4pm on a random Monday.

It's Monday, and I’ve just returned from school after an entire session. The kind of semester that leaves your mind frayed and your spirit exhausted. Ikeja Electric, in its usual inconsideration, has refused to restore power.

My phone is dead, making a useless companion. I find myself staring at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing down on me, making it impossible to work. I surrender to my thoughts, letting my imagination take over.

As usual, I find comfort in the stillness. No incessant Instagram notifications, no messages from my boss tweaking the “perfect” email with last-minute additions. The absence of these distractions feels very nice, a space to just exist.

The room has a soft orange glow, the curtains raised just enough for the sun to stream through, giving the room warmth. It’s the perfect kind of light—not too harsh, unlike the searing rays of a few days ago when it felt as if Chukwu himself was punishing a man for unjustly taking another’s land, drying up his yams as retribution.

I try to sleep, but I can't. My mind drifts in and out of consciousness, caught in a liminal state. In this state, everything feels more vivid. The gentle breeze nudges the window frame, causing it to tap softly against the wall—a sound so minor, yet in this quiet, it feels amplified.

Outside, the neighborhood kids chase a ball with reckless joy, their bare feet slapping against the ground, a reminder of simpler times.

I wonder what time it is, but then remember—we don’t have a wall clock. A small detail that takes me back to a time when I'd gauge time by the sight of students walking home from school. Nostalgia tugs at me, and I decide to relive the habit. I stand, peering out the window, watching as the shadows stretch longer, the sky deepening into a soft blue. I guess it must be around 4 p.m.

I lie back down, sinking once more into that half-awake state. My younger brother, the only one home with me, paces restlessly, an endless tour of kitchen-room-toilets—a nervous habit of his that grates on my nerves, stirring my own anxiety.

In the distance, a soft beeping sound catches my attention. It’s steady, every 2-4 seconds, like the ticking of a countdown. I count along, my anxiety spiking at the thought that it might be the prepaid meter. It better be a POS machine, I think because I can’t help but hope it’s anything other than the meter (Tinubu, help us all).

The beeping finally stops, and I let out a sigh, trying to slip deeper into my subconscious. But then, I hear my name. I snap out of it, but only to realize no one was calling me. It's just Ikeja Electric, mercifully restoring power.