Ttaala Workshop For Artist HRDs:The Call That Changed Everything

The night was icy, the wind howling like a restless spirit, when my phone shattered the silence.  

Mottanni Mottanni, e don happen oh! E DON HAPPEN!!!" Nubia’s voice was a wildfire, crackling through the receiver.  

My heart lurched. "What happened?!"

"That link you sent me, the workshop application—THEY PICKED ME! Abuja is calling my name, Mottanni! I’m flying there! I’m gonna ROCK that city!"

A surge of electricity shot through me. "God bless Abakwa! Nubia, this is just the beginning! I’m SO happy for you!"

"What’s next?" I demanded, breathless.  

"They’re sending logistics soon—invitation letter, everything. Did you apply too?"

"YES! I haven’t checked my email today—WAIT, LET ME SEE!"

"HURRY OH! We need to rock Abuja TOGETHER—I can’t do this without you!"

Fingers trembling, I stabbed at my screen. The inbox loaded. And there it was—blazing like destiny itself my acceptance letter, staring back at me, undeniable.  

I SCREAMED.

"NUBIA! I GOT IN TOO! WE’RE GOING TO ABUJA—BOTH OF US!!"

"CONGRATULATIONS, MOTTANNI!!!"

"Thank you! But—"My joy faltered. "They need passport details… and mine… oh no. The one I have is expired. The current one? Ha. The story is LONG." 

"What will you DO?!" Nubia gasped.    

This was the moment the universe had been scripting for a decade.  

For ten years, spoken word poetry had gripped me, whispering in my ear, "You are the voice. You will scream for the silenced. You will fight for the forgotten." 

And now? DefendDefenders had answered the call—selecting me for the Ttaala Workshop for Artist Human Rights Defenders in Abuja.

The injustices of the North West. The cries of Africa. The stories buried beneath oppression.  

They will be heard.

And Abuja, Nigeria?

Abuja will never be the same.