In the hour when Lagos forgets its own voltage,
a woman materializes from the exact decibel
where silence learns to bite.
She is not announced;
the darkness simply coughs up its last coin of light
and spends it all on her outline.
Her skull is a freshly poured concrete slab
still wet with the sweat of the mason
who was told “no hair, no mercy.”
The razor left no survivors;
only the echo of follicles screaming
in a language now banned in three local governments.
Touch the dome and your palm will come away
smelling of shea butter and court summons.
Skin the colour of a NEPA bill
after the ink has been bleached by too many excuses.
Not white like oyinbo,
but white like the lie they told the census taker
when he asked how many people
actually live in this country.
Every pore a sealed ballot box
stuffed with votes
no one will ever count.
Eyes: two drops of crude oil
spilled on a shrine cloth
and left to congeal into prophecy.
They do not look at you;
they invoice you.
The left eye charges for existing,
the right eye adds VAT.
Between them, a third eye
that opens only when INEC servers crash
and still sees everything.
The mouth is a fresh ATM slit
painted in the red of lastma officers’ nightmares.
Upper lip thin as the patience of a teacher
paid in promises.
Lower lip thick as the file
your uncle keeps at Alausa
that will never move.
When it parts,
you hear the sound of a POS machine
declining your destiny
for the third time today.
Her shirt is the uniform of a school
that exists only on signposts.
White squares knotted into cages
where dreams go to serve their jail term.
Each diamond a plot of land in Epe
your father bought with hope
and the government reclaimed with laughter.
The collar stands higher than the third mainland bridge tollgate
after they increased it again
because “maintenance.”
Neck long like the queue at the fuel station
when NNPC swears the scarcity is artificial
but the jerrycans know better.
A single gold chain hangs there,
thin as the thread between sanity and ọ̀tá pípé,
holding a pendant shaped like Nigeria
but missing the middle belt
because even jewellers
know some parts
are too expensive to include.
Behind her, the wall is writing its own obituary
in peeling Dulux emulsion.
The cracks spell “no light” in braille
for blind fingers that still pay the bill.
A lizard crosses the plaster
carrying a mosquito on its back
like a danfo carrying passengers
long after the sign says “full.”
The lizard pauses,
looks at her,
and suddenly remembers
it was supposed to be a dragon
in another life.
Above, the ceiling is a map of constipation;
cobwebs thick as the traffic
on Ikorodu road at 6 p.m.
A single bulb hangs by its last wire,
flickering in Morse code:
“S-O-S”
then “S-O-R-R-Y”
then “S-U-B-S-I-D-Y R-E-M-O-V-E-D.”
She stands in the middle
of this national anthem
sung flat.
Her shadow is not kneeling this time.
It is standing at attention
like a corper waiting for allowance
that will come in February
of never.
When she inhales,
the room loses two litres of oxygen
and gains one litre of tension.
When she exhales,
every phone in the compound
loses network
and finds religion.
She is the albino girl
the sun was warned about
in primary school textbooks
but still showed up
wearing factor 5000
and middle finger.
She is the reason
area boys speak in lowercase
when she passes.
She is the reason
pastors add extra padlocks
to the church gate
after seeing her shadow
stretch longer than tithe records.
She is the moment
after you pay NEPA online
and the light still does not come
but your account balance
sends you a text:
“Transaction successful.”
She is the silence
inside a molue
when the driver plays gospel
at 7 a.m.
and everybody suddenly remembers
they have sins
they forgot to confess.
She is the country
trying on its own skin
for the first time
without colonial tailoring
and realizing
the fit
was always
perfect.
And the red on her lips
is not lipstick.
It is the blood
of every promise
this nation broke
collected,
boiled down,
and worn
as war paint.
Omo alabino.
Omo àjẹjì.
Omo ẹ̀yin òkùnkùn.
Omo ìmọ́lẹ̀ tó ń bọ̀ wá lára òkùnkùn.
She has heard them all
and answered
with the same mouth
now smiling
in the exact shade
of tomorrow
refusing to be cancelled.
This is not a photograph.
This is the moment
the country
looked in the mirror
after sixty-five years
of bad makeup
and finally
wiped it off.
And the face underneath
was never ugly.
It was just
waiting
for the light
to catch up.
Now the light
is trembling.
The bulb
is sweating.
The darkness
is taking notes.
And she
is still
standing.
Still
standing.
