There is a strange music that plays in the heart of darkness, a kind of unspoken symphony that only power outages can create. The hum of the silence is its first note, rising like a conductor’s baton as the light flickers and fades. It’s a silence that Nigerians know too well, an uninvited guest that pulls up a chair at the dinner table and makes itself at home. But within this emptiness, a rhythm emerges- a chorus of human voices, improvisation, and resilience that transforms the darkness into a living stage. 

When NEPA (National Electric Power Authority), that elusive bringer of light, would strike in my childhood, it always felt like the start of a movie. One minute, my siblings and I are sprawled in the glow of the television, arguing over which channel deserved our collective attention. The next, the screen would go black, and an aggravated chorus of “Ah NEPA” would erupt like a well-rehearsed cue. Plunged into darkness, we would fumble our way towards the kerosene lamp, usually kept in the passage, hands stretched out to avoid colliding with a chair or the edge of a table. There was no dread of ghosts at the time- just the urgency to bring light back into the room. The peculiar, unforgettable smell of kerosene filling the air.

The lamp rested in readiness, awaiting to be picked up from the passage floor. Its glass chimney, freshly cleaned of the previous night’s soot, stood ready to glow as soon as the wick caught fire. My mother made it a point to have me clean the chimney every evening, anticipating the inevitable blackout. What began as a tiresome chore soon became a soothing ritual that I enjoyed. Sitting cross-legged, I would carefully wipe away the blackened residue until the glass sparkled. There was an odd satisfaction in restoring its clarity and watching the golden light dance through it later. Looking back, I realize that childhood is often shaped by such small, magical routines—unassuming moments that linger in memory, casting their own soft glow long after the kerosene lamps are no longer needed.

My late father would often use these power outages as opportunities to tell us stories, his voice filling the room with laughter and wonder. His stories, though different from the animal tales of tortoises and lions my grandmother told us about, had their own charm. One story in particular stuck with me, not because of its depth, but because of its hilarity. He shared a memory from his undergraduate days when the beauty queen of their school campus was asked to address the students at an event. She was supposed to perform a song to the crowd of students as part of her presentation, but nervousness got the better of her. She hesitated for a moment, then blurted out, “I want to sing a sing”. According to my father, the gathering of students, largely young men, immediately erupted in unison, including himself, chanting “Sing a sing! Sing a sing!” over and over. 

When I asked him why he laughed, despite the fact that I had also laughed at the story, he replied smiling, “it wasn't about laughing at her, but about the innocence and awkwardness of the moment. Everyone has had those embarrassing moments when you don't quite say or do what you intend. It was just a part of being young, and we all laughed because we all knew how it felt”. Despite the laughter, I couldn't help but feel compassion for her, because I couldn’t imagine being in a position where it felt like the ground should open up and swallow me whole. My father’s vivid story took us to that bustling hall and for that brief moment, we were right there with him, laughing at the innocence and charm of youth. 

Even without electricity, the neighborhood pulsed with life. The darkness became a canvas for human activity in our rural-urban setting, where the hustle and bustle of the day seamlessly blended into the calm of the night. Children played hide and seek in the moonlight, their laughter winding through the night air like a thread. The muffled murmur of conversations rose and fell nearby as neighbors gathered on verandas to enjoy the evening breeze. The occasional clatter of plates and distinct murmurs reminded us that life did not come to a halt in the darkness- but rather adjusted to it.

Meanwhile, generators roared intermittently, their vibrations creating a chorus that once seemed like noise but had become a familiar rhythm of life. Generators, like kerosene lamps, were an inventive response to the constant absence of light. The smaller one's dubbed, “I better pass my neighbor”, sputtered defiantly, their chugging an assertion of strength. They brought some relief to families, providing light and a bit of cool air to ease the heat during the sweltering nights. But when our own generator failed, we had to rely on the kerosene lamp and the stars above which were brighter than the haze of electric lights. 

At times, I would sit on the doorstep and count the stars one by one. Some nights, the stars would disappear, but on clear nights, i’d challenge myself to get the count just right. If I felt I had missed the count, i’d start all over again. It was something to keep myself busy and I had fun doing it. My siblings would usually try to distract me by coming up with other things to divert my attention, but I would remain focused, determined to finish my count. 

Occasionally, the power would return, and we’d shout, “UP NEPA!” our voices echoing through the house, spilling into the streets as well. We didn't actually begrudge the gloom- it was simply a part of life, and we’d learnt to adapt. More often than not, we went to bed without light. However, when the power is restored, it usually felt like a welcome change. 

Even in the dark, there was something to be grateful for. Without, the distractions of screens and gadgets, blackout nights became moments of quiet intimacy, where time seemed to slow down, and we could be fully present. My grandmother would most nights sit at the center of it all, sharing stories from her youth. Her steady, rich voice presented vivid images of a world long before ours. 

These periods of darkness were more than just interpretations; they were lessons in simplicity and community. They taught us to find joy in the smallest of things- a clean lamp glass, a funny story, and the thrill of shouting “UP NEPA” together. They reminded us that light does not always come from electricity; sometimes, it comes from within us, shining through the bonds we share and the strength we possess. 

Today as an adult, I often find myself longing for the magic of those nights. The world has changed, with inverters and solar panels, guaranteeing uninterrupted power, yet there’s a part of me that misses the unique appeal of the blackouts. It wasn't just the stories or the laughter; it was how those moments caused us to pause, breathe, and to truly see one another. The kerosene lamp, with its peculiar smell and golden glow, may now belong to memory, but its light still flickers in my heart, a subtle reminder of the beauty that shines brightest in the shadows.