In in a worn but lively student lodge nicknamed “The Brotherhood,” lived eight final-year students of a Nigerian university. They were bonded by youth, mischief, and a dark oath taken two years ago in the flush of reckless second-year freedom. The pact was simple. Cruel. Animalistic. “Any girl who steps into this lodge that is not a blood sister , we bmust count her census.” To them, "counting her census" meant she had to pass through all eight of them—sexually. No exceptions. No attachments. No remorse. The thrill was the unity, the secrecy, and the power. Over time, they lost count of the girls—some consenting, others manipulated, and some just naïve. None of them ever brought a serious girlfriend home. They all feared karma too much. Except Chuka. Chuka, 24, calm and focused, had long kept his heart locked—until he met Ifunanya in his third year. She was soft-spoken, deeply spiritual, and full of dreams that didn’t involve being someone’s casualty. It took Chuka a full year and a half to win her trust. He never pressured her. He listened, laughed, and waited. And when she finally said yes, it wasn’t just a victory—it was redemption. For the first time in years, Chuka felt human again. So, he told the Brotherhood about her, proudly. He thought they would understand. He thought they’d matured like he had. They laughed and toasted to his “achievement.” But behind those smirks was hunger. The Day of Reckoning came. Ifunanya came in the afternoon, carrying a soft smile and fried plantain in her bag. Chuka welcomed her like a king. He had cleaned the room, bought shawarma, and made sure his playlist was perfect. The conversations were electric. And eventually, so was the intimacy. She gave him her body not out of pressure, but out of deep, unguarded trust. She gave him her flower—her virginity. But then came the knock. Three loud knocks. Chuka stood up. Shirtless, confused, slightly annoyed. He opened the door… and there they were. The Brotherhood. Bare-chested. In pants. Faces stern. “Guy, shift,” one of them said. “What?” “You don chop. Time to count census.” Chuka’s heart sunk. “Guys, abeg…” They didn’t listen. They reminded him of Sandra. Of Joy. Of Becky. Of that girl from Delta who cried the next morning. They reminded him of his laughter as he waited his turn, or cheered them on. And so Chuka stepped aside. Silent. Broken. He heard her scream. He heard her cry. He heard her voice slowly fade. And then, nothing. Hours later, the room was a crime scene. Not of blood, but of betrayal, shame, and lost innocence. Ifunanya lay unconscious, but alive. Chuka couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t breathe. He took a pen. He wrote her a letter. > “Ifunanya, I wish sorry was enough. But it’s not. I failed you. I let the monsters I once danced with take the only light that ever reached me. You didn’t deserve this. I want to stand with you, even though I don’t deserve to. I won’t run. I’ll face whatever consequence you wish upon me. I was once them. I am now shattered. Whatever becomes of me, let the world hear your story, not mine.” Now, be the judge. If you were Chuka, would you go to the police and expose them, even if it meant implicating yourself? Would you protect her identity and vanish into oblivion? Would you stand before a court and beg for her forgiveness publicly? Would you dare speak to her again? Or would you hang your head in shame and accept that sometimes, even love can't cleanse the rot you helped plant? Be the judge. PLEASE FOLLOW for more