This is a Nigerian story, and while some parts may reflect my culture and experiences, I've shaped it in a way that people from any country can enjoy and understand.
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Rhema:
They say pain makes you stronger, but that's a damn lie. Pain just teaches you how to lie better how to smile when you're bleeding, how to sing when you're suffocating.
I was born on a Sunday morning in Ajegunle, while the generator in our compound was coughing smoke and my mother was screaming through her teeth. The story goes that the nurse said I came out with my fists clenched, like I was ready to fight from day one. Maybe I was.
My full name is Rhema Owolabi, but in the streets and on every mic I spit into, they call me Night. Not because I'm dark or mysterious or any of that corny stuff, but because everything good in my life dies before morning.
My father was a pastor.
A loud one the kind that made women cry on the altar the kind that never came home without the stench of another woman's perfume on his agbada.
My mother?
She was the type of woman that believed praying could fix anything even bruises even the lies.
She used to oil my scalp and say, "Your voice will change the world, Rhema."
I wish she was still alive to hear it or maybe not she died thinking I was still holy.
I started singing in church when I was six.
By ten, I was the local gospel wonder child.
By twelve, the choir master was touching me when no one was watching.
And by thirteen, I stopped singing.
But nobody asked me why.
You know how Nigeria is we worship silence.
If you don't talk, you're strong.
If you don't cry, you're brave.
If you survive, you must be anointed.
Bullshit.
The last time I saw my mother, I had just run out of the house barefoot, blood between my legs, shame in my throat, and her voice behind me screaming, "Don't tell anybody!"
I never did until now.
Now I tell everything. In lyrics. In bars. On stage lagos didn't give me a chance.
It gave me a microphone and a reason to scream.
This story isn't for the faint.
This is my truth.
This is the anthem of every girl Nigeria tried to bury.
This is Blackout Anthem.
I don't do interviews.
Not because I'm shy God forbid but because every time I tell the truth, somebody somewhere starts shaking.
This time, though, I said yes only because he asked the right way and maybe... maybe because he didn't flinch when he heard my name.
His voice was calm on the phone
"I want to hear your story, not edit it."
I almost laughed boys like that don't know what it means to carry a dead girl's story in their pocket.
So now we're sitting across each other in a cracked room behind Madam Ezzy's studio, one light bulb, two chairs, and a recorder between us. The generator's humming like it's afraid of the silence I'm about to break.
'You sure you're ready for this?" I ask him.
He nods. "Are you?"
Tch, he doesn't know that I died a long time ago.
Flashback, 2 Years Ago
Rain,loud and angry rain i was hiding behind a yellow danfo at Oshodi bridge, holding my own body together with trembling arms and no shoes on
That night, I sang under my breath to stay sane. A broken version of the church hymn my mother used to hum
"I am thine, oh Lord... I have heard thy voice..."
But the Lord was silent.
And so was the police that saw me and looked away and so was the choir master whose wife said I was tempting him and so was the church that deleted my name from their anniversary program.
So I stopped singing hymns.
Back to precent
"So..." the journalist clears his throat, "Why the name 'Night'?"
I smirk, then lower my voice so he feels it in his spine.
"Because in this country, girls like me are only safe in the dark."
He goes still finally, he's getting it.
I lean closer, watching his hand freeze on the recorder.
"Do you know how many people want me dead, Ayomide?"
He doesn't speak.
"Do you know how many girls like me died and never got to tell their story?"
I light a match from the candle box on the table and hold the flame just under my palm it burns but i didn't flinch.
"You think you came to interview me?" I whisper.
"Nah. You came to witness me."
Meanwhile...
Somewhere in Lekki Phase 1, Pastor Daniel Owolabi is pacing his office, sweating as he replays a leaked freestyle from Rhema's latest set
"They told me don't speak, just kneel and pray
But the blood on my thighs won't go away."
"Daddy's robe smells like strange perfume tell me which demon is hiding in his room?"
He punches the table.
"She's trying to destroy me.'
His assistant enters, pale-faced "Sir... her name is trending. Again."
Back to Rhema
I finish the interview with a warning.
"If you publish anything without my say-so, I'll finish your career before it starts."
Ayomide just nods, looking like he's met God and the devil in one sitting.
I leave him sitting there, shaking, while I step out into the Lagos heat.
The sun is rising but I am Night and they've tried to kill me once they should've finished the job.
SWITCHED AYOMIDE POV:
I couldn't sleep after the interview.
I played her voice back three times, then once more just to be sure she was real she was more than real she was fire wrapped in a girl's body and I think I was just burned.
She didn't cry she didn't flinch when she talked about the things that would've destroyed another human being.
he just looked me in the eye and dared me to look away.
Monday Morning - My Office in Yaba
I walk into the dusty co-working space where our small media startup operates. We call it TRUTH/NAIJA - just four of us, broke but brave.
My colleague Tunde spins around in his chair, chewing plantain chips. "Omo, you look like you saw a ghost."
"Worse," I mutter. "I saw a girl who survived death and came back for revenge."
I drop my recorder on the table and slump into a chair.
He frowns. "Wait. You interviewed Rhema Night Owolabi?!"
I nod. "Guy. That's career suicide."
Same Day - A Black SUV Parks Outside
I don't see them at first but the street boys nearby stop laughing. One even spits and crosses himself. That's when I look up.
Two men in black kaftans step out.
One of them walks in like he owns the air in the room.
He doesn't introduce himself.
"You're the boy asking questions about Owolabi's daughter?"
I didn't answer.
He drops a brown envelope on the table. It smells like old leather.
"Take it. Publish something else. Something light. Something... entertaining." I open the envelope.
It's full of naira bundles and a photo of my younger sister leaving her secondary school gate.
My heartbeat stops.
"She's pretty. You should protect her."
Then he walks out.
That Night - Rhema's Burner Phone Rings
She picks up, already half-dressed for her rooftop performance.
My voice is calm but shaking underneath.
They came for me"
She's quiet for a second. Then she said.
"Good."
"Wait -what?"
"It means they're scared. Don't back down now."
"I have a family, Rhema."
"So did I. And the system didn't spare them."
Click. She ends the call.
I stare at the phone like it might kill me in seconds
Meanwhile, at the Rooftop Venue - Ikeja
The underground crowd is wild. Faces painted. Bottles flying. Everyone chanting:
"Rhema! Rhema! Rhema!"
She steps onto the stage in black boots, crop top, and thunder in her eyes.
She doesn't smile she just grabs the mic and spits a new verse
"Your tithes paid for his side chick's Benz
And your silence paid for my childhood's end"
"So if I die before I wake, tell my mother not to pray the girl she raised is tired of fake grace."
The crowd erupts.
Somewhere, in a corner a man in a priest's robe lowers his cap and whispers into a burner phone
"She's crossing the line."
[Omo - Child, kid, or used like "bro" or "dude"
Tch - Sound of disapproval/frustration
Danfo - Local yellow bus, common in Lagos
This story involved switching from present to past so if you don't understand this story that obviously means you're not following up ]