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On a day like any other in Abuja, I lie fast asleep under my cotton-flavored blankets. It is only 5:00 pm when my mum interrupts my slumber of magical dreams dragging me from underneath. I had not heard the house shake or felt the violent roar of the glass windows above my head. I am annoyed as my bed is now empty without me in it. My mum says nothing. The lines stretched across her face and pursed lips continuously moving with the car keys twirling like a pendulum between her fingers, ready to leave with us, should she have to, confirms my suspicion “this is bad.” We stepped outside to the balcony where the rest of my family stood in a trance staring as the sky lit up overhead covered in a cloud of dark smoke. My dad standing adjacent with his belly dangling out and two hands on his waist, whispered to my neighbor, “the bombs exploded! Yes, down by the bus station.” I could say something of any consolation to bring meaning to the hundreds no more, but my bed still lies empty. “Ah, at least I wasn’t there.” The bombs have become more frequent, felt too familiar, all too frequently with a sense of familiarity, but atlas by bed lies empty. “There will be no rest until I have had mine.”


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