My people, listen.
Jonathan Ihonde sang.
He warned us.
But did we listen?
No.

We booked a room.
Biggest mistake of my life.

The receptionist smiled.
“You’ll love it here!” she said.
She smiled too much.
Her teeth were too white for this kind of hotel.
But did we listen?
No.

The AC worked—
if you kicked it just right.
Kick too hard?
Boom. It fell.
Almost crushed my roommate.
The manager came in, looked at the damage,
shrugged, and said,
“Ah, small issue. Just sleep with positive thoughts.”

The bed?
It creaked like it was telling horror stories.
Every time I moved, it whispered,
“You will not survive the night…”
The pillow was so flat,
I put it under my head and my head said,
“Oga, respect yourself.”

The ceiling fan?
It spun… when it felt like.
It had mood swings.
Sometimes, it worked.
Other times, it just sat there like,
“Oga, are we not all suffering?”

The tap water?
Brown.
Thick.
Looked like it had a side hustle as palm oil.
When I turned on the shower,
the water coughed before coming out.
Even the pipe was tired of life.
The water heater was there for decoration.
I turned it on—nothing happened.
I turned it off—nothing happened.

The towels?
They smelled like they had been soaked in locust beans.
And when I picked one up,
it folded itself back.
As if to say,
“Please, I’ve suffered enough.”

Then, at midnight…
knock, knock, knock.
Room service.
But we didn’t order food.

“Here’s your soup,” the waiter said.
“What kind of soup?” we asked.
He leaned in close and whispered—“Just eat and pray.”

A cockroach walked past.
It did not run.
It did not hide.
It strolled.
It had a gold chain on its neck
and sunglasses.
It looked at me like,
“Bro, you’re in my house.”

Then I saw it.
A rat.
Standing in the hallway.
Holding a menu.
Wearing… a waiter’s hat.
It cleared its throat.
“Sir, shall I spice your pain with pepped plantain?”

I ran to the manager’s office.
Nobody there.
Just a sign:
“Back in five minutes… or maybe never.”

The toilet?
It didn’t flush.
It just sat there.
Looking at me.
Like,
“Oga, what do you expect me to do?”
I pressed the flush again—
The toilet sighed.
As if to say,
“My brother, we are all in this together.”

Then I heard footsteps…
Heavy. Slow.
I turned around.

The receptionist was standing there.
Her too-white teeth still smiling.
But now, her feet weren’t touching the ground.

I screamed.
My roommate screamed.
The cockroach took off its sunglasses and whispered,
“It’s too late, bro.”

Jonathan warned us.
We did not listen.
Now we are trapped in Hotel de Jordan.
A night we will never forget.

So next time you hear Jonathan’s tune—
Book a tent, my friend. Not a room.