Yoruba Demon: Tunde, A Promise Meant to Be Kept

Chronicles of an indie mama balancing writing, book publishing, family, and big dreams.

Dec 05, 2025

Hey Camaraderie,

I documented my journey to my first author event in the US, and you can watch it in the YouTube video attached below. One thing I highly recommend you do next year is journal, document, and collect memories—photos, videos, voice notes, anything.

Because when you sit down at the end of the year and go through those moments, you visibly see how much you’ve grown. And I don’t mean you have to post any of it online—nope. Do it for you. For your own encouragement on the days when everything feels slow or stagnant.

I dare you to look back at your pictures, your bank statements, your chats from the beginning of the year… really look. Take notes. Make plans. Stay thankful and grateful.

I wanted to share some life updates, but this letter is already one heck of a long one. Just know I’m doing okay, and the little one is too. We’re recovering from our first stomach bug and—honestly—oops. I still can’t believe I’m a whole mother to a toddler.

What’s in this letter?

Recap of a Cozy Book Fair
Yoruba Demons Billionaire Club: A Teaser!
More Cover Reveals before the year ends?
Will I See You in 2026?

Haven’t gotten the extended epilogues yet? Just keep scrolling — they’re waiting for you at the very bottom of this letter.

Recap of a Cozy Book Fair

Camaa signing books during the Cozy Book Fair in New York City, November 2025

Thanks to everyone who showed up and showed out! I put together a few highlight clips, and honestly… guess who’s officially signing up for more author events in 2026 and beyond? Me, obviously.

It’s wild how simply showing up for someone can fuel them to keep going. Your support did exactly that for me.

Thank you again to everyone who came out.

Will I see you in 2026?

Where I'll Be

Yoruba Demons Billionaire Club: A Teaser

Yoruba Demon: Tunde is currently on my editor’s desk and I’ve been teasing everyone on social media with little snippets, but you? You get the full thing. You know how we do nau. I’m genuinely excited to share the entire first chapter with you—unedited, juicy, and exactly as it poured out of me.

It’s a chunky one (over 3k words), so find a cozy spot to read, you might need to open the Substack app or web version to read the rest.

Enjoy!

Chapter One (Unedited Draft)

TUNDE

IT’S ALMOST MIDNIGHT. MY head’s exploding with ideas, and other voices I didn’t ask for.

The ideas, I love.

I loathe the other voices.

Enesi’s RIAA[1] gold record party should’ve been a quick toast and out, but a venture capitalist cornered me with promises about their “disruptive tech” fund in East Africa.

Motivating? Sure.

Time-consuming? Absolutely.

It cost me the night I’d planned with the blonde, because mid-pitch an idea sparked—a new angle to tackle the headache currently consuming me. By the time I left, the drive to the house felt endless. Too many red lights. Too much noise in my head, too much space to stew in my thoughts.

“Hey Làsẹ, play Aria by Yanni.”

The rushing swell of the intro floods the car. Strings layered with operatic vocals rising and folding over each other in waves pulls air from my chest. My pulse slows, the voices in my head quiet and my shoulders drop.

I wish I were on my bike, the wind slicing through my thoughts. But this will do.

Aria automatically transitions to Waltz in 7/8, and my fingers twitch, tapping the steering wheel to its sly, uneven rhythm. In another life, I know I’m an instrumentalist and a brilliant composer. Too bad neither of those skills exist in this one.

The playlist drifts into Enya’s Only Time. The contrast is sharp but soothing. Her voice wraps around me like mist, softening the edges the waltz left jagged. It’s like being lowered into water after fire.

The rest of the drive is smooth and relaxing. I think about the blonde and tap my phone resting on the console.

“Hey Làsẹ, message Krystal to set up flower deliveries for Heather, ASAP.”

“Got it, Mr. T. Messaging your PA, Krystal, to arrange Heather’s flowers.”

Arriving the recently launched timeshare— only few YDBC[2] members currently have access to—I cut the engine and grab my backpack.

I step through the door, and my ears immediately perk up.

