In the harmattan hour when dust forgets its own name,
a figure steps out of the bleached Lagos afternoon
where even the sun squints and looks away.
Her head is a polished cowrie shaved clean by a blade
that hummed old highlife backwards,
each strand falling like a secret the wind was paid to keep.
Skin the color of kola nut left too long in moonlight,
not pale, never pale,
but the white of a masquerade that has danced itself into godhood.
It drinks the heat and refuses to sweat,
as if perspiration were a tax
only mortals remember to pay.
Eyes: two embers dragged from the forge of forgotten shrines,
slanted like the cutlass that carves fate in the palm.
They hold the red dust of Harmattan roads,
the red of palm oil spilled at crossroads,
the red of atlases where Nigeria was never drawn small.
When she looks,
the air itself develops gooseflesh
and the okada boys forget to rev.
Nostrils flare, delicate as the wings of a moth
that has learned the taste of fire.
They inhale the diesel, the suya smoke, the gossip of danfo conductors,
then exhale something colder,
something that makes pure water freeze in the plastic.
The mouth,
chai, the mouth is a full Lagos traffic jam
painted in the red of fresh ata rodo.
Upper lip thin as the lie politicians tell at dawn,
lower lip heavy like the promise a mother makes
when the hospital says “no bed.”
Between them, a sliver of gold tooth
catches the light and throws it back
as a warning.
Her shirt is Ankara turned inside out,
white threads stitched into cages
that hold nothing but her own reflection.
Each diamond a plot of land in Lekki
she will never sell.
The collar stands high,
starched with the stubbornness of grandmothers
who refuse to die before seeing their enemies fall.
Neck long like the queue at the embassy
when visas were still miracles.
A single silver chain rests there,
thin as the thread between life and juju,
holding a pendant no one has ever seen clearly
because to look too long
is to owe a debt
the Atlantic remembers.
Behind her, the wall is Lagos itself,
peeling paint the color of old naira notes,
cracks running like the scars on a conductor’s knuckles.
A single bulb swings,
its light stuttering like NEPA
trying to apologize.
The dust in the air arranges itself into egungun masks
that bow as she passes.
She does not walk;
the ground simply rearranges itself
to meet her feet.
Each step leaves a print
that fills with water
and reflects a sky
no one in this city
has seen since 1999.
Her shadow is missing.
Not absent,
missing,
as in reported to the ancestors
and never found.
Where it should be,
there is only a patch of cooler air
where mosquitoes go to confess.
Children on the street forget their mothers’ names.
Old men remember the wars
they never fought.
A goat looks at her
and suddenly understands
why it was born.
She is the moment
after the conductor shouts “Owa!”
but before the danfo actually stops.
She is the silence
inside a generator
right before it roars back to life.
She is the red earth
under the nails
of every woman
who has ever buried a child
and kept dancing.
Look at her long enough
and your own skin begins to itch
with the memory of chains
you were never taught to name.
Your tongue swells
with languages
the colonialists tried to drown
but the river spat back.
She is not beautiful.
She is the reason
beauty was invented
as a distraction.
She is the harmattan ghost
that walks out of the sun
carrying winter in her teeth
and summer in her silence.
She is the question
written in Yoruba
on the wall of a church
that burned down
in 1967
and still answers
when you call.
And when she finally turns,
slow,
like the harmattan turning its face
from the coast,
you will understand:
this is not a woman.
This is the country
looking at itself
in a mirror
it was never meant to survive.
And it is smiling
with all its missing teeth
because for the first time
in centuries
it recognizes
the reflection.
a figure steps out of the bleached Lagos afternoon
where even the sun squints and looks away.
Her head is a polished cowrie shaved clean by a blade
that hummed old highlife backwards,
each strand falling like a secret the wind was paid to keep.
Skin the color of kola nut left too long in moonlight,
not pale, never pale,
but the white of a masquerade that has danced itself into godhood.
It drinks the heat and refuses to sweat,
as if perspiration were a tax
only mortals remember to pay.
Eyes: two embers dragged from the forge of forgotten shrines,
slanted like the cutlass that carves fate in the palm.
They hold the red dust of Harmattan roads,
the red of palm oil spilled at crossroads,
the red of atlases where Nigeria was never drawn small.
When she looks,
the air itself develops gooseflesh
and the okada boys forget to rev.
Nostrils flare, delicate as the wings of a moth
that has learned the taste of fire.
They inhale the diesel, the suya smoke, the gossip of danfo conductors,
then exhale something colder,
something that makes pure water freeze in the plastic.
The mouth,
chai, the mouth is a full Lagos traffic jam
painted in the red of fresh ata rodo.
Upper lip thin as the lie politicians tell at dawn,
lower lip heavy like the promise a mother makes
when the hospital says “no bed.”
Between them, a sliver of gold tooth
catches the light and throws it back
as a warning.
Her shirt is Ankara turned inside out,
white threads stitched into cages
that hold nothing but her own reflection.
Each diamond a plot of land in Lekki
she will never sell.
The collar stands high,
starched with the stubbornness of grandmothers
who refuse to die before seeing their enemies fall.
Neck long like the queue at the embassy
when visas were still miracles.
A single silver chain rests there,
thin as the thread between life and juju,
holding a pendant no one has ever seen clearly
because to look too long
is to owe a debt
the Atlantic remembers.
Behind her, the wall is Lagos itself,
peeling paint the color of old naira notes,
cracks running like the scars on a conductor’s knuckles.
A single bulb swings,
its light stuttering like NEPA
trying to apologize.
The dust in the air arranges itself into egungun masks
that bow as she passes.
She does not walk;
the ground simply rearranges itself
to meet her feet.
Each step leaves a print
that fills with water
and reflects a sky
no one in this city
has seen since 1999.
Her shadow is missing.
Not absent,
missing,
as in reported to the ancestors
and never found.
Where it should be,
there is only a patch of cooler air
where mosquitoes go to confess.
Children on the street forget their mothers’ names.
Old men remember the wars
they never fought.
A goat looks at her
and suddenly understands
why it was born.
She is the moment
after the conductor shouts “Owa!”
but before the danfo actually stops.
She is the silence
inside a generator
right before it roars back to life.
She is the red earth
under the nails
of every woman
who has ever buried a child
and kept dancing.
Look at her long enough
and your own skin begins to itch
with the memory of chains
you were never taught to name.
Your tongue swells
with languages
the colonialists tried to drown
but the river spat back.
She is not beautiful.
She is the reason
beauty was invented
as a distraction.
She is the harmattan ghost
that walks out of the sun
carrying winter in her teeth
and summer in her silence.
She is the question
written in Yoruba
on the wall of a church
that burned down
in 1967
and still answers
when you call.
And when she finally turns,
slow,
like the harmattan turning its face
from the coast,
you will understand:
this is not a woman.
This is the country
looking at itself
in a mirror
it was never meant to survive.
And it is smiling
with all its missing teeth
because for the first time
in centuries
it recognizes
the reflection.
The Sunday Circle