Chapter 1: The Half Butterfly

On the eve of our wedding, my fiancée held my hand, and together we got matching tattoos—each of us with half of a butterfly wing inked on our ankles.

The room smelt of menthol, and the sharp scent of Aboniki balm hung in the air, mixing with sweat and hope. The tattoo machine buzzed faintly, and I remember the artist, one wiry Yoruba woman, warning us, "If you shake body, I go draw snake instead of butterfly for your leg o!" But Halima just squeezed my fingers, eyes full of light. Our laughter mingled with the hum of the generator outside, like hope itself refusing to be cowed.

She smiled and said, “Na only when butterfly get two wings e fit fly—na so we go waka together.”

She pressed her bare ankle to mine. She wink me, say, "Oya, make breeze try separate us now." In that small room, it felt like we both had grown invisible wings. The artist snapped a polaroid: two brown legs, two half-wings, a promise sealed with ink and trust. "No matter where breeze carry butterfly go, e go always find im pair," Halima said, her words half-song, half-oath.

But on our wedding day, she disappeared, just like that—no trace.

It was as if she vanished into thin harmattan air. One minute I was laughing with my best man over starched agbada, the next, the compound filled with whispers, like market women sizing up the first news of the day. Aunty Bola dey hiss, "You see am? Na why dem say city girl no dey last."

To find my butterfly, I washed away my own half of the wing and became a police officer.

That night, as I scrubbed the tattoo with soap and rough sponge, I felt the pain sharp and raw. I remember how Halima laugh that day, the sound still dey my ear as I dey scrub, blood and tears mix for my ankle. My mother wept and called it abomination, but I kept scrubbing until my ankle was red and bare. Each day after, I woke up with one question burning in my chest: where did Halima go?

Five years later, when a small clue finally showed up, I started peeling away the many faces people dey wear.

I had learned patience on the force—how to listen, how to see past people smile. I had learned that in Nigeria, everybody get their own mask: some to survive, some to hide. But that day, I swore: I go remove every mask, even if na my own skin I go peel.