Still.
a woman materializes from the exact decibel
where silence learns to bite.
She is not announced;
the darkness simply coughs up its last coin of light
and spends it all on her outline.
Her skull is a freshly poured concrete slab
still wet with the sweat of the mason
who was told “no hair, no mercy.”
The razor left no survivors;
only the echo of follicles screaming
in a language now banned in three local governments.
Touch the dome and your palm will come away
smelling of shea butter and court summons.
Skin the colour of a NEPA bill
after the ink has been bleached by too many excuses.
Not white like oyinbo,
but white like the lie they told the census taker
when he asked how many people
actually live in this country.
Every pore a sealed ballot box
stuffed with votes
no one will ever count.
Eyes: two drops of crude oil
spilled on a shrine cloth
and left to congeal into prophecy.
They do not look at you;
they invoice you.
The left eye charges for existing,
the right eye adds VAT.
Between them, a third eye
that opens only when INEC servers crash
and still sees everything.
The mouth is a fresh ATM slit
painted in the red of lastma officers’ nightmares.
Upper lip thin as the patience of a teacher
paid in promises.
Lower lip thick as the file
your uncle keeps at Alausa
that will never move.
When it parts,
you hear the sound of a POS machine
declining your destiny
for the third time today.
Her shirt is the uniform of a school
that exists only on signposts.
White squares knotted into cages
where dreams go to serve their jail term.
Each diamond a plot of land in Epe
your father bought with hope
and the government reclaimed with laughter.
The collar stands higher than the third mainland bridge tollgate
after they increased it again
because “maintenance.”
Neck long like the queue at the fuel station
when NNPC swears the scarcity is artificial
but the jerrycans know better.
A single gold chain hangs there,
thin as the thread between sanity and ọ̀tá pípé,
holding a pendant shaped like Nigeria
but missing the middle belt
because even jewellers
know some parts
are too expensive to include.
Behind her, the wall is writing its own obituary
in peeling Dulux emulsion.
The cracks spell “no light” in braille
for blind fingers that still pay the bill.
A lizard crosses the plaster
carrying a mosquito on its back
like a danfo carrying passengers
long after the sign says “full.”
The lizard pauses,
looks at her,
and suddenly remembers
it was supposed to be a dragon
in another life.
Above, the ceiling is a map of constipation;
cobwebs thick as the traffic
on Ikorodu road at 6 p.m.
A single bulb hangs by its last wire,
flickering in Morse code:
“S-O-S”
then “S-O-R-R-Y”
then “S-U-B-S-I-D-Y R-E-M-O-V-E-D.”
She stands in the middle
of this national anthem
sung flat.
Her shadow is not kneeling this time.
It is standing at attention
like a corper waiting for allowance
that will come in February
of never.
When she inhales,
the room loses two litres of oxygen
and gains one litre of tension.
When she exhales,
every phone in the compound
loses network
and finds religion.
She is the albino girl
the sun was warned about
in primary school textbooks
but still showed up
wearing factor 5000
and middle finger.
She is the reason
area boys speak in lowercase
when she passes.
She is the reason
pastors add extra padlocks
to the church gate
after seeing her shadow
stretch longer than tithe records.
She is the moment
after you pay NEPA online
and the light still does not come
but your account balance
sends you a text:
“Transaction successful.”
She is the silence
inside a molue
when the driver plays gospel
at 7 a.m.
and everybody suddenly remembers
they have sins
they forgot to confess.
She is the country
trying on its own skin
for the first time
without colonial tailoring
and realizing
the fit
was always
perfect.
And the red on her lips
is not lipstick.
It is the blood
of every promise
this nation broke
collected,
boiled down,
and worn
as war paint.
Omo alabino.
Omo àjẹjì.
Omo ẹ̀yin òkùnkùn.
Omo ìmọ́lẹ̀ tó ń bọ̀ wá lára òkùnkùn.
She has heard them all
and answered
with the same mouth
now smiling
in the exact shade
of tomorrow
refusing to be cancelled.
This is not a photograph.
This is the moment
the country
looked in the mirror
after sixty-five years
of bad makeup
and finally
wiped it off.
And the face underneath
was never ugly.
It was just
waiting
for the light
to catch up.
Now the light
is trembling.
The bulb
is sweating.
The darkness
is taking notes.
And she
is still
standing.
Still
standing.
Still.
The Sunday Circle