The house is eerily silent.

And it smells wrong.

Like flowers.

Why the fuck does the house smell like flowers?

The staff never leave it smelling like this. Heck, they aren’t scheduled to be here today. I’ve been here for almost 36 hours. So flowers… Something is off tonight.

If someone broke in, the security system should’ve screamed bloody murder. So either my system’s fried, or I’ve got a guest bold enough to bypass it.

Caution on. I drop my backpack by the door and swing the hidden panel open, my fingers finding the familiar weight of a 9mm. Tracing my thumb along the spine, feeling the balance, I check it the way you check an old friend. I toss quick glances across the room, ears straining for the small, reassuring clicks as I ready it.

Paranoid? Maybe.

When used right, paranoia keeps you alive. Keeps you ahead. Keeps you ready.

I slide a dark, cylindrical thing onto the muzzle until it seats with a muted thunk. I’ll probably laugh at the footage later, but right now? It’s war games.

A faint feminine laugh teases my eardrums.

The fuck?

I freeze, my pulse kicking up[MA1] .

That’s not staff. And if it’s an intruder, they’ve got jokes. Oh, they’ve got jokes.

Creeping forward, 9mm low, I scan the living room. Nothing. But the sound drifts again, faint, up the stairs.

I climb the stairs, shoes silent against the polished wood. From the landing, the whole place looks normal, but my instincts don’t lie.

My lips twist into a grin, adrenaline licking at my veins. My guys call me paranoid for this exact shit, but maybe tonight I get to tell them: fuck off, I told you so.

Another laugh. More stifled one-sided conversation.

Sliding along the wall, I edge toward the visitor’s bedroom. A warm glow spills from the half-open door, inviting me in. My brain tosses out the cautionary tale of Sanni Abacha and the woman with the poisoned apple. [MA2] If anyone thinks I’ll fall for the soft-laughing trap, they don’t know me. Why the Abacha reference? You’ll find out soon enough.

9mm up. I press myself against the wall, then count under my breath.

One. Two. Three.

I push off the wall and freeze.

A figure stands in the space, looking out the window. It’s a woman. She’s wearing a bonnet, finger with nail extensions resting lightly on the glass, like she’s posing for some renaissance artist.

Who the bloody hell are you?

I lift the 9mm, step forward, shoes loud on the polished wood so she knows I’m here.

“Hands where I can see them,” I bite out. “And turn around, slowly.”

“Really?” Her tone is amused, not afraid.

“I’m fully within my rights to use deadly force on an intruder.” My finger tightens fractionally on the trigger. “Do what’s best for you. Hands up. Turn around now and do it slowly.”

Her hand lifts slowly, phone glinting between her fingers. “Are you pointing a gun at me? Michael, stay on the line—”

“Oh, perfect. Get archangel Michael in on this.” I taunt, the sneer automatic discovering she’s got Nigerian accent. “You’ll need him.”

Finally, she turns. Albeit, very slowly.

And fuck me—

She’s stunning.

What a pretty dam—I stop the thought before it fully processes, clamping down hard, forcing steel into my gaze.

If she’s scared, she’s hiding it well. If she’s innocent, I’m not buying it.

“Who the hell are you?” I ask in a harsh-don’t-play-with-me tone, not in the mood for games.

She tilts her chin. “Can you… lower that thing?” She looks amused. “It’s not that serious.”

KANYIN

HAVE YOU EVER WONDERED WHAT it feels like to be on the wrong end of a gun barrel?

Yeah, me neither.

Until now.

And apparently, my body’s first response to danger is… not to scream or be panicked—no. My lips twitch like I’m in some badly timed comedy skit. Which is ridiculous, but then again… that’s me. When life serves me awkward, my instinct is to serve back inappropriate laughter.

The truth is that, I’m not supposed to be here. I have no business being here. I have no right to be standing in front of a man whose reputation precedes him[MA3] . But here I am, barefoot in my newly launched nightie, fresh from a shower, staring down a gun and trying not to giggle.

