Real Estate or Real Mistake?

I had just gotten a remote job in Lagos that paid in dollars. I felt like a king… until I realized I was still living with my cousin, who played loud Fuji at 7 am and left his boxers hanging on the kitchen handle like art.

I needed my own space. So, I did what any Gen Z in denial would do — I went house-hunting on Instagram.

Yes, Instagram.

I found this cozy, semi-furnished studio in Yaba. The ad was aesthetic — sunlit corners, neutral tones, artificial pampas grass, and a caption that read: “Perfect for creatives or tech bros. ₦700k yearly. Pay and move in today.”

It looked like it had WiFi and peace. I called the number.

Long story short, the agent was shady, but the house was real. I paid that same day and moved in two days later with one Ghana-must-go bag, a ring light, and too much excitement.

First week in, everything was sweet. I was posting mirror selfies and tweeting things like “There’s just something about living alone that rewires your spirit.”

But then, weird things started happening.

The mirror in the hallway would fog up at 1am even when there was no heat. The light in the bathroom flickered only when I washed my face. One night, I heard music — soft, distant, and definitely not from my neighbour who listened to Zinoleesky.

I assumed it was stress. Or malaria. I bought multivitamins and kept working.

Then one night, I had a Zoom call with my boss in New York. I was giving updates on our real estate automation tool when I saw her face change. I thought it was network.

She said, “Hold on… is someone behind you?”

I turned around. Nothing.

She continued: “I just saw someone pass. A woman in white. You good?”

I smiled like it was a joke. “Oh, that’s probably my roommate.” I was shaking.

That night, I barely slept. I called the agent the next morning and demanded the truth. He finally confessed:

“Bro, to be honest… someone died there last year. A fashion designer. Gas leak. But abeg, we do proper prayers and all that.”

I was stunned. “So why didn’t you say anything?”

He replied, “Would you have rented it?”

Fair enough.

But that was when the twist happened.

I started researching the lady. Her name was Adaku. She used to own a fashion brand called Adaku Atelier. Her Instagram page was still up. Gorgeous work. Sketches, models, runways. She was lowkey a legend. I felt oddly connected to her.

Then one day, I had an idea — wild, risky, probably stupid.

What if I brought her brand back?

I reached out to her cousin (linked from IG), pitched my idea, and offered to revive the label as a digital capsule line. She agreed, as long as I kept Adaku’s legacy intact.

Fast forward six months, I’m now running a side hustle called House of Adaku — a modern thrift-meets-luxury fashion drop built on her past designs. It’s gaining traction on TikTok. I even hosted a pop-up in the same apartment where it all began.

The ghost? She never bothered me again. It’s like she approved.

Sometimes I sit in that same hallway, mirror fogged up, light blinking… and I smile.

Maybe I didn’t just rent an apartment. Maybe I inherited a dream.