The National Fan
By Majekodunmi Ebhohon
IN the cold corner
of the room
a fan hums
with a stiff,
self-styled pride,
tilting slightly
to the left,
then the right,
performing
a mechanical neck-snap
of high diplomacy
as if it has a clue
of what it’s supposed
to be doing.
It spins
with a synthetic authority,
and we applaud
from our tattered mats,
singing about
how we stand
on a mandate
even as
the salt-maps
on our shirts
tell a much more
honest story.
We watch it
carefully
because it moves,
because it oscillates
with the steady,
unthinking rhythm
of the Lagos landlord
counting the taxes
of a floor
he doesn’t scrub.
The motor arrived
in a crate
from Chicago—
a place where
the manuals
are thicker
and the instructions
mean more
than our actual lives.
Silt has settled
on its cage,
caked on the blades
like a record
of minor mishaps,
or perhaps
a collection
of stolen breaths.
It shakes
with a certain
theatrical tremor,
as if it might topple
from the sheer strain
of its own
historical significance.
The head
always points upward
towards the ceiling,
and the ceiling,
indeed impressive,
green and white
smooth
and perfectly indifferent
to the mania
of the mud.
Sometimes
we even imagine
that it cares for us,
that it notices
the way we melt,
and then it tilts
its metallic chin—
a calculated gesture
of renewed hope—
and blows
a sudden,
stiff gust
mostly on
the carpet,
or on a photo
of itself
pinned to the wall
by a nervous nobody.
We pretend
relief
is a matter of decree.
We pretend
to believe
in the whirring.
We turn the toggle
from ‘Low’
to ‘High’
because the foreign manual
says nothing
about the physics
of human patience
or the cost
of a long,
black cord
plugged into
a socket
we do not own.
And still,
it spins,
circulating
the same scorching curse,
blind to the dirge
that has fallen in the cot.
Ebhohon, a Nigerian poet and playwright, author of The Great Delusion and winner of the ANA Prize for Drama 2025, writes from Benin City, Edo State, Nigeria
