From shadows to light

The attic creaked before Eman did. It was 5:47am in Peckham, London. The cold pressed against the single window and made the glass sweat. Each morning, weak winter sunlight bled through her tattered curtains - curtains Aunty Sikirat said were "too good to throw away" and landed on the only things she owned: a book with torn pages, a chipped wooden box, and a silver locket that used to belong to her mother. She sat up on the thin mattress. The floorboards were ice under her feet. She clutched the locket like a prayer. It was warm from her palm. Inside was a photo of Mama, smiling in her favorite blue ankara, standing in front of their house in Ibadan. Hope, she told herself, breathing fog into the air. One day. One day she’d have her own studio. One day she’d paint without hiding. One day she wouldn’t flinch when footsteps came up the stairs. Downstairs was a different world. The smell hit her first. Fried plantain and bleach. "Sweep. Dishes. Zainab's room. Now." Aunty Sikirat’s voice cracked like a whip through the thin walls. She moved through the house in iro and buba, gold bangles clinking, turning chores into punishments and smiles into weapons. Eman pulled on her hoodie. It was two sizes too big. Zainab’s hand-me-down. She counted to three before opening the attic door. The rest of the house was already awake. The kitchen was chaos. Steam on the windows. Aunty barking orders into her phone about a wedding aso-ebi. Zainab sat at the island, scrolling, sipping tea that Eman had made. "Morning, Aunty," Eman mumbled, eyes on the floor. "Hm." That was all she got. Zainab was worse. 17, perfect gele, perfect cruelty. Her lashes were done. Her nails were done. She looked like the girls on i********: who went to Dubai every summer. "Button me up, Eman," she’d sing, turning, extending her arm like Eman was a servant. The dress was yellow lace. For a brunch. "And don’t wrinkle it. This is 400 pounds." Eman’s fingers shook as she did the tiny hooks up the back. She thought of stars. Of adire. Of the way indigo dye looked when it hit water. Of anywhere but this kitchen that smelled like expectations. "Good girl," Zainab said, patting her head like she was a dog. Then she swept out, heels clicking. Eman exhaled. The day had just started. The hours blurred. Sweeping. Scrubbing. Folding. Answering the door for Aunty’s friends who asked, "Oh, you’re still here? I thought you’d be in university by now." By 11pm the house was quiet. Aunty snoring. Zainab out with friends. Eman waited 20 more minutes. Then she moved. Back door. Cold air. She slipped out in trainers and a scarf, her sketchbook and charcoal sticks tucked under her arm. The community garden was 3 streets down. No one went there at night. Her secret spot. Under the old Iroko tree that had somehow survived in London, she spread out stolen printer paper on a crate. Her fingers were numb but she didn’t care. With charcoal, she drew. Girls with crowns made of Iroko leaves. Girls who fought back. Girls in ankara holding paintbrushes like swords. Girls who got to choose. Because if she couldn’t live it yet, she could draw it. At 2am she crept back inside. Washed her hands until the black was gone. Slid back into the attic. Tomorrow would be the same. But tonight, for two hours, she was free.