The Man Who Sold His Shadow – A Bizarre Short Story Online

Among the urban chaos, there was a man named Obi Okafor. Obi was normal in every way possible except one: his shadow never really listened to him. At first, it was discreet. When he raised his right arm, his shadow raised its left. When he stooped to pray, his shadow sneered. But as the months seeped into the years, Obi became aware that his shadow was more alive than it had any right to be.

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One night, as he walked home along the streetlights of Marina, his shadow whispered.

“Sell me,” it said, “and you’ll never hunger again.”

Obi remained motionless. Shadows never speak. Shadows never bargain. And his did.

Curiosity is a dangerous currency. Obi had complied with orders from his shadow to a narrow alley where corn was roasted to the right texture and mixed with salt from the lagoon. At the alley’s end, a rusty old door slowly opened to a hidden market lit not by bulbs but by lanterns filled with bottles of darkness.

Here, men and women without shadows negotiated for things that cannot be: bottled laughter, second chances, and dreams liquefied.

A woman with white eyes and a shadow of her own was not present at the back stall.

“You’ve brought it,” she said, before Obi said a single word.

He wavered. “What if I sell?”

“You’ll be rich,” she said, spreading cowries, gold coins, and banknotes that shimmered like heat. “But you’ll never walk in sunlight the same again.”

Obi thought of his debts, his landlord’s threats, his sick mother. Against reason, he nodded.

The woman touched the ground, and his shadow peeled off him like wet cloth. It screamed not with sound, but with silence that deafened him. Then it was gone.

For weeks, Obi was living like a king. His account was swollen miraculously. Strangers showered him with gifts. Opportunities opened like unimagined doors.

But it is a city of sun. And soon, people noticed.

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At Balogun Market, a trader spat, “Why is your leg not casting shadow?” Street children pointed and ran. Even his mother, weak in bed, whispered, “Son… you are incomplete.”

More threatening even, Obi began to see his shadow where it was not supposed to be: behind strangers, lurking in mirrors, scrawling messages in steam.

“You sold me,” it once scribbled across his bathroom mirror. “But I am not gone.”

One evening, the woman of white eyes appeared on his doorstep.

“The shadow is restless,” she said. “You must take it back, or it will kill you.”

“How?” Obi trembled.

She smiled, teeth hard as cracked shells. “Swap something better.”

“What is better than a shadow?”

“Your name.”

To regain his shadow, Obi forfeited his very name. He woke up the next morning to find his shadow again at his feet but when he spoke who he was, his tongue would not. His ID card was a mere white space. His emails were bounced back. People stepped around him as if he was a stranger.

He had no name.

But at night, while the city slept, his shadow whispered again:

“Better nameless than soulless. Names can be discovered. But when a shadow is lost, you are owned by nothing.”

Years passed, and Obi or whatever his name was now became a legend. People spoke of the Nameless Man, whose shadow would occasionally creep when he stood still, who could be forgotten from mind the moment he turned a corner.

Some feared him. Others came looking for him. Some claimed he still operated in the underworld, making deals too strange to pass up.

And if you ever walk alone in Lagos late night, the streetlights buzzing and the lagoon breeze heavy against your skin, you might hear a whisper behind you:

“Sell me, and you’ll never be poor again.”

But be careful—in this world, everything leaves a price.

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Disclaimer

This short story online, The Man Who Sold His Shadow, is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental. The story is published for entertainment and creative purposes only and should not be interpreted as factual reporting or advice.