WAT -- 9:37 AM -- Mushin, Lagos State -- Nysaria
The sun hit Lagos early, not like a greeting but a slap—hot and full of attitude.
Elisha stood on the rusted balcony of the face-me-I-face-you flat in Mushin, arms folded, watching danfos squeeze through impossibly narrow gaps like metal fish swimming upstream. The conductor on the nearest bus hung out the door, slapping the side panel with his palm.
"Oshodi! Oshodi straight! No delay!" His voice cracked from shouting since 5 AM.
Below, life moved with that particular Lagos madness—urgent and chaotic, but somehow it all worked. The hawkers had claimed their territories on the roadside: Mama Kudi with her boiled groundnuts wrapped in yesterday's newspapers, the pure water boy dodging between cars with a tray balanced on his head like it was glued there, and old Malam Basiru selling knockoff sunglasses that probably couldn't stop regular light, much less sun.
A woman emerged from the building's ground floor, baby strapped to her back, another child clinging to her wrapper. She paused, looked up at the power lines, and hissed loudly.
"Ah-ah! NEPA people, una no dey tire? Every morning, same story!"
Elisha almost smiled. Almost. The city never stopped talking—screaming, sighing, begging, cursing, preaching, all at once. Car horns blared like war drums. From down the street, Pastor Adebayo's voice boomed through crackling speakers: "The Lord says your breakthrough is coming!" But two blocks over, the imam's call to prayer drifted through the harmattan haze, calm and certain.
Above it all, the sky pressed down like a heavy blanket, thick with heat and dust that made everything look like an old photograph.
Elisha didn't say much. He never did. Not when the generator coughed to death again last night, leaving them in darkness while mosquitoes had their feast. Not when Mama had thrown her hands up this morning, shouting about how a bag of rice now cost more than his school fees. Not when their neighbor Mr. Suleiman was dragged away last week by policemen who claimed he was "obstructing official duties"—though all the man had done was ask to see a warrant.
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He was tall for his age—almost seventeen—with the kind of build that suggested he'd grown too fast for his own good. His movements had a careful quality, like someone who'd learned early that being noticed wasn't always a good thing. People mistook it for arrogance sometimes. Others thought he was slow. They were wrong on both counts.
What they saw was weight. The kind that settles in your chest when you're young but already understand that the world isn't fair, and maybe it never was supposed to be.
He never told anyone he loved Nysaria. That kind of talk would earn you either mockery or suspicion—or worse, if the wrong person heard. Patriotism was a currency too expensive for boys from Mushin to afford. The last person who'd stood up in their area talking about "Nysaria this, Nysaria that" had been visited by some men in a black Peugeot 504. That was three months ago. Nobody had seen him since.
But still... every October 1st, when the national anthem scratched through old radio speakers, Elisha stood a little straighter than everyone else.
Every time a politician appeared on the neighbor's TV, grinning through teeth white as lies, speaking about "the dividends of democracy" while children sold pure water at traffic lights, Elisha would clench his fists and think: Just once. Just once, let someone tell the truth.
And whenever soldiers marched down the old Arena barrack—boots hitting the asphalt like a heartbeat, rifles slung with casual authority—he watched them with something that felt like hunger. Not for power, exactly. For... purpose, maybe. For the weight of carrying something bigger than yourself.
-----
Interrupting his thoughts, From inside the flat, someone shouted.
"Elisha! Better Come and eat before everything turns cold!"
That was his Mum. She had a voice that could cut through concrete when she needed to get your attention.
But then another voice joined in—Uncle Femi, His Mum's younger brother who'd been staying with them since he lost his job at the port. "Shebi you can hear your mother!? I'll eat it all before you can blink."
Elisha pushed himself off the balcony railing. The metal was already hot enough to leave marks on his palms. Inside, the transistor radio sat on the wooden shelf, crackling between stations like it couldn't decide which disaster to report first.
"...President Aduwa assures citizens that the current fuel shortage is temporary and should not be cause for alarm..."
Static. Whistle. Then another voice:
"...in Port Harcourt, protesters have blocked access to the main refinery, demanding immediate action on..."
More static.
"...Delta Liberation Movement released a video claiming responsibility for yesterday's pipeline explosion..."
Uncle Femi kissed his teeth and reached for the radio dial. "Same nonsense every day. Different mouth, same lies."
"Leave it," his Mum said, spooning rice onto a plate. "Ehn when, I hear about the minister wey thief money. Na true!?."
"Which one?" Uncle Femi laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "The one from last week or the one from this week?"
Elisha sat down at the small table, accepting his plate. The rice was local—the kind that required careful chewing to avoid the stones. The stew was thin but warm, and Mum had managed to sneak in a few pieces of meat that probably cost more than she'd admit.
"Thank you, Mum."
She looked at him with those eyes that seemed to see too much. "You didn't eat yesterday night, of course I noticed?"
"I ate."
"Half slice of bread no be food, Elisha."
Uncle Femi leaned back in his chair, studying his nephew. "This boy too serious. Elisha, you are seventeen. You suppose dey chase girls, worry about football, dey think about rubbish. Instead, you carry the world on your shoulder like say na you create am."
"Leave the boy," His Mom defended, but her voice was gentler now. "He get sense. More than all these politicians put together."
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Later, when the others had gone about their day—His mom to her stall in the market, Uncle Femi to search for work that probably wouldn't exist—Elisha remained at the table. On the wooden shelf beside the radio sat his most carefully guarded treasure: a book he'd borrowed from the Mushin Community Library and somehow never gotten around to returning.
Military Leaders of Modern Nysaria: A Historical Analysis
The cover was barely holding on, and some pages had come loose, but every word inside was precious. He'd read about General Mallard, who'd tried to unite the country with roads and schools before the politicians came back. About General Gomin, whose speeches about discipline and progress had sounded good until the executions started. Even about General Abacho, whose name people still whispered like a curse.
Elisha wasn't looking for heroes. He'd learned early that heroes were a luxury Nysaria couldn't afford. What he wanted was to understand the machinery of power—how it worked, how it broke, how ordinary men became the kind of people who could order roads built or cities destroyed with the same signature.
Outside, a fight had broken out near the bus stop. Voices raised, insults flew in three languages, and someone's goods scattered across the road. A few minutes later, it was over. People helped pick up the scattered items, the combatants shook hands, and life moved on.
That was Lagos. That was Nysaria. Quick to anger, quick to forgive, always moving.
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By evening, the power had come back—NEPA's daily gift to the neighborhood. The sounds of generators coughing to life were replaced by the hum of ceiling fans and the flicker of fluorescent lights. Children appeared in the courtyard below, playing games that involved a lot of running and shouting but no discernible rules.
Elisha was back on the balcony, watching the sun set behind the maze of zinc roofs and satellite dishes. The sky turned orange, then purple, then that particular Lagos darkness that was never quite black because the city never truly slept.
.