In the room where NEPA finally surrendered,
a woman is born from the exact second the bulb dies.
She does not enter;
the darkness folds itself into a doorway
and she steps through wearing the blackout like couture.
Her head is a freshly sharpened cutlass
reflecting a moon that is not in the sky tonight.
No hair, no shadow, no apology.
Only the clean, merciless curve
where thought meets blade.
Touch it and your fingerprint will forget its owner.
Her skin is the white of a hospital form
before the pen writes “deceased.”
Not Caucasian, never that lie;
this is the white of a Yoruba bride
after the albinism spirit claimed her
and the village decided
beauty was a debt
payable in fear.
Every pore sealed with the silence
of children taught not to stare
but who stare anyway
until their mothers slap the gaze out of them.
Eyes: two rusted bullets
pulled from the body of a soldier
who never made it past Checkpoint Charlie.
They do not cry.
Crying would be too expensive;
tears are taxed here.
Instead they leak something thicker,
like palm oil left too long in the sun,
slow, deliberate,
staining everything they look at
with the memory of fire.
The mouth is a fresh tribal mark
carved by a babalawo who ran out of black ink
and used blood instead.
Red, wet, unapologetic.
When it opens,
you hear the sound of a danfo door
slamming shut on your future.
The teeth inside are not teeth;
they are the white keys of a piano
abandoned in Onitsha market
after the owner realized
some songs should never be played
in a country that eats its musicians.
Her neck is a Lagos-Ibadan expressway
at 3 a.m.
long, dangerous,
lit only by the headlights
of prayers speeding past.
A single vein pulses there,
blue like the Nigerian passport
no embassy wants to stamp.
The shirt is a secondary school uniform
worn by a girl who never graduated
because the school burned down
during ASUU strike
and no one rebuilt it.
White, starched with the anger
of a generation that learned
education is a scam
but still ironed their uniforms
every morning
just to prove they could.
Each diamond in the pattern
is a WAEC result
that arrived too late
to matter.
Behind her, the wall is writing its own suicide note
in peeling cream paint.
The cracks spell “area boys” in cursive,
then erase themselves
before the police can take a picture.
A single cockroach crosses the plaster
carrying the weight of a nation
on its back
and still manages to look bored.
Above, the ceiling fan hangs
like a prophet who lost his tongue.
It has not turned since 2019
when the bill became a prayer
nobody answered.
Dust clings to the blades
in the shape of forgotten dreams;
if you blow hard enough,
they spell your name
then scatter.
She stands in the center
of this unfinished sentence
and the room forgets its own grammar.
The fridge hums a gospel song
in the minor key of hunger.
The calendar still says March 2020
because no one had the heart
to tear the page
after the world ended
and Nigeria just kept going.
Her shadow is not missing this time.
It is kneeling.
Not in submission;
in recognition.
It has seen the future
and the future is her
walking out of this room
carrying the entire country
in the pocket
of that second-hand shirt
like loose change
she never asked to inherit.
When she breathes,
the air thickens into garri
and everyone in the compound
suddenly remembers
they have not eaten since yesterday.
When she blinks,
a child somewhere in Ajegunle
forgets how to cry
because tears are a luxury
and luxury is for people
who do not look like her.
She is the albino girl
the sun was told never to touch
but touches anyway
because even the sun
is Nigerian
and respects no rules.
She is the reason
pastors sweat in air-conditioned Audis
when they see her crossing the road.
She is the reason
area boys lower their voices
when she passes
because even touts
know the difference
between a human being
and a prophecy
wearing lipstick.
She is the moment
after the conductor collects your money
but before he gives you change
and you realize
the change
was never coming.
She is the silence
inside a generator
after it swallows the last drop of fuel
and still refuses to die.
She is the country
looking at its own reflection
in a broken mirror
and deciding
for the first time
in six decades
to smile
with the mouth
they said
was too wide
too red
too impossible
to be beautiful.
And the smile
is not gentle.
It is the smile
of a woman
who has survived
every name
they tried to kill her with
and is now
wearing them
as lipstick.
Omo alabino.
Omo oyinbo.
Omo aró.
Omo àjẹjì.
Omo ẹ̀wọ̀n.
She has heard them all
and answered
with the same mouth
now painted
in the exact shade
of their fear.
This is not a portrait.
This is a revolution
learning how to stand still
long enough
for the camera
to be afraid
of what it sees.
And somewhere
in the distance
a bulb flickers back to life
not because NEPA remembered
but because even darkness
has limits
when she
decides
to glow.
a woman is born from the exact second the bulb dies.
