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The last daughter. She shines and glows, stepping in the footsteps of her sisters, her head held high.
The daughter of the middle. The one who fights to be seen. Her gaze always outwards.
The first daughter. The one who shoulders the weight, but whose tears won't show.
Ada. Halimat. Àríkè. All three sisters, together.
A woman adorned in Aṣò ẹbí. In the folds of her Gele, a calm, assured regality.
The music has not stopped. She has simply heard the silence underneath it.
His first breakthrough. The painting that left the studio and became the world's.
The African samurai. The image the world now uses. Anthony painted it first.
Queen of the rivers. Mother of the deep. She has every gift, and she keeps the price.
She arrived with flowers and weather in her hair, and the room rearranged itself.
She built the market and the market built the city. The cigar is hers. So is the last word.
Everyone in the room is looking. She decided that a long time ago.
One eye for the road ahead, one for the road behind. He has walked both.
History painted her pale. The painting gives her back her face, and her cat.
A whole generation looked up at once. She was the thing they were looking at.
She is made of the same thing as the sky. When she goes, she goes back into it.
Before he fell, he was the brightest. The fire remembers him. So does the dark.
Enwonwu painted her, and the nation saw itself. Here she is again.
He loved hard enough to age from it. He would do it again tomorrow.
He is not counting the years. He is watching them pass on their way somewhere.
He gave her away. He is still working out what was given.
The pause between the ceremony and the feast. The air, held.
The table where every story meets.
Made in Benin.
