She materialises at 02:17,
the exact minute Lagos forgets the difference
between night and debt.
The clock on the wall has given up ticking;
it simply drips,
one reluctant second at a time,
onto the cracked terrazzo
where her bare feet land
without sound,
without permission.
Her skull is the new moon
the herbalist warned us about:
the one that rises only when the gods
are too drunk on palm wine
to remember mercy.
Shaved so close the blade left fingerprints
of moonlight on the bone.
Touch it and your future
will taste like agbo
mixed with cancelled visas.
Skin the colour of a brand-new 1000-naira note
before life teaches it to fade.
Not oyinbo,
not even albino in the way they taught us in school;
this is the white of a Lagos morning
after the rain has washed the sky
and left it hanging
like wet Ankara
on a rich man’s fence.
Every pore a CCTV camera
recording the sun
for crimes against melanin.
Eyes: two drops of Star Radler
poured into a calabash of midnight.
They do not reflect light;
they invoice it.
Left eye: “Pay now or regret later.”
Right eye: “Terms and conditions apply.”
Between them, a third eye
that opens only during fuel scarcity
and sees tomorrow’s price
before today’s queue
even forms.
The mouth is a fresh tattoo
done by the devil’s favourite artist
in the back room of Oshodi underbridge.
Red like the tail light
of the last danfo leaving you stranded
at 11:59 p.m.
Upper lip thin as the line
between “I’m fine” and “I’m finished.”
Lower lip swollen like the ego
of a man who just paid 50k
for a plate of pepper soup
and still tipped the waiter
with Bible verses.
Her shirt is the ghost of a school uniform
worn by every girl
who was told
“cover up”
so many times
she finally covered
everything
except the truth.
White lattice like the gate
of a house in Banana Island
that no one lives in
but everyone pays security for.
Each diamond a room
where dreams go to pay rent
in tears
and still get evicted
on the 31st.
Neck long like the WhatsApp chat
you keep scrolling
looking for the message
that will change everything
and finding only
“last seen 02:17.”
Behind her, the wall is live-tweeting its collapse
in peeling paint and broken English.
Cracks shaped like the Nigerian map
if you rotate it 90 degrees
and squint through tears.
A mosquito lands on the plaster,
takes one look at her,
and suddenly remembers
it has malaria
and needs to self-isolate.
The bulb above is not dead.
It is on sabbatical.
Its filament curled like a question mark
asking NEPA
“after everything,
why?”
The answer comes back
in the voice of a customer care rep
who places you on hold
forever.
She stands in the eye
of this unpaid hurricane.
Her shadow is not dancing today.
It is writing a resignation letter
to physics.
Effective immediately.
When she inhales,
every inverter in the compound
sighs in relief
because for three seconds
it doesn’t have to carry the load.
When she exhales,
the price of tomatoes
at Mile 12
drops 20 naira
then remembers
it has children in private school
and climbs back.
She is the albino girl
the sun was paid to ignore
but the sun
spent the money on data
and still came back
to stare.
She is the reason
the imam pauses mid-adhan
when she walks past the mosque
not because she’s uncovered
but because even Allah
recognises
a miracle
wearing second-hand clothes.
She is the reason
area boys
suddenly develop manners
and start saying “sorry ma”
to a woman
they would have catcalled
yesterday.
She is the moment
after you transfer your last 500 naira
to “save a brother”
and the account name
turns out to be
your own destiny
laughing at you.
She is the silence
inside a Zoom meeting
when the host asks
“can you hear me?”
and everybody freezes
because the answer
is too expensive.
She is the country
at 02:17
looking in the mirror
after another election
and realising
the joker
was never in the deck.
It was the reflection
all along.
And the red on her lips
is not lipstick.
It is the full stop
at the end
of every sentence
they said
she could never finish.
Omo alabino.
Omo ìmọ́lẹ̀.
Omo tí ò ní ẹ̀jẹ̀ rẹ̀.
Omo tí ń mú ẹ̀jẹ̀ ẹ̀lòmíràn ṣàn.
Omo tí ń bọ̀ wá láti ọ̀run.
Omo tí ń bọ̀ wá láti òkùnkùn.
She has heard them all
and answered
by simply
refusing to dim.
This is not a photograph.
This is the second
before the gen roars back to life
and the whole street
remembers
it was never the darkness
they were afraid of.
It was her
standing in it
without flinching.
And at 02:18
the bulb
comes back on
not because NEPA
remembered
but because even darkness
knows when
it’s time
to clock out.
She is still
here.
Still
glowing.
