Scale Theory

The fish is dead,

  but the armor is still holding.

   A mosaic of silver coins overlapping

     like roof tiles on a flooded house.

My mother hands me the knife—

a dull, rusted thing—

and teaches me the art of subtraction.

Scrape.

The sound is a zipper being forced open.

The scales fly off in a wet confetti

  sticking to my wrists

   decorating the sink

   in sequins of gray light.

We are unmaking the swimmer.

We are stripping the ocean off its back

until it is nothing but white, shivering flesh.

I push my thumb into the gill—

that red, feathery fan

that used to sieve oxygen from the dark—

and I pull.

The gutting is the honest part.

It is a wet, heavy sound. A release of secrets.

The heart   /   the liver   / the empty balloon of the stomach

all the machinery that made it alive

is piled into a plastic bag.

My mother washes the body until it is clean.

Until it forgets it ever had protection.

We burn it in oil and call it dinner.

But later, in the shower,

I find a single silver scale stuck to my collarbone.

A piece of the armor.

A fragment that refused to be swallowed.

Prototype_v1

00:00 [Fade in]

The project file is heavy.

I drag the timeline cursor back to the start.

We are trying to build a woman

out of mp4s and jagged pieces.

00:12 [Clip: Mother]

Zoom in: 200%

There is a track of water running down her cheek.

A silver tear / high definition / too sharp to look at.

Action: Add Text Layer.

I type the promise in bold font:

I will fix this. / I will carry the roof so you don’t have to.

I crop myself out of the frame

so there is more room for her comfort.

This is the First Daughter preset:

edit everyone else’s sorrow / until your own timeline is blank.

01:45 [Effect: Green Screen]

I stand in the center of the frame / head high.

But looking at the monitor / I know it is a trick of the light.

Opacity: 50%

I feel like a fraud in every scene / a special effect / a glitch in the system.

I am holding my breath / waiting for the error message.

Waiting to mess it all up.

If you turn off the filter

you will see I am just a scared girl

standing in front of a blank wall

waiting for the director to yell “Cut.”

02:30 [Import: New File]

My hard drive is full of corrupted footage.

Hearts that failed to export. / XYs that turned into static.

I was ready to shut the system down.

Drag and Drop: Him.

He appeared out of the blue / no color grading needed.

Suddenly the audio is clear. / The waveform is steady.

But I am hovering over the “Delete” button.

My hand is shaking.

I am terrified that if I press play

he will shatter into pixels like the rest.

Please, I whisper to the screen, don’t crash.

04:00 [Rendering…]

98%…

99%…

The fans are spinning loud / the laptop is burning my thighs.

I am waiting to become something permanent.

To be exported into a format that cannot be hurt.

But the cursor blinks.

Error: File still in use.

I am not finished yet.

[Cut to Black]

THIS LAND SPEAKS WOMAN

They found our bones beneath grinding stones,

hips wide as hunger,

ribs bent like spoons

from feeding everyone else first.

Our skulls still had hair in tight rows,

as if we were plaited even in death.

We did not die wives.

We died witnesses to how

the earth split for men

and swallowed women whole.

We were the cloth on the table,

the table,

the floor beneath it,

and still, we were asked to kneel.

You want to heal this land?

Then start with our names —

the ones stitched shut

into the hems of our mother’s wrappers.

We are in the dust,

the scent of turaren wuta and ash.

We are in the rivers,

flowing like truths too old for tongue.

We are in the cracked heels of ndị nne,

who crossed war zones

to pick pepper for soup.

Our voices grew sideways,

through floor cracks,

through the hum of songs,

through pestles beating yam to tears.

Our silence is not consent.

It is fury wrapped in ìrọ́ and bùbá,

a scream ground into millet

and spread in the sun to dry.

So when we speak, do not flinch.

For we do not knock.

We bloom through the rocks,

we crack the earth from inside out,

with bosoms plumped by famine,

and stretch marks like thunder

across a waiting sky.

Glossary

ìrọ́: Yoruba — a traditional wide wrap skirt worn by women

bùbá: Yoruba — a loose-fitting blouse, usually worn with an ìrọ́

ndị nne: Igbo — “mothers” (plural form of nne)

turaren wuta: Hausa — fragrant smoke used to scent homes and clothing

Farida Yahaya Tijjani is an 18-year-old Nigerian poet, scriptwriter, essayist, and spoken word artist. Her work explores themes of identity, resilience, and social justice, using creativity as a tool for healing and transformation. Her writing has appeared in national newspapers and is forthcoming in Aster Lit Issue 15. She also lends her voice weekly to NTA’s Nigerian Navy in Focus, where she scripts and edits the “Operation Delta Sanity” segment. Merging poetry with powerful storytelling to inspire change, Farida has performed across diverse platforms and has been recognized in both poetry and short story competitions.