NIGERIA IS PREGNANT.
Nigeria walked as though the earth itself pressed against her feet. Her belly was swollen, not only with flesh but with contradictions; dreams and despair kicking against each other, hope tangled with hunger, justice struggling to breathe. She carried a child unseen, a future yet unnamed. Her steps were heavy with history. Ballots and bullets lay lodged in her womb, the cries of June 12 still echoing in her bones, the silence of stolen voices pressing down like a weight no mother should bear. Each contraction was corruption, each labor pain poverty, each breath a broken promise. Yet beneath it all, her heartbeat was courage- a rhythm that refused to die.
Nigeria was pregnant with possibility. The question was not whether she would deliver, but what she would bring forth. Would it be another generation shackled, or a dawn where freedom was bread shared at every table? I stood as her child, ink staining my hands with resolve, eyes fixed on the horizon. I would not flee. I would not surrender. I would be her midwife, steady through the storm, until she birthed justice, until she birthed light.
The story of becoming is never gentle. It is a labor, a tearing open of what was, to make space for what might be. Nigeria’s labor was long, her cries echoing through the streets, her sweat dripping into the soil. I saw her stumble under the weight of promises broken by leaders who spoke of tomorrow but stole today. I saw her clutch her belly when hunger gnawed at her children, when schools became shadows of learning, when hospitals became corridors of despair. Yet I also saw her rise. I saw her children march with placards, their voices refusing silence. I saw artists paint murals of hope on cracked walls, musicians sing of freedom in crowded buses, writers carve truth into paper that burned with possibility. I saw farmers coax green from stubborn soil, teachers light candles in classrooms without electricity, mothers stretch meals so no child went to bed unfed.
Nigeria was not only suffering; she was becoming.
I knew my role was not to watch but to act. Becoming demanded hands inked with resolve, hearts unwilling to surrender. I carried the weight of her contradictions in my own chest. I felt the sting of corruption, the ache of poverty, the suffocation of injustice. But I also felt the pulse of courage, the rhythm of resilience. I became her midwife. Not with sterile gloves or hospital walls, but with words, with action, with defiance. I stood in queues where ballots were cast, refusing to let bullets silence the will of the people. I wrote stories that remembered June 12, that remembered voices stolen, that remembered promises broken. I joined hands with others who believed that freedom was not a luxury but bread to be shared at every table.
The labor was long. Nigeria groaned, her contractions shaking the foundations of her cities. But labor is not endless. Pain is not eternal. Out of her cries came a dawn. It was not perfect. The child born was fragile, its skin marked with scars of history, its breath uncertain. But it was alive. It was possibility made flesh. It was justice learning to walk, light learning to shine. And I, her child, stood ready. Ready to nurture, ready to protect, ready to ensure that this birth was not wasted. Becoming was not a single act but a lifetime of care.
Nigeria is still pregnant. Each day she carries new contradictions, new dreams, new despairs. Each day she labors. Each day she becomes.
And so do I.
Becoming is not only hers but mine. It is the courage to carry contradictions, the strength to endure pain, and the resolve to shape tomorrow with hands that refuse to let go.
Nigeria is becoming. And so am I.
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