Lagos never slept, but on this particular Friday in March 2026, the Oyingbo market seemed to hold its breath. The usual frenzy—the sharp cries of hawkers, the metallic clatter of wheelbarrows over uneven concrete, the sizzle of akara frying in palm oil—had dulled to a low murmur, as though the entire sprawl of stalls and tarpaulin roofs had paused mid-breath. Shade Adekunle, twenty-four, squeezed between mountains of fresh okra glistening with dew and towering stacks of vibrant Ankara fabric that fluttered like flags in the humid breeze.
