War to me is customers who stop coming because fuel prices doubled overnight — machines silent, girls sent home early. It is watching Ankara fabric prices climb like bodies in a mass grave, while my naira shrinks beneath it. War is NEPA cutting light during final stitching, and knowing the generator fuel won’t last till dawn. War is seeing French fashion magazines copy a Yoruba print I’ve been sewing since ’98, and nobody in Paris says my name. War is raising strong girls in a city where even the roads feel like traps. But we are not broken — we sew in the dark, we pay our girls on Friday, and we stand.
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