Her name was Maliya—fierce, bold, unapologetically beautiful. On the outside, she was every man’s fantasy and every woman’s envy. Slay queen by title, heartbreaker by reputation. But what nobody knew was that behind her polished nails, heavy makeup, and thousand-dollar shoes was a twisted obsession—one that could ruin her life forever. Maliya didn’t sleep with rich politicians, or musicians, or sugar daddies. No. Her secret desire was far darker. She only felt true lust for men society called “mad.” The street wanderers. The mentally unstable. The forgotten souls. The kind who talked to the air, laughed at nothing, and roamed in tattered rags. She believed madness held a kind of freedom no rich man could ever give her.

At night, when her friends were clubbing or posting half-naked pictures online, Maliya would sneak out in disguise. She wore an oversized hoodie, no makeup, just a scarf. She’d go behind the abandoned rail tracks where she knew one of them always slept. His name was Dogo. People said he had once been a brilliant university professor before something snapped in his head. Now he danced naked in the streets and barked like a dog. But to Maliya, Dogo was beautiful. She brought him food, bathed him, whispered to him, and made love to him like he was a king. And the terrifying part? He remembered her name. Every single time. “Maliya,” he would say, looking into her soul with eyes that once knew more than the world allowed. “They’ll never understand you, but I do.”

She thought no one knew. Until one day, her closest friend, Anita, followed her. Anita had always suspected something strange about Maliya’s behavior. So when she saw Maliya sneaking behind the slums, she trailed her—and what she found left her speechless. Maliya on her knees, feeding a mad man with such devotion it almost looked holy. Anita tried to confront her. “Are you sick in the head? What if someone finds out? Your brand, your endorsements, your family—everything will be gone!” Maliya didn’t flinch. “I’m already gone, Anita. I’ve been gone since I was twelve and I watched my stepfather beat my mother to death and everyone called him a pastor. Madness feels safer than sanity to me.”

Anita backed off. She didn’t understand, but she knew better than to question a pain she couldn’t imagine. But secrets don’t stay buried. A vlogger spotted Maliya a few days later, in her disguise, embracing another mad man near the river. The video went viral within hours. “Famous Slay Queen Seen Kissing Lunatic,” the headlines read. Her followers dropped. Brands cut ties. Her family disowned her. But strangely, she didn’t cry. She laughed. Laughed louder than ever before. Because now—finally—she didn’t have to hide. She took Dogo and two other mad men, moved into a remote area outside the city, and built a shelter for the mentally ill. She named it “The Free Mind.”

But what she didn’t know was that one of the men she loved—one of the supposed “mad” men—wasn’t mad at all. He was a billionaire’s son hiding from a murderous conspiracy. And everything was about to change.


Episode 2.

His name was Darion, but to Maliya, he was just “Kalubi”—the quiet madman who never spoke but always stared with eyes too sharp to belong to someone insane. Unlike the others who danced or muttered or screamed, Kalubi simply watched—her, the trees, the stars. Maliya had met him near the dump site one night, curled like a dying dog, silent, bruised, and bloodied. She took him in, cleaned him, and fed him. At first, she thought he was too far gone to understand her. But one night, while she was talking to herself beside the fire, he whispered, “You’re not crazy, Maliya. You’re the sanest person I’ve ever met.”

She dropped her spoon. Her heart nearly exploded. “You can talk?” she asked, eyes wide with terror and awe. He smiled. “Of course. I’ve just been watching. Waiting.” “Waiting for what?” she breathed. He looked into the fire. “For the people hunting me to forget I exist.” And just like that, the foundation of Maliya’s world began to crack.

Kalubi—Darion—told her the truth in pieces. He was the only son of Senator Ifeanyi Obaye, a man swimming in oil money and blood. When Darion discovered that his father had ordered the assassination of several political opponents, including his own uncle, he confronted him. But the senator didn’t argue. He ordered Darion killed. The boy ran, shaved his hair, tore his clothes, smeared filth on his skin, and began to pretend to be mad in the slums. “Better a lunatic than a corpse,” he said.

Maliya didn’t know whether to be terrified or thrilled. The man she had fallen for wasn’t broken—he was brilliant. Hunted. Alive. “What do you want from me?” she asked one night while they lay under the broken roof of the shelter. He looked at her like she was the only thing real. “I want you to keep pretending. Just like me. I want us to make them believe we’re both too lost to matter. Until it’s time.”

Time for what, she didn’t know. But she agreed.

Meanwhile, her shelter for mad people—“The Free Mind”—began to draw attention. Not from fans or influencers, but from the families of the mentally ill who had long abandoned them. Some came crying. Some came accusing. Others came to exploit. A rich woman from Lekki offered her ten million to allow her son, who had schizophrenia, to stay there and “keep him out of the way.” Maliya refused. “This isn’t a dumping ground. It’s a home.” The woman spat on her and swore she’d ruin her further.

