In what remains one of Lagos’ most haunting unsolved disappearances, 28-year-old engineer Chike Okoro vanished on the night of September 12th, 2018—his last known image captured by a grainy CCTV footage at an ATM on Allen Avenue, Ikeja. The timestamp read 9:14 PM.
According to police reports, that was the last confirmed sighting of him.
Chike, known among friends as practical and disciplined, had been working hard to build a future for his family. He had just received a promotion and was saving to construct a house in his hometown, Umuanunu. The cash he withdrew that night was meant for his younger sister’s bride price ceremony, set for the following weekend.
But Chike never made it home to his apartment in Ogba.
Two days later, detectives discovered his Honda Accord parked on a quiet street in Ilupeju. The vehicle doors were locked. His phone and the envelope containing the withdrawn cash were missing, but his laptop bag and work documents remained in the boot. Investigators suspected armed robbery, a tragically common crime in Lagos.
Despite police efforts, no trace of Chike was ever found. His family, devastated by the loss, eventually held a funeral a year later—without a body. His mother, Mrs. Ebele Okoro, reportedly died two years later, unable to recover from the grief.
The case went cold.
Life slowly resumed for the Okoro family. Chike’s sister, Nneka, got married and moved to Abuja. Their father, now aging and frail, lived quietly in the family’s Ogba home—until something strange began to happen.
In January 2025, the elderly man started receiving mysterious phone calls in the early hours of the morning—between 2:00 and 3:00 AM. Each time, the number appeared as “Unknown”, and when he picked up, the line was dead.
He dismissed the incidents as network issues, but the calls continued for weeks before stopping suddenly.
Then, two months later, Nneka began receiving the same type of calls—same timing, same “Unknown” number. She ignored them at first, until one night she answered.
There was no voice on the other end—only a sound. The faint, sputtering rhythm of an old generator. Not the smooth hum of a modern one, but the distinct, uneven chug of the “I better pass my neighbour” generator that once powered their family home in the village.
The calls persisted until last week, when Nneka returned to Lagos to visit her father. At 2:30 AM, her phone rang again. Terrified but compelled, she answered.
This time, amid the generator’s rattling noise, she heard something else—a weak, gurgling sound, like someone gasping through water. Then, a faint whisper in Igbo:
> “Nne... ọ na-agu m mmiri... Nna m, the water is cold.”
(Sister... I’m thirsty... Father, the water is cold.)
The line went dead.
Nneka screamed for help. Her husband and father rushed in, calming her as she shook uncontrollably. They dismissed it as a cruel prank.
But the next morning, her father walked to the backyard of their home—toward the old well, sealed years ago with concrete after the installation of running water. He noticed a thin, fresh crack running through the slab. From it, a faint chill emanated, cutting through the warm Lagos air.
He hasn’t spoken about it since.
Neighbors say he sometimes stands by the well for hours, staring silently—listening to something no one else can hear.
Police records confirm that in 2018, Chike’s phone was last traced to a cell tower near Ilupeju. However, sources say investigators never checked tower logs for Ogba, the area of his family home—the place he had been heading back to that night.
Now, years later, the chilling question remains:
Did Chike ever really leave Ogba that night?
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