She arrives at the minute Lagos stops pretending.
Not with thunder, not with sirens,
but with the soft click
of a bulb that has finally decided
to die on its own terms.
Her head is a brand-new satellite
launched by a country that cannot afford the uplink fee.
Shorn so clean the barber wept
and charged double
for the privilege of touching destiny.
The scalp gleams like the bonnet of a danfo
freshly washed for Sunday service
then driven straight through hell.
Skin the colour of a customs form
after every box has been ticked “rejected.”
Not oyinbo white,
but the white of a hospital ceiling
at 3 a.m.
when the generator coughs
and the nurse forgets your name.
Every inch a standing ovation
for surviving the sun
that was told
“do not touch this one”
and touched anyway
out of spite.
Eyes: two rusted padlocks
hanging from the gates of an abandoned factory
in Ikeja.
Inside them, the last shift of workers
still clocking in
because hope
is a harder habit to break
than hunger.
They do not blink.
Blinking costs data.
The mouth is a fresh presidential pardon
written in red ink
on the lips of a girl
they said would never speak.
Upper lip thin as the margin
between “manage” and “survive.”
Lower lip thick as the crowd
at Ojota
when subsidy dies again.
When it opens,
you smell the pepper soup
your mother made
the night your father lost his job
and still said “e go better.”
The teeth inside
are not teeth.
They are the white lines
on the Nigerian flag
that nobody ever explains
but everybody salutes.
Her shirt is a secondary school report card
all As in subjects
that no longer exist.
White lattice like the fence
around a house in Magodo
that was never finished
because the owner
travelled
and the bank
remembered.
Each diamond a room
rented by ghosts
who still pay NEPA bills
out of habit.
Neck long like the receipt
from Computer Village
when they swore
the phone was original
but the IMEI
is crying in Chinese.
A single vein runs down it
blue like the WhatsApp tick
that never turns double
no matter how many times
you pray.
Behind her, the wall is writing tomorrow’s headline
in reverse.
Peeling paint the colour of old promises.
Cracks shaped like Nigeria
if you squint
and lie to yourself.
A gecko crosses the plaster
carrying a mosquito
like a conductor carrying change
he has no intention
of giving back.
The bulb above is not flickering.
It is learning to fear.
Its filament trembles
like a politician
caught on live TV
with the truth.
She stands in the exact centre
of this unpaid miracle.
Her shadow is not kneeling
not standing
not missing.
It is dancing.
Slow, deliberate,
like a woman who has paid her dues
in full
and is now collecting interest
in silence.
When she inhales,
every generator in the street
coughs in sympathy.
When she exhales,
the price of diesel
drops two naira
then remembers itself
and climbs back.
She is the albino girl
the sun was bribed
not to burn
but the sun
is civil servant
and bribes
are temporary.
She is the reason
the pastor’s wife
adds extra bleach
to the anointing oil
just in case.
She is the reason
area boys
cross the road
when they see her coming
not out of respect
but because even touts
know the difference
between a human
and a walking referendum
on everything
we failed to fix.
She is the moment
after you vote
and the ink
on your thumb
starts to bleed
into the colour
of her lips.
She is the silence
inside a WhatsApp voice note
that lasts 0:01
but says
everything.
She is the country
trying on its own face
without filter
without apology
without permission.
And the face
fits.
The red on her mouth
is not war paint.
It is the signature
at the bottom
of every document
they said
she could never read
let alone sign.
Omo alabino.
Omo ìmọ́lẹ̀.
Omo ọ̀run.
Omo ayé.
Omo tí kò ní ẹ̀tọ̀ sí ẹ̀tọ̀.
She has heard them all
and answered
by simply
remaining.
This is not a photograph.
This is the second
before the blackout ends
and the light
comes back
ashamed
for ever leaving
in the first place.
And she
is still
here.
Still
here.
Still.
Not with thunder, not with sirens,
but with the soft click
of a bulb that has finally decided
to die on its own terms.
Her head is a brand-new satellite
launched by a country that cannot afford the uplink fee.
Shorn so clean the barber wept
and charged double
for the privilege of touching destiny.
The scalp gleams like the bonnet of a danfo
freshly washed for Sunday service
then driven straight through hell.
Skin the colour of a customs form
after every box has been ticked “rejected.”
Not oyinbo white,
but the white of a hospital ceiling
at 3 a.m.
when the generator coughs
and the nurse forgets your name.
Every inch a standing ovation
for surviving the sun
that was told
“do not touch this one”
and touched anyway
out of spite.
Eyes: two rusted padlocks
hanging from the gates of an abandoned factory
in Ikeja.
Inside them, the last shift of workers
still clocking in
because hope
is a harder habit to break
than hunger.
They do not blink.
Blinking costs data.
The mouth is a fresh presidential pardon
written in red ink
on the lips of a girl
they said would never speak.
Upper lip thin as the margin
between “manage” and “survive.”
Lower lip thick as the crowd
at Ojota
when subsidy dies again.
When it opens,
you smell the pepper soup
your mother made
the night your father lost his job
and still said “e go better.”
The teeth inside
are not teeth.
They are the white lines
on the Nigerian flag
that nobody ever explains
but everybody salutes.
Her shirt is a secondary school report card
all As in subjects
that no longer exist.
White lattice like the fence
around a house in Magodo
that was never finished
because the owner
travelled
and the bank
remembered.
Each diamond a room
rented by ghosts
who still pay NEPA bills
out of habit.
Neck long like the receipt
from Computer Village
when they swore
the phone was original
but the IMEI
is crying in Chinese.
A single vein runs down it
blue like the WhatsApp tick
that never turns double
no matter how many times
you pray.
Behind her, the wall is writing tomorrow’s headline
in reverse.
Peeling paint the colour of old promises.
Cracks shaped like Nigeria
if you squint
and lie to yourself.
A gecko crosses the plaster
carrying a mosquito
like a conductor carrying change
he has no intention
of giving back.
The bulb above is not flickering.
It is learning to fear.
Its filament trembles
like a politician
caught on live TV
with the truth.
She stands in the exact centre
of this unpaid miracle.
Her shadow is not kneeling
not standing
not missing.
It is dancing.
Slow, deliberate,
like a woman who has paid her dues
in full
and is now collecting interest
in silence.
When she inhales,
every generator in the street
coughs in sympathy.
When she exhales,
the price of diesel
drops two naira
then remembers itself
and climbs back.
She is the albino girl
the sun was bribed
not to burn
but the sun
is civil servant
and bribes
are temporary.
She is the reason
the pastor’s wife
adds extra bleach
to the anointing oil
just in case.
She is the reason
area boys
cross the road
when they see her coming
not out of respect
but because even touts
know the difference
between a human
and a walking referendum
on everything
we failed to fix.
She is the moment
after you vote
and the ink
on your thumb
starts to bleed
into the colour
of her lips.
She is the silence
inside a WhatsApp voice note
that lasts 0:01
but says
everything.
She is the country
trying on its own face
without filter
without apology
without permission.
And the face
fits.
The red on her mouth
is not war paint.
It is the signature
at the bottom
of every document
they said
she could never read
let alone sign.
Omo alabino.
Omo ìmọ́lẹ̀.
Omo ọ̀run.
Omo ayé.
Omo tí kò ní ẹ̀tọ̀ sí ẹ̀tọ̀.
She has heard them all
and answered
by simply
remaining.
This is not a photograph.
This is the second
before the blackout ends
and the light
comes back
ashamed
for ever leaving
in the first place.
And she
is still
here.
Still
here.
Still.
The Sunday Circle