We start at 12 A.M and end at 4 A.M,

The feeling of being sprayed with money as I dance takes over me, Shebi mina Sha noni, Wizkid is the beat heard all around.

Women cheer and suffocate me with love, respect is important, so I call them my aunties even though we aren't tied by blood, but with culture.

The cloth that covers my hair means something when I walk into the building, it means something,

The loud speakers and drums that hurt my eardrums mean something.

The oil that drips down my forehead on Palm Sunday means something.

I was supposed to be Camay, like soap, but Gabryel Folasade Oluwaremi Harris won, 

I think about how I dealt with the constant questions regarding my name,  teachers struggling to say my full name, even stuttering before they started, breaking out in sweat in fear of mistakes.

Honor confers a crown, I say, I am a queen, I say

My name sticks like the taste of spicy asun lingering on your tongue. Like the spicy smell stinging your nostrils from breathing in jollof rice.

It hits you and smacks you in the face, something you’ll never forget.

The bass of the music signifies my pride, filling up the room, shaking your eardrums.

 It escapes, leaving the building, letting everyone around hear what it has to say