Confession From: Anonymous, Age 19, Lagos Mainland
I was just 17 when it happened. Fresh out of secondary school, restless, and eager to belong. I didn’t come from much. My dad left early. My mum sold food by the roadside in Iyana Ipaja. Life wasn’t easy, but I was trying to stay straight.
Then I met Lukman.
He was 22. Sharp dresser. Always had money. Girls liked him, even older women. He called me “Young Blood” and said I reminded him of himself — hungry and bold. That compliment stuck with me.
We got close fast. He started taking me around. Small hangs with his guys, cold drinks, even helped me fix up with a second-hand phone. It felt like I’d finally entered something real. Something I could lean on.
But I didn’t know I was being watched, groomed, tested. One Friday night, Lukman invited me to a “birthday bash.” Said his cousin was celebrating. Told me to wear black. I didn’t question it.
We arrived in an uncompleted building somewhere around Abule Egba. Bonfire, music, loud laughter. But something was off. Nobody was dancing. Everyone was just… watching me.
Then one guy brought out palm wine mixed with something bitter. They asked me to drink and repeat after them.
> “Blood before shame. Loyalty before life.” I laughed at first — thought it was cruise. But the mood changed. Someone slapped my back so hard I almost fell.
> “You think this na play?”
That’s when I realized — I wasn’t just attending a party. I was at an initiation.
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They made me crawl through sand. Pour cold water on my head. Slap another guy who was also “joining.” I was shaking but trying to look brave. I didn’t want to be called a coward. That’s how they get you — with fear and pride. By morning, they told me:
> “Welcome to the brotherhood. You’re one of us now. No going back.” I didn’t even know the name of the cult. I didn’t know what I had joined. I just knew I had blood on my shirt, a bruised arm, and a new nickname: “Stinger.”
What followed was madness.
Sudden calls to show up at night. Deliver “messages” I didn’t understand. Help “teach lessons” to rival boys. It got violent. Ugly. More than once, I saw blood.
I didn’t tell my mother. I couldn’t. How do you tell a woman who prays every night that her son is now moving with boys that carry weapons?
It took me almost a year to escape. I had to beg, lie, fake a mental breakdown just to be declared “useless” to them. Some said I’d be killed. But God, or luck, spared me.
Now I move quietly. Changed zones. Deleted every number. I don’t talk to Lukman anymore. I see him sometimes on IG, flexing. But me? I live with the scars. The fear. The guilt.
To every young boy reading this: Not everything that looks like brotherhood is love. Some families don’t come with blood — they come with bloodshed. And once you enter… it’s not easy to come out.
“I Thought It Was Just Brotherhood” – A Confession Of Unknowing Initiation