I heard him come in. Heard the heavy steps. I left the bedroom door open on purpose while on a call with Michael, talking robotics and his latest presentation in Osaka, while I shed more light on the conference I’d just wrapped up here in Stanford University.

Because, let’s face it, what was I supposed to do? Walk out and say, “Hi Mr. Tunde, sorry I was told you wouldn’t be here this weekend, but I will be out of your house in a blink, don’t mind me?”

So I stayed, praying my call with Michael would be my ticket and witness to whatever happens tonight but... mogbe. Did I just hear the dead beep signaling he’d hung up. I told him to stay on the line to be my witness. What if something bad happens? What if Mr. Tunde decides to use the item he’s pointing at me? Oh Michael…

What was Michael supposed to do anyway—send Japanese police across the Pacific?

Now it’s just me. My crazy ass host. And the gun.

A host I’d only vaguely heard of before—someone I only bothered to dig into once I entered this space—turned out, according to the person who gave me access to this space, to be the CEO of Cubic. Everyone knows Cubic. Correction. Everyone in my field knows Cubic. They’re practically married to tech news headlines, every quarter there’s some new feature about them. But I’d never cared about the man behind it. A few articles popped up in my search, but the one in SOURCE stuck with me: him windsurfing, living it up whenever he visited Nigeria. It made me want to meet the man in person. Just… not like this.

I straighten my spine, try to channel calm even though my chest feels like a caged drum. I tell myself this is all a misunderstanding. Rationally, intruders don’t break into houses to shower and change into pajamas. Rationally, this shouldn’t end with bullets.

Except rational thought is slipping through my fingers, because this man…

This man pointing a gun at me, has cold, dark eyes that looked cute online but right now he looks like a predator about to make a kill[MA4] .

Honestly, with his reputation, I expected him to mistake me for a hooker or some desperate fan. But this? This is worse.

“Well?” he snaps in a low, dangerous voice. “Are you going to answer me, or stand there like a statue?”

My throat works as I swallow back a laugh. My palm is damp.

I want to say, Don’t shoot—I bruise easily.

Instead, I raise my hands higher and hope my voice doesn’t shake when I finally speak.

TUNDE

HER LIPS CURVE INTO A faint smirk, and it throws me off balance. “You must be Tunde.”

I must be Tunde? Do you think we’re at some function introducing ourselves or what? I tighten my jaw and squeeze the 9mm tighter. “That doesn’t answer my question. How did you get in here?”

She tilts her head slightly, her smirk widening. “Through the door.”

Are you someone I should know? I take a step closer, studying her. My trigger finger relaxes even though I don’t want it to. She doesn’t flinch or back away. I can’t decide if she’s brave, stupid or suicidal.

“E be like say you wan make I use this thing, abi?”

“Put the gun away so I can talk.” She says in an even tone, but I notice the droop in her arms. She’s bluffing, but the bluff is good.

I cock a brow, the one that makes CEOs stutter and board members reconsider their votes and she… she doubles down, forcing the words out.

“Odogwu’s big sister said I can stay here.”

Odogwu? My brain trips for a second. “Odo—”

“Odogwu of PuntPlay.” She rushes, like the faster she speaks, the more believable it’ll sound. “Aunty Ngozi’s brother.”

I blink. Hold up. My finger loosening on the trigger. “Obinna?”

“Odogwu—Yes, Obinna—Call him. His sister is Aunty Ngozi. How would I have gotten in without help. Call Odogwu—Obinna to confirm.”

KANYIN

HE PAUSES, AND I WATCH the wheels turn behind his eyes. He’s putting the pieces together; it’s written all over his face. Good.

“Sit,” he says, aiming the gun at the reading chair.

An incredible laugh bursts out before I can stop it. “What, you think I’m a dog?”

For a heartbeat his gaze hardens and I feel the room tilt. Gun down a fraction; he moves closer. The air between us sparks. I know I’ve crossed a line. Gengeun… I pushed it too far. This is how I’ll die without my doctorate degree. Everything I’ve worked hard for will go down in—

“It’s like you have a death wish. I said sit.”

