Dance With Me

Lagos. Tuesday. 11:47 PM. Efe Akinrinde turned 24 in thirteen minutes. She was supposed to have died last year, or even before. The doctors had spoken in hushed voices, as though whispering would soften the blow. “She may not see her next birthday,” they’d said. Well, here she was. One year older. One miracle later. Still breathing… barely. She stood in front of her full-length mirror, barefoot in her pajamas, hair tied in a loose scarf, eyes darkened by shadows that no amount of sleep could erase. She looked like someone who’d fought death, and won. But the real question was: how many more rounds could she take? The birthday cake sat untouched on her desk. Vanilla sponge, whipped cream, strawberries shaped into a crooked “24.” Lara had brought it earlier, pretending like everything was normal. They both knew it wasn’t. The whole house was too quiet. Her father had gone to bed early, after placing an awkward kiss on her forehead. He loved her fiercely, but he carried his grief like luggage with no handle. Always there, always heavy. The walls of her room were lined with old journals, hospital bracelets, books she’d never finished, and dreams she hadn’t dared to chase. Her fingers traced the edge of the mirror. Slowly. Gently. Like maybe she could rub away the reflection and find a girl who wasn’t terminally ill. A girl who didn’t have Fanconi Anemia written in every cell of her body like a curse she couldn’t undo. A girl who wasn’t… dying. She sighed. Loud. Sharp. Then whispered to herself like she had a secret the world wasn’t ready for. “If I’m going to die… then let me live first.” The words felt dangerous. Reckless. Delicious. She imagined herself on a rooftop with arms outstretched. In a car speeding down a quiet Lagos highway. In the arms of a fine, sweet stranger who kissed like the world was ending, but didn’t know hers actually was. Not careful. Not cautious. Not broken. Alive. The clock struck midnight. 24! She didn’t make a wish. She made a vow. “One last year,” she muttered. “Let it be mine.” She didn’t know how, or when, or if her body would betray her tomorrow. But tonight? She was choosing war. The kind that tasted like rebellion. She picked up her phone and texted Lara. Efe: “I have a plan. And yes, it’s exactly what you’re thinking.” Lara: Are you drunk? Efe: “No. But I plan to be. This Friday.” Lara: I’m coming over tomorrow. I swear if you’ve lost your mind. Efe: “Too late.” Efe dropped the phone on the bed, walked to the window, and let the breeze hit her face like truth. She wasn’t scared of dying anymore. She was scared of dying unchanged. From her window, she saw a shooting star cut across the sky. And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t wish for more time. She wished for something far more dangerous. A reason to live.