Still.
the exact minute Lagos forgets the difference
between night and debt.
The clock on the wall has given up ticking;
it simply drips,
one reluctant second at a time,
onto the cracked terrazzo
where her bare feet land
without sound,
without permission.
Her skull is the new moon
the herbalist warned us about:
the one that rises only when the gods
are too drunk on palm wine
to remember mercy.
Shaved so close the blade left fingerprints
of moonlight on the bone.
Touch it and your future
will taste like agbo
mixed with cancelled visas.
Skin the colour of a brand-new 1000-naira note
before life teaches it to fade.
Not oyinbo,
not even albino in the way they taught us in school;
this is the white of a Lagos morning
after the rain has washed the sky
and left it hanging
like wet Ankara
on a rich man’s fence.
Every pore a CCTV camera
recording the sun
for crimes against melanin.
Eyes: two drops of Star Radler
poured into a calabash of midnight.
They do not reflect light;
they invoice it.
Left eye: “Pay now or regret later.”
Right eye: “Terms and conditions apply.”
Between them, a third eye
that opens only during fuel scarcity
and sees tomorrow’s price
before today’s queue
even forms.
The mouth is a fresh tattoo
done by the devil’s favourite artist
in the back room of Oshodi underbridge.
Red like the tail light
of the last danfo leaving you stranded
at 11:59 p.m.
Upper lip thin as the line
between “I’m fine” and “I’m finished.”
Lower lip swollen like the ego
of a man who just paid 50k
for a plate of pepper soup
and still tipped the waiter
with Bible verses.
Her shirt is the ghost of a school uniform
worn by every girl
who was told
“cover up”
so many times
she finally covered
everything
except the truth.
White lattice like the gate
of a house in Banana Island
that no one lives in
but everyone pays security for.
Each diamond a room
where dreams go to pay rent
in tears
and still get evicted
on the 31st.
Neck long like the WhatsApp chat
you keep scrolling
looking for the message
that will change everything
and finding only
“last seen 02:17.”
Behind her, the wall is live-tweeting its collapse
in peeling paint and broken English.
Cracks shaped like the Nigerian map
if you rotate it 90 degrees
and squint through tears.
A mosquito lands on the plaster,
takes one look at her,
and suddenly remembers
it has malaria
and needs to self-isolate.
The bulb above is not dead.
It is on sabbatical.
Its filament curled like a question mark
asking NEPA
“after everything,
why?”
The answer comes back
in the voice of a customer care rep
who places you on hold
forever.
She stands in the eye
of this unpaid hurricane.
Her shadow is not dancing today.
It is writing a resignation letter
to physics.
Effective immediately.
When she inhales,
every inverter in the compound
sighs in relief
because for three seconds
it doesn’t have to carry the load.
When she exhales,
the price of tomatoes
at Mile 12
drops 20 naira
then remembers
it has children in private school
and climbs back.
She is the albino girl
the sun was paid to ignore
but the sun
spent the money on data
and still came back
to stare.
She is the reason
the imam pauses mid-adhan
when she walks past the mosque
not because she’s uncovered
but because even Allah
recognises
a miracle
wearing second-hand clothes.
She is the reason
area boys
suddenly develop manners
and start saying “sorry ma”
to a woman
they would have catcalled
yesterday.
She is the moment
after you transfer your last 500 naira
to “save a brother”
and the account name
turns out to be
your own destiny
laughing at you.
She is the silence
inside a Zoom meeting
when the host asks
“can you hear me?”
and everybody freezes
because the answer
is too expensive.
She is the country
at 02:17
looking in the mirror
after another election
and realising
the joker
was never in the deck.
It was the reflection
all along.
And the red on her lips
is not lipstick.
It is the full stop
at the end
of every sentence
they said
she could never finish.
Omo alabino.
Omo ìmọ́lẹ̀.
Omo tí ò ní ẹ̀jẹ̀ rẹ̀.
Omo tí ń mú ẹ̀jẹ̀ ẹ̀lòmíràn ṣàn.
Omo tí ń bọ̀ wá láti ọ̀run.
Omo tí ń bọ̀ wá láti òkùnkùn.
She has heard them all
and answered
by simply
refusing to dim.
This is not a photograph.
This is the second
before the gen roars back to life
and the whole street
remembers
it was never the darkness
they were afraid of.
It was her
standing in it
without flinching.
And at 02:18
the bulb
comes back on
not because NEPA
remembered
but because even darkness
knows when
it’s time
to clock out.
She is still
here.
Still
glowing.
Still.
The Sunday Circle