Swallowing, I obey, sliding into the chair, arms still up.

As I settle, using one hand, he begins fishing something from his pocket as he continues with his insane commands. “Don’t move or even blink.”

“Don’t blink? How long do you expect me to—”

“Will you shut the fuck up?” he hisses, staring me down. “The only thing keeping you alive is—fuck it. See, don’t test me.” He stops, muttering something under his breath.

I press my lips together, knowing that this man is powerful and connected enough to have my death be in his favor.

He’s staring at me when he barks, “Hey Làsẹ. Call Obinna.”

The house answers with a crisp, amused synthetic voice. “Alright Mr. T.” The speakers tint the room in a calm concierge tone, and I can’t help the ridiculous little pride that pops up at how… curated this is. “Calling Obi-nna now.”

Okay…

TUNDE

“I SENT YOU A PACKAGE bro,” Obinna’s taunt from the party zips through my head. “Let’s see if you’ll open it.”

And that stupid, irritating laugh of hers is still ringing in my ears. What, you think I’m a dog?

She’s testing me. Poking at the wrong nerve. I don’t know who she is, why Obinna sent her, or what game he thinks he’s playing. I grind my teeth. The call connects and I force my voice to be cordial.

“Obinna,” I say, “Care to explain why there’s a strange lady in my house?”

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s watching me closely, her expression unreadable, and… unsettling.

“Ah—you’re there? I didn’t know you were going to be around.”

“What the fuck do you mean you didn’t know I was going to be around?” I growl, pacing the room.

“You sef,” he chuckles. “Chill. Do your brother a favor. How’s Kanyin doing?”

I’m not in the mood to play host. “So, access to my space now means you use it to park whoever tickles your fancy ehn?”

Obinna sighs loudly on the other end, his tone half-apologetic, half-annoyed. “Tunde, abeg[3]. I don’t fancy her. It was a favor for one of my sisters. I haven’t even met her. No vex—”

“No vex?” I bark, pinching the bridge of my nose. That’s as much sorry I’ll get from this he-goat. “You didn’t think to mention this at the party? She’s right here, making herself at home.”

“It was a favor man,” he says, like offering my space to someone who’s not one of us is the norm.

“I don’t even know who she is—”

“Her name’s Kanyin. She’s doing her PhD in MIT. She missed a connecting flight to Tokyo for some PhD stuff. And you remember what we were discussing earlier, the system outage impacting the airlines. My sis, Ngozi sent her to me. The house is closest to SFO, where she was stranded. I said your place would be fine. I didn’t think you’ll be there—”

“I could have killed her.”

“Oh boy eh, no touch am o.”

“Touch wetin?” I say, though my gaze flickers involuntarily to the woman in question. She’s folded her arms, her lips twisted to the side as she watches me pace the room. I stop mid-step, caught in an absurd tug of annoyance and interest.

Then I slide my eyes down to her legs. Her toes stare at me—well-kept, nails a clean pale, the arch neat as a sculpture. Pretty feet. Fine as hell. A gold anklet will look good on them.

No, no. I can’t lose my train of thought just because someone got a pedicure before missing a flight to Tokyo. And MIT? What the hell is she doing all the way out here in San Francisco?

Obinna laughs over the line. “Chill, bro. I know she’s not your spec, but her head’s hot. Trust me, she’s cool people. She’ll be out of there the moment the airline systems are back up. You know how these things go—no airport in their right mind lets something like that drag on for long. The backlog alone must be insane.”

“What do you know about my spec?” I snap.

“Oh boy, na only that one you hear?” He chuckles.

Ọdẹ[4].

“Relax. She’ll be gone before you know it,” he says, assuring me.

“It’s because it’s you oh.”.

“Thanks, bro.”

“Fuck off.” I hit the red button on my watch, cutting him off.

Hmmph.

My eyes wander back to Kanyin, who’s scrolling through her phone without a care in the world. I told her to keep her hands in the air and she’s touching her phone. Can a PhD student be this dumb? Laughing at the face of death?

But damn if she isn’t intriguing.

I only just noticed she’s in a nightgown, ready for bed, in my space, while I was speaking with Obinna. Still, I can’t deny the irritation bubbling under my skin. I don’t want to be responsible for anyone else, let alone someone who seems oblivious to boundaries.

9mm secured, I step forward and plant myself in front of her. She glances up, catching my eye, and there’s a flicker of something I can’t place. Amusement? Challenge? Whatever.

Either way, I’m certain she’s going to be a big problem.

KANYIN

I TUT UNDER MY BREATH, cross my arms, listening to Tunde’s voice cut through the room. No attempt at privacy, no effort to lower his tone, no hiding the contempt in every word. Fine. Let him spew it all out. Better than fake niceties.

I keep my expression neutral, feigning disinterest, though I catch him sneaking side-glances at me.

Seven hours ago, when I got the greenlight to crash here until I rebook my flight, I thought this was going to be simple, seamless stay. Like an in and out something. Blame my thriftiness for booking that ridiculous connection—trying to juggle my Stanford presentation and still make a cheap flight to Japan. Now? I’m trapped in the lair of a man with a gun and the reputation to match.

And what a lair.

Unlocking my phone to go through my recent internet search, my stomach twists in ways I absolutely refuse to label. And then, in a flash, a flicker of something unbidden curl low in my chest before disappearing.

Intimidation? Attraction? No. Definitely not. I refuse to let his legend, his wealth, or his annoyed glare touch me. He’s exactly the type of man I have no business entertaining. Powerful. Most likely used to getting his way. Looks like a user. I’d be morbidly dense and stupid for me to ever consider a stray thought in that direction.

The call ends. By the time I raise my gaze to him, he’s flicking the gun into safety mode—at least I hope that’s what he did—then steps toward me. His eyes pin me in place. Hard and calculating. His gaze nearly makes me shiver.

“Kanyin, huh?” His tone is quiet, but there’s an edge to it.

I arch a brow, refusing to blink. Duh, he told me not to. “And you’re Tunde.”

His lips twitch and the smile it forms is anything but friendly, warm or welcoming. Then he retreats half a step, watching me like I might sprout horns.

I tilt my head slightly. “So, what’s the verdict?”

His jaw clenches. “What do you mean?”

Licking my lips, I push past the discomfort of his scrutiny. “Are you going, or are we staying here together?”

The second the words leave my mouth, I realize how they sound. Heat rushes to my cheeks, but I don’t take them back. Let him twist the meaning however he wants.

His long and merciless stare slices into me, telling me all I already know. When I start thinking he’s gone mute, he says, “I’ll be here for a while.”

I exhale, relieved. “Thank you. I’ll sort things out immediately and be gone before you know it. Tomorrow evening, latest.”

“I hear you,” he says, his voice dripping with irony. “Welcome to my house.”

Swallowing, I sit up straighter. You’ll not regret it.

The stage is set, and the drama is about to unfold. Curious how they got from here to the video snippet I shared on Instagram? Find out by preordering a discounted copy of Yoruba Demon: Tunde from my Selar Store — bit.ly/camaaselar

Pre-Order Yoruba Demon: Tunde

Yoruba Demon: Tunde Release Dates

eBook

Selar: December 17, 2025

Amazon: December 22, 2025

Physical copies

Amazon: Paperback & Hardcover December 23, 2025**

West African Bookstores: February 20, 2026**

** means dates are tentative and might be a week earlier or later.

More Cover Reveals!

In my next letter announcing the ebook release of Yoruba Demon: Tunde, I’ll also be dropping the covers for the next two books in the series:

Yoruba Demon: Obinna

And after plenty of deliberation and your persistent requests… Yoruba Demon: Kemi!

Kenny’s story was actually supposed to come first, but hey—let’s give the ladies room to shineeeee.

Keep showing love to the Catching Feelings series, and don’t forget to preorder Implication while it’s still discounted. Let’s keep the momentum going!