But the threats didn’t bother her. What did was Dogo’s sudden change. He stopped talking. Stopped responding. He stared at the walls and whispered to himself. Maliya was worried. She tried to hold him one night and he shoved her so hard she hit her head on a bench. “You think you saved me?” he growled. “You think you understand madness? You only sleep with us because you hate yourself.” Then he laughed. And laughed. And didn’t stop.

Kalubi—Darion—rushed in, pulled him away, and carried her inside. She had a cut on her forehead. “Don’t blame him,” she murmured through her tears. “He’s still broken.” Darion nodded. But that night, he packed a bag. “It’s time,” he whispered. “I need to go back. And you’re coming with me.”

“To where?” she asked. “To my father’s mansion. I’ve got proof. I have recordings. Witnesses. They think I’m still hiding. But I’m done hiding. It’s time the mad took over the palace.”

Maliya hesitated. But her heart—twisted, wounded, rebellious—said yes.

They left that night. But what they didn’t know was that someone had followed them. Anita. Her former friend turned enemy turned…obsessed. She had never forgiven Maliya for choosing “madmen” over “influencer fame.” She had gone mad herself—but the quiet kind. The dangerous kind.

She followed them to Abuja. With a gun. And a plan to make the world hers.

Episode 3

They arrived in Abuja under the cover of night. Darion wore a cap low over his face, while Maliya looked like nothing more than a tired traveler in oversized clothes. But beneath her hoodie, she carried a hard drive containing everything Darion had risked his life to compile—secret phone recordings, voice notes, and documents signed by his father and other powerful men in politics. Names. Dates. Victims. Proof.

Their destination was a discreet hotel run by a retired journalist Darion had trusted during his university days. The man, Pa Rufus, was now blind in one eye and half-paralyzed, but his mind was still sharp. “So the ghost returns,” he said as he touched Darion’s face. “And with a woman whose soul smells like rebellion.” Maliya smirked. “I get that a lot.”

For two days, they stayed in the shadows, organizing files, contacting hidden allies, preparing to go public. Darion planned to leak everything to an international media house and then seek protection from human rights organizations. “If I die,” he said, “the world will still burn with truth.” Maliya stayed close to him—she’d never felt more alive, more seen.

But shadows were moving.

Anita had arrived too. Her obsession with Maliya had festered into something monstrous. In her mind, Maliya had stolen the fame that was supposed to be hers, had humiliated her by choosing “mad men” over everything they once built together. And now? Now she would take everything from her—beginning with her life.

She booked a room at the same hotel under a fake name and waited. Watching. Studying.

On the third night, while Maliya and Darion slept, Anita broke into their room with a gun. Her hands trembled, her eyes wild with hatred. “WAKE UP!” she screamed. Maliya jumped. Darion instinctively shielded her. “Anita? What the hell—” “Shut up!” she spat. “You ruined me! You ruined everything!”

Maliya sat up slowly. “Put the gun down. We can talk.” “Talk?” Anita laughed, eyes glistening with madness. “You were supposed to build empires with me, not roll in the dirt with lunatics! I begged you, Maliya! I begged you to stop. And now? You’ll beg me to let you live.”

She aimed the gun at Maliya’s head.

But just as her finger tensed on the trigger—BANG! The door burst open. Pa Rufus, despite his limp and cane, had heard everything through the old surveillance system wired into his walls. Behind him were two journalists and a security officer with his gun drawn.

“Drop the weapon!” the officer yelled.

Anita panicked. She fired—but the bullet missed and shattered a mirror. The officer tackled her to the ground and the gun slid away.

Maliya stood in shock. Darion held her tight. “It’s over,” he whispered.

But it wasn’t. Not yet.

The next day, the files went public. The scandal shook the nation. Senator Ifeanyi Obaye was arrested after damning evidence linked him to political murders, kidnappings, and a shadowy cult that exploited the mentally ill for ritual purposes.

Maliya was called a devil by some. A hero by others. Darion was hailed as a whistleblower. The Free Mind shelter gained international recognition. Donations poured in. Volunteers arrived from every corner of the world.

And Anita? She was declared mentally unstable and committed to a psychiatric facility. Ironically, the same kind of place Maliya had once built to protect others like her.

In the months that followed, Maliya and Darion rebuilt their lives. Quietly. Far from the spotlight. She still wore makeup sometimes, still looked like a goddess on the outside—but inside, she was no longer hiding. She wasn’t the slay queen with a strange obsession. She was a woman who had faced her darkness and chosen to love the madness anyway.

One afternoon, Darion brought her to a plot of land near a river. “What’s this?” she asked. “Our future,” he said. “Let’s build a home. Not a palace. Not a shelter. Just a place where mad love can breathe.”

She nodded. Tears in her eyes.

They kissed as the sun set.

And for the first time, the girl who only slept with mad men finally slept in peace—with a man who had once pretended to be mad to survive… and who now loved her for exactly who she is.

The end…..