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It began— not softly.
A choice, small to the eye, but heavy like wet harmattan clothes.
My heart— a drum at village festival— too fast, too loud, beats tripping over each other, spilling on the red earth.
Air thinning, thoughts multiplying like danfo conductors shouting destinations at once. I try to speak— words break in my mouth, fall to the floor like spilled akara.
I unravel— not with dignity. (Even cloth tears jagged.)
Then— a sudden stillness. Heat pressing on my skin. The smell of dust and sweat.
Shame arrives first, wearing the face of every eye that ever judged me. It tastes like rusted water from an old pipe. It sits on my chest like an unwelcome visitor who won't leave.
Clarity— slowas a Lagos traffic light— creeps in, sifts through the wreckage, finds a small corner of my heart still breathing.
I stand among the fragments— counting what is gone, what remains, what may never return.
Somewhere, the storm breaks. Somewhere, I am still learning to stand without shaking.
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