A Living Deity

The room in here is chill. The AC hums a lullaby. Everything seems fine until my lips raise a protest carrying dry, cracked, unsatisfied signs on placards. I reach for my chapstick, the quick fix. It glides on smooth, it shines, but the reflection in the mirror tells a deeper truth, it wasn’t moisture my lips needed; it was water. I needed hydration from within. And this, somehow, is the way we handle our societal wounds. Recently, Nigeria’s online space buzzes again with stories of a man of influence accused of violence against his much younger wife. The timelines split open with fury, pity, hashtags, snide stuff and a thousand think pieces. Some shout “end child marriage!”, others whisper about the dangers of age gaps, while a few dissect drug use and power imbalance. But most of it feels like chapstick on dry lips. We are soothing the surface, not addressing the dehydration beneath. Because at the root of this story is not just one man’s violence or one woman’s pain , it speaks of a...

It takes you barely thirty minutes to decide you want a shower  a quick cleanse before facing the day. The water comes alive with a gentle hiss, warm as memory. You test it with your palm, then turn the knob again, letting it wash over you  head first  like surrender. The purple soap, freshly unwrapped, perches on the ledge like a dainty promise. You reach for it, ready to lather away the night’s residue  when you feel it. A sting. First across your back, then curling around the side of your left thigh. You freeze. Turn off the water. The sudden silence in the bathroom grows thick  heavy  like a secret breathing too close. You inspect your nails, wondering if they’ve grown long enough to scratch or tear flesh in your sleep, or in some half-waking trance. They have not. You cut them low. Filed away even the idea of claws. In the mirror’s fog, the marks reveal themselves  thin red lines, deliberate and cruel, like a cat’s nails dragged slow across skin. ...