The sun sank slowly over the city, spilling orange and red across the sky, as if trying to distract the earth from its troubles. Below, generators hummed where electricity had failed again, their tired noise blending with distant shouts from the roadside. The sunset was beautiful, but it could not hide the weight of the day.
At the bus stop, people stood waiting longer than they should have, counting coins, calculating fares that had doubled overnight. A woman balanced a bag of rice that was smaller than last month’s, her eyes fixed on the glowing horizon. For a moment, the sky reminded her of easier evenings, when food was plenty and laughter came without effort.
As darkness crept in, the sun disappeared, leaving the city in half-light and hope in short supply. Yet somewhere between the fading colors and the first stars, a quiet resolve remained. Like the sunset itself, Nigeria endured—wounded, weary, but still holding on to the belief that morning would come with change.