She does not enter;
the darkness folds itself into a doorway
and she steps through wearing the blackout like couture.
Her head is a freshly sharpened cutlass
reflecting a moon that is not in the sky tonight.
No hair, no shadow, no apology.
Only the clean, merciless curve
where thought meets blade.
Touch it and your fingerprint will forget its owner.
Her skin is the white of a hospital form
before the pen writes “deceased.”
Not Caucasian, never that lie;
this is the white of a Yoruba bride
after the albinism spirit claimed her
and the village decided
beauty was a debt
payable in fear.
Every pore sealed with the silence
of children taught not to stare
but who stare anyway
until their mothers slap the gaze out of them.
Eyes: two rusted bullets
pulled from the body of a soldier
who never made it past Checkpoint Charlie.
They do not cry.
Crying would be too expensive;
tears are taxed here.
Instead they leak something thicker,
like palm oil left too long in the sun,
slow, deliberate,
staining everything they look at
with the memory of fire.
The mouth is a fresh tribal mark
carved by a babalawo who ran out of black ink
and used blood instead.
Red, wet, unapologetic.
When it opens,
you hear the sound of a danfo door
slamming shut on your future.
The teeth inside are not teeth;
they are the white keys of a piano
abandoned in Onitsha market
after the owner realized
some songs should never be played
in a country that eats its musicians.
Her neck is a Lagos-Ibadan expressway
at 3 a.m.
long, dangerous,
lit only by the headlights
of prayers speeding past.
A single vein pulses there,
blue like the Nigerian passport
no embassy wants to stamp.
The shirt is a secondary school uniform
worn by a girl who never graduated
because the school burned down
during ASUU strike
and no one rebuilt it.
White, starched with the anger
of a generation that learned
education is a scam
but still ironed their uniforms
every morning
just to prove they could.
Each diamond in the pattern
is a WAEC result
that arrived too late
to matter.
Behind her, the wall is writing its own suicide note
in peeling cream paint.
The cracks spell “area boys” in cursive,
then erase themselves
before the police can take a picture.
A single cockroach crosses the plaster
carrying the weight of a nation
on its back
and still manages to look bored.
Above, the ceiling fan hangs
like a prophet who lost his tongue.
It has not turned since 2019
when the bill became a prayer
nobody answered.
Dust clings to the blades
in the shape of forgotten dreams;
if you blow hard enough,
they spell your name
then scatter.
She stands in the center
of this unfinished sentence
and the room forgets its own grammar.
The fridge hums a gospel song
in the minor key of hunger.
The calendar still says March 2020
because no one had the heart
to tear the page
after the world ended
and Nigeria just kept going.
Her shadow is not missing this time.
It is kneeling.
Not in submission;
in recognition.
It has seen the future
and the future is her
walking out of this room
carrying the entire country
in the pocket
of that second-hand shirt
like loose change
she never asked to inherit.
When she breathes,
the air thickens into garri
and everyone in the compound
suddenly remembers
they have not eaten since yesterday.
When she blinks,
a child somewhere in Ajegunle
forgets how to cry
because tears are a luxury
and luxury is for people
who do not look like her.
She is the albino girl
the sun was told never to touch
but touches anyway
because even the sun
is Nigerian
and respects no rules.
She is the reason
pastors sweat in air-conditioned Audis
when they see her crossing the road.
She is the reason
area boys lower their voices
when she passes
because even touts
know the difference
between a human being
and a prophecy
wearing lipstick.
She is the moment
after the conductor collects your money
but before he gives you change
and you realize
the change
was never coming.
She is the silence
inside a generator
after it swallows the last drop of fuel
and still refuses to die.
She is the country
looking at its own reflection
in a broken mirror
and deciding
for the first time
in six decades
to smile
with the mouth
they said
was too wide
too red
too impossible
to be beautiful.
And the smile
is not gentle.
It is the smile
of a woman
who has survived
every name
they tried to kill her with
and is now
wearing them
as lipstick.
Omo alabino.
Omo oyinbo.
Omo aró.
Omo àjẹjì.
Omo ẹ̀wọ̀n.
She has heard them all
and answered
with the same mouth
now painted
in the exact shade
of their fear.
This is not a portrait.
This is a revolution
learning how to stand still
long enough
for the camera
to be afraid
of what it sees.
And somewhere
in the distance
a bulb flickers back to life
not because NEPA remembered
but because even darkness
has limits
when she
decides
to glow.
The Sunday Circle