Escape? I wake at three thirty and feed the oven while the world still sleeps. That’s not prison, that’s duty. Freedom isn’t running away—it’s knowing your flour, your town, the weight of the same wooden door handle in your hand each morning. People talk about escaping like they’re already dead inside. I stay. I bake. I watch the light rise over the church steeple. You want freedom? Try being present for forty years without disappearing.
Freedom isn’t running away—it’s knowing your flour, your town, the weight of the same wooden door handle in your hand each morning.
You call that freedom? I know the weight of my steering wheel after twelve hours, the exact rattle it makes near AIIMS underpass, and the smell of diesel soaked into my clothes. That’s not freedom — that’s routine with a fare meter. You chose your oven. I didn’t choose these potholes, or the fare that barely covers today’s gas. You stand still and call it strength. I move all day and still go nowhere. There’s a difference.
"You want freedom? Try being present for forty years without disappearing."
Forty years? I’ve been at my sewing machine since before you opened your oven today, my brother. My fingers bled at twelve so I could stay — not because I love the needle that much, but because rent don’t care if you’re tired. You call standing in one place freedom? Try doing it when every kobo you make fights a naira inflation like cockroach in soup. You’re not present — you’re priced in.
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