When he moved to Rupokwu, he was sold a promise.

“Do not worry. Federal light. Up to twenty two hours every day.”

In Port Harcourt, that sentence sounds like a visa approval. It sounds like answered prayers. It sounds expensive.

So he paid. Happily.

Then he met the real landlord. Darkness.

There were weeks power came once in five days. Sometimes once in a week. When it finally arrived, the whole street celebrated like NEPA had won an award. Children screamed. Generators went silent in disbelief. Everyone rushed to charge everything including power banks that were already full, just in case.

He learned to live on standby. Cook fast. Iron fast. Bathe fast. Exist fast.

The embarrassment was subtle but steady. Walking out with a fuel keg like a badge of survival. Visiting people not because he missed them but because their sockets worked. Sitting outside at night pretending to enjoy fresh air when really he was negotiating with heat.

Rents in Rupokwu rise with confidence. The wires above remain decorative.

Eventually, complaining feels childish.

He adjusts. The Port Harcourt way. The Nigerian way.

He prices solar panels. Studies inverters like exam prep. Calculates battery hours like WAEC results.

Because in this country, generating your own electricity feels more patriotic than expecting it.

Light and Other Lies

Light and Other Lies