In the shadowed alleyways of Maputo, where the streetlights flicker like dying candles, there is a story whispered among taxi drivers and late-night vendors. They call him “O Caminhante Noturno” - The Nightwalker. The Man Who Never Stops. They say he was once a soldier, a man who fought in the long wars that scarred the country. When peace came, his mind did not. He walked away from the barracks one evening and simply…never stopped.
Now, he roams the city after midnight, his boots scraping against the pavement with a slow, relentless rhythm. He wears a tattered uniform, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, his skin stretched too tight over his bones. If you see him, do not speak. Do not run. He only follows those who run. A group of university students learned this the hard way. Drunk and laughing, they spotted him standing at the end of Rua da Resistência, motionless as a statue. One of them, bold with liquor, shouted—
"Eh, tio! You lost?"
The Nightwalker turned. The students swore his eyes were sewn shut. They ran and he followed them. Not fast. Not slow. Just steady. By dawn, only one student remained, found curled in a doorway, his voice gone from screaming. When the police asked what happened, he just kept repeating:
"He’s still walking. He’s still coming."
Some say the Nightwalker isn’t evil—just lost. That if you stand still when he approaches, he’ll pause, tilt his head, and extend a skeletal hand. In his palm? A single bullet. Take it, and he’ll vanish, leaving you with a choice: Keep it as a warning. Or use it before he returns.
