The Lekki-Ikoyi Link Bridge is usually a place of beauty—a symbol of the "New Lagos." But when the hum of the city fades and the ocean breeze turns cold, the bridge belongs to someone else.

I was driving home from a late-night strategy session, the radio playing low, when my headlights flickered. The yellow streetlamps overhead hummed, then blinked out one by one, swallowing the road in a thick, heavy darkness.

That’s when I saw her.

She was walking along the concrete edge, her silhouette sharp against the distant glow of the Victoria Island skyline. She wasn't wearing the designer clothes you see in the daytime. She wore a pink top—or what used to be one. It was tattered, the fabric hanging in ragged strips that danced in the wind like dead skin.

I slowed down, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Sister, do you need a ride?" I called out.

She didn't turn. She didn't stop. But as I drew closer, I realized the wind was blowing through her, not around her. The tattered pink threads of her shirt didn't move like fabric; they moved like shadows.

Then, the streetlight directly above her sparked to life. For one second, the orange glow hit her face. There were no eyes—just two hollow voids that looked deeper than the lagoon below.

She turned her head, and a voice like dry leaves scraping on pavement filled my car: "I’m still waiting for my change..."

The lights flashed bright, blinding me. When my eyes cleared, the road was empty. No girl. No ragged pink top. Just the sound of the Atlantic waves hitting the pillars below.

They say the Toll Gate Girl is still there, collecting more than just transport fare. So if you’re driving the bridge tonight and your lights flicker... don't look in the rearview mirror.