By Divine T (@Folasheycrown22)
Abuja men pay women to bark like dogs and feed them raw meat.
The first time I suspected Abuja was cursed, I was sitting in a restaurant, struggling to justify the price of my tiny plate of small chops. That was when I noticed a woman in a red dress, dripping in expensive gold jewelry, walking toward a guy in a black kaftan. At first, I assumed she was just another sugar mummy—typical Abuja behavior. But then I heard her whisper, “My husband likes guys like you.”
I froze, mid-chew, my jaw locking around the bland puff-puff.
“Madam, I don’t understand,” the guy stammered.
She smiled, the kind of smile people wear when offering a lucrative contract. “It’s nothing serious,” she said smoothly. “Just spend time with him, let him touch you small, and you will never lack anything again.”
I nearly dropped my puff-puff, but I forced myself to act like I hadn’t heard a thing.
I minded my business—that was my first warning. I ignored it. Big mistake.
Two days later, I went to a popular lounge in Wuse to meet my friend. The place was packed with the usual Abuja suspects—fresh bones in crisp white jellabiyas, smelling like expensive oud, eyes scanning the room, calculating their next target.
One of them caught my eye. A fine boy with pink lips and a well-groomed beard, he walked up to me.
“Hi, beautiful. You like money?”
I already knew where this was going—Abuja boys don’t waste time.
I smiled. “Who doesn’t?”
He chuckled. “I can help you make 10 million tonight.”
But you have to be open-minded,” he said.
I raised a brow. “Define open-minded.”
He leaned in slightly. “Have you ever heard of pet play?”
“Excuse me?”
He moved even closer, lowering his voice. “There’s a senator who pays girls to wear dog collars, crawl around, and bark while he feeds them raw meat. If you’re extra convincing, there’s a 5 million bonus.”
I wanted to believe he was joking, but the seriousness in his eyes said otherwise.
That was my second warning. And once again, I ignored it.
But my final warning came at Jabi Mall.
I spotted three girls in flowing black abayas—skin glowing, nails long and sharp, edges laid to perfection. They moved with the kind of confidence that came with knowing you’d never have to check a price tag.
One of them was on a video call, giggling. Then, in a hushed tone, she whispered, “Babu, don’t forget the money. I’ll send the snake video tonight.”
I froze.
Lost in thought, I kept repeating it to myself—snake how?
My guy, who had been standing beside me, noticed my confusion and chuckled. “Those abaya babes? They’re not normal,” he said. “Some of them do rituals for rich men, others mess with fetish kings.”
Then he turned to me and asked, “Have you ever heard of glass table play?”
I blinked. “What’s that?”
He smirked. “Some men pay them to sit on a glass table… while they lie under it.”
I wanted to scream—but only my spirit did. At this point, I had serious questions.
Abuja is not normal.
Why are all the married women toasting young men for their husbands? Why are the fetish jellabiya boys offering millions for animal role play? Why are abaya babes sending snake videos to their sugar daddies?
Is this a city or a secret cult?
And most importantly—how do I escape before I become one of them?
Another even alleged that there’s a vampire club in Abuja.
“The vampires club don dey since. They drink boarding school children’s blood and drug them so they don’t remember when they wake up.”
CAVEAT: This is a story by the author, Divine T (@Folasheycrown22), who shared it on X (Twitter) on 13th March 2025, alleging that “Abuja men pay women to bark like dogs and feed them raw meat.”
