She did not.

A man entered quietly and spoke to the adults first. Heads turned. Murmurs spread.

Then the man knelt in front of Ejoke.

“Your mother is alive,” he said.

Ejoke’s heart slammed painfully against his ribs.

“Where?” he asked.

“She’s in the general hospital. Badly injured.”

Ejiro stirred. “Mama?”

Ejoke nodded slowly. Relief and fear collided inside him, leaving him dizzy.

“Can we see her?” Ejiro asked.

The man hesitated.

“Not yet.”

The word felt heavier than no.

---

That night, in the hospital, she drifted again.

Pain pulsed through her spine like fire trapped under skin. Even breathing hurt now, even with the machines helping. Voices came and went, fading in and out like waves.

She heard her children crying.

She tried to reach them.

Her hand twitched.

Just slightly.

Enough for the nurse to gasp.

“She moved,” the nurse said urgently. “Her hand moved.”

The doctor returned quickly, testing reflexes, watching carefully.

“Madam,” he said, leaning close. “You’re safe. Your children are alive.”

Her heart rate spiked.

Tears flowed freely now, unchecked.

Alive.

The word wrapped around her like a fragile promise.

“You were very brave,” the doctor continued. “But your injuries are serious. We don’t yet know if you’ll walk again.”

She did not care.

Not yet.

All that mattered was that her children still breathed.

Her husband did not.

The truth pressed down on her chest, heavier than any wound. A silent scream tore through her mind, shaking something loose inside her.

Her fingers curled weakly.

Grief settled into her bones.

Outside, night swallowed the ruined village.

Ash still coated the ground. Fires smoldered quietly. Nothing had been rebuilt. Nothing had been buried properly.

And inside a hospital bed, a woman lay suspended between survival and loss—alive, but altered; breathing, but broken.

Her story had not ended.

It had only hardened.

Somewhere, far from the machines and bandages, fate waited patiently.

And when she finally opened her eyes fully, the world would learn what it had created in the ashes of that morning.

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EPISODE FIVE